#anyway. sorry. had thoughts again thought I'd share them

[homocrafting]

Tuff Guys try SO hard to be all "we're not a team" and "we'll be together when it's convenient" and "it's really everyone by themselves" but then they'll have a collective mace that goes around, and they'll help each other get kills even when it's hopeless, and they turned all their attention into helping each other when one of them went under green, and they still have team meetings every start of session, and they still decided to pool their resources, and they still have a collective calling card, and in the beginning of session 7 Bdubs still says, "I know what I want, Tango knows what he wants, now what do you want?" and it's framed as a question about kills but it's not, not really, and Etho still doesn't really answer.

They say they're not a team, but they still call Etho a traitor as though you can betray something that apparently doesn't exist. They say they don't care, but Tango still tells Ren "Not gonna lie, I was going to get kinda sad that Bdubs was trying to kill me, but it's just you." (paraphrased, but still). There's that part when Tango and Bdubs are talking and they both come to the conclusion Tango can't trust him, and the thing is, Bdubs could have lied. He could have said sure you can, but he knows Tango knows because they know each other enough, because they've been a team enough times, because they are a team and that's what he'd've done.

Tuff Guys went into the alliance fully vocal about how it wouldn't work. This never leads good places for them. They're doing it anyway. They'll never admit it, not directly, not loud and clear, because it's hurt them enough times as is, but they still live next to each other and they still coordinated team attacks in session 7 and they still haven't committed to real distrust among them

All this to say that denial is a river and egypt and by god they are DIVING

[finifugue]

All the talk about who's going to red bull and who's going to mercedes has got me thinking, and with much consideration I think I've devised the World's Worst Most Toxic F1 Grid, using only current drivers and teams. Walk with me.

Haas: Pierre/Estie. French Civil War pt. 2 plus the historic remnant of Kmag and Hulk and their old man enemies-to-lovers narrative arc.

Ferrari: Lando/Charles. Stay with me. I know you're all probably thinking, 'oh of course here's user finifugue with their charlando agenda' but stay with me. Can you fucking imagine the Lando fandom and the Charles fandom if they had to share Ferrari. Can you imagine. It would be carnage. Twitter would be unusable. TikTok would crash. Tumblr would enjoy some upscale prime-grade wagyu yaoi rivalry. Charles and Lando themselves would crash out at the notion of having to pretend to not be weird about each other. Fred would be laughing. I pray for days like these.

Aston: Lance/Carlos. Ideally with Carlos Sr. in a position of similar power as Daddy Stroll. Battle of the Nepo Babies(' dads). I think Carlos and Lance themselves would be chill, but I think Carlos Sr. and Daddy Stroll would start committing white collar crimes against each other. Interesting developments.

Alpine: Isack/Oscar. Sorry Oscar for putting you in the Alpine but I'm also not really sorry because it would be hilarious. As for you Isack, you'd have to deal with being teammates with Oscar in an Alpine. So you've suffered enough I think and I won't make you suffer further.

Mclaren: Kimi/Ollie. Now there's not a chance in hell either would end up at mclaren any time soon, but imagine. Two bestie rookies in the mclaren rocketship. This is psychological experimentation on my part, I have to admit - I want to see what a title fight would do to them, whether they'd manage or whether we'd see the Great Bearnelli Collapse. The caveat would be that mclaren aren't allowed to fire either mid-season. I want to see what happens.

Mercedes: Max/George. This is of course generally accepted as a) a terrifyingly likely pairing, and b) a terrifyingly terrifying pairing. I don't think they would last more than fifteen minutes before killing each other, and not even really in a sexy rivalry RPF way. All the enemies of Lestappen and none of the lovers, two guys who are genuinely convinced they should be the only driver prioritised in a team who, historically, is Not Good at managing in-team title fights.

Red Bull: Lewis/Fernando. Old Man Nation in the world's most toxic team imaginible. Run it back - and by 'it,' I mean Lewis/Fernando part 1, and I mean Vettel/Webber, put in a blender and whizzed until radioactive. I think the only thing that could bring back Nando and Lewis' sparks is pitting them against each other again in a team they both equally absolutely fucking hate.

Williams: Franco/Liam. I have not seen these two interact at all whatsoever, and I'm not really massively knowledgeable about them anyway, but in my head they're like oil and water. Their vibes are historic levels of unmatched. Their freaks diametrically opposed. Lawson also had that meme last year about hating the grid's spanish speakers and i thought that was funny and I want to bring it back.

RB: Alex/Yuki. Now this one was hard, because I think you could put Albon in a small room with a silverback gorilla and in fifteen minutes he'd be besties with it, but I'd like to put the Red Bull victims together in a Red Bull. Would the stress of it kill them both? Probably.

Sauber: Nico/Gabi. The light in the darkness. One single ray of happiness and gratitude in an otherwise horrifying grid lineup. I simply cannot bring myself to separate them. I hope they win the championship. They probably will, because every other team will crash into each other.

[aquanutart]

I was talking and I mentioned that I have my old Game Boy and original Pokemon cartridge. I said, "I think they still work."

I was told, "The internal batteries on the Game Boy cartridges have run out. They're all dead."

"Oh," I said, trying not to show how crestfallen I was. I felt like I was losing nerd cred for not knowing that, although I never kept up with that type of info anyway. I'm here for the fantasy and imaginative aspects of games, and tend not to follow the competitive or technical details.

I tried not to feel anything as I went home. If they were real animals, I reminded myself, I would have had to say goodbye long ago.

But like so many other people, Pokemon was my childhood. It was all I thought about and dreamed about, and the closest thing I could imagine to heartbreak was the knowledge that they weren't real. I spent nearly all my time writing longhand self-insert Pokemon fanfiction--far more than I spent actually playing the game. My Pokemon were with me in my imagination wherever I went. I started playing Pokemon Blue when I was 5, and the last time I had played it was probably when I was 9 or 10. I remembered I had turned it on again one more time after that, not to play it, but to look at my childhood Pokemon.

It was during high school, after a move overseas that completely upended my life, and I was struggling with the crushing blow of being taken away from everything I knew and trying to make sense of anything (least of all adolescence) in another language. All I wanted was to go back to childhood and have everything go back to how it was before.

Seeing my Pokemon, just as I'd left them, had comforted me. I had looked at their stats pages, taken photos of them with my digital camera (that I don't even know if I still have), and then turned it off without doing anything.

That was probably 9 or 10 years after the games came out. It had been a long time since then. I had long since taken the AA batteries out of my Game Boy Color and left it untouched. I didn't even have AA batteries anymore.

It had worked then. But now it had been 27 years... I thought about not trying to turn my cartridge back on. As long as I didn't turn it on, I could believe my Pokemon were still there, the way I remembered them.

On my day off, which happened to be Pokemon Day, I googled and read that some people on forums and Reddit were still able to play their original Pokemon games.

Then... it was possible. I went out to buy toothpaste. At the store, I asked where I could find AA batteries.

It was a big thing for me to be able to go to the store and buy things myself. When I moved at age 13, I felt like something went wrong with growing up. It was difficult to follow what people were saying, and people didn't always understand what I said either. I had been introverted even in English, but now I had enough negative experiences that I became afraid and stopped trying to talk to people altogether.

I threw myself into video games and reliving childhood memories. The internet was where I could communicate in my first language and understand. I lived online and didn't interact with the real world. On the internet I felt like I was understood and could find people who shared my interests the way I did, but in the real world it always felt like I could get hurt if anyone knew me.

I realize now that I could have had a better experience overseas if I'd known how to adapt and socialize, but this was not something I knew even in English, and trying to learn in another language made it ten times harder. I'm sorry now for missing out on interactions that I know I could have had, but I just didn't know how. I wouldn't know how until I learned, and it took me a long time to learn.

I grew up online, in the company of others who had trouble fitting in with the real world, even in their own language. Those experiences shaped me, and the friendships I've made and support I've received online are invaluable to me. The internet gave me a way to live, and through it I learned how to interact with others. But in many ways, for many years, it felt like my life was put on hold and I stopped growing up.

Several years ago I moved back, to not far from where I was born, and I was able to work for the first time. I began to interact with people and feel like I had a place in the real world.

After shutting myself away for so many years, every little step I made out in the world felt terrifying. But every little thing I did on my own made me feel like I was living for the first time.

Even something as little as going to the store and buying a pack of batteries.

I was directed to a shelf at the end of an aisle, and found myself looking at a rack of lithium AA batteries. Did they not sell the old kind anymore?

I walked around to the other side and was relieved to find the familiar black and brown Duracell batteries I'd known from my childhood. I felt more confident about putting in a battery that looked the same as I remembered. The smallest pack they sold was an 8-pack for $12.99. I really didn't need 8 batteries. I didn't have any other devices that used them.

I thought, what if I turn it on and it doesn't work and I'll have wasted $12.99?

I also thought we might already have batteries. I might be able to say, "Mom, do we have any batteries?" and she'd pull out two AAs from a drawer somewhere and I'd save my money.

But somehow I felt like part of what was important about this was being an adult and being able to buy my own batteries.

Yet... what if it just ended up making me sad? Was it better not to know?

I went to the checkout with just the toothpaste and stood hesitating at the edge of the checkout line.

If I didn't get the batteries now, and it turned out we didn't have any batteries, I wouldn't try it. I knew I would just put it off until even more time passed, and then... "Are you in line?" someone asked me.

"No," I said, and I turned around and went back to the shelf.

I bought the batteries.

At home, I took out my original Game Boy Color from the drawer where I left it, the one my dad had surprised me with when I was 5 years old and that I had brought overseas and back.

I put the batteries in and turned it on without a cartridge first to make sure the batteries were inserted correctly. The Game Boy logo scrolled across the screen and it made the familiar blinging Game Boy startup noise. I turned it off again, satisfied.

I took out my original Pokemon Blue cartridge, momentarily having to remember which way it went in, and slotted it in.

I turned it on, watched the whole Pokemon Blue intro out of nostalgia, and then pressed START.

My heart leaped for joy.

MY POKEMON!!!! MY POKEMON ARE ALIVE!!! 🥺🥺🥺

My original Pokemon, that were with me in 1998 when I was 5-6 years old, are still with me 27 years later. I want to cry!!! I love the old sprites, I'm SO happy to see them again 😭😭😭 the Pokemon look so little and cheerful at the same time, which I love 🥺🥺🥺 I know there are people with many more hours on their games, who have leveled all their Pokemon to 100. But these are my Pokemon who were with me through my childhood, and I spent many more hours making up stories about them than actually playing the game. I'm so happy to see them again 😭😭😭

All I want is to see my Pokemon. My other Pokemon are in boxes. Now, how do I get to the nearest PC? Where am I?

Oh... Oh. I have to confess something. When I was a kid, I was scared of the dark cave areas, and whenever I got to them, I stopped playing for a while. (I was stuck at Mt. Moon until I was like, 7.) So I never actually beat the game.

And here I am on Victory Road, with the team of Pokemon I was taking to the Elite Four, without an Escape Rope.

The only way for me to see my other Pokemon is... to finally make it through Victory Road, after 27 years?!

[nocturnebite]

meet me at the rink .｡❅*⋆

(caught a vibe) - hockeyplayer! sunghoon x figureskater! female reader

synopsis: Where the rink used to be your place of solitude, everything changes the day you welcome a hockey player from the school across town onto the ice—and into your heart. As you both glide through stolen moments and quiet confessions, the space between skating and life begins to blur, and something unexpected takes hold. fic notes: minor emotional hurt / rejection. nothing graphic, but this fic includes moments of slight emotional tension, miscommunication, and someone getting lowkey humiliated in front of others. if you're sensitive to that kind of thing, read with care 💔 wc: 10.8k

ash's notes: hey! it's been a minute.. so sorry, i've been going on a few trips and i'm about to leave on another, so i thought i'd hurry and post what i've been working on in the meantime! ugh skater hoon has SUCH a grip on me. this is the longest one parter fic i've written.. let me know if y'all prefer longer fics or shorter fics.

The air inside the rink bit at your cheeks — sharp and cold, but familiar. Comfortable. The music playing through your headphones dulled the world around you, leaving only the hum of your blades against ice and the rhythm of your breathing. Each stride was smooth, each turn effortless. You were completely focused, arms outstretched, body carving poetry into frozen glass.

Just a few more runs before you’d head out. You needed this — the quiet, the motion, the solitude. Your school's rink was closed for cleaning, and you'd lucked out booking this one last minute.

Or so you thought.

The sound came first: the dull slam of a door, followed by the unmistakable echo of boys’ voices — loud, laughing, careless. You slowed your pace, skating toward the edge of the rink just in time to see a group of guys pile in, hockey sticks slung over shoulders, skates clutched in gloved hands.

"Yo—someone's already here?" one of them called, annoyed. You pulled out your earbuds slowly, already anticipating what was coming.

"Hey, pretty sure we booked this time," said one of the taller boys as he approached the edge of the rink. His tone wasn’t outright rude, but it was dismissive — like you were an inconvenience.

“I booked it,” you replied, firm but polite. “Check with the front. I signed in.”

“Maybe they double-booked,” another voice muttered from behind him. "Figures. Always figure skaters stealing ice time."

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. You could stand your ground — you had before — but something stopped you this time. Or someone.

Leaning against the wall, a few paces back from the others, was a boy you recognized by name, if not by face. Park Sunghoon. Hockey’s golden boy from the rival school. Cold on the ice, colder in interviews. You'd seen him in highlight reels and heard whispers about his footwork, his speed, his precision.

But in this moment, he wasn’t moving. Just watching.

His helmet dangled from one hand, hair tousled from practice, cheeks flushed pink from the cold. He was staring straight at you — no smirk, no teasing grin, just something unreadable in his expression. Like he was trying to memorize you.

And for a second, neither of you moved.

Then one of the guys elbowed him — “Bro, you good?” — and he blinked, straightening.

“She’s done anyway, right?” he said casually, stepping forward. “Let her finish and let’s warm up.”

He didn’t look at you when he said it. His voice was cool, like he hadn’t been caught staring. Like you hadn’t just seen a flicker of something softer in his eyes. He turned to his friends, fist-bumping one of them, the way boys do when they’re trying to keep face.

You bit the inside of your cheek and glanced down, refusing to let it sting. You weren’t going to fight over ice time with a bunch of boys too proud to share.

Without a word, you skated off the rink. You didn’t say goodbye. Didn’t meet his eyes again.

But he watched you leave. Quietly.

And for the first time in a while, Sunghoon felt something twist in his chest — a feeling he couldn’t name.

The door slammed shut behind you, the sound echoing louder than it should’ve in the empty rink.

Sunghoon stayed still, helmet at his side, eyes fixed on the place where you’d been. The ice looked different now — duller, like something delicate had been scrubbed away.

Jake clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Bro. Earth to Sunghoon.”

“What?” he muttered, shaking it off.

“You good? You zoned out.”

“I’m fine,” he said, jaw tight as he brushed past him.

But he wasn’t fine. He couldn’t stop replaying the way you’d looked out there — gliding like you were weightless, like you weren’t even touching the ice. The way your eyes met his, just for a second, before he ruined it.

He wasn’t sure why he said what he did.

He could’ve backed you up. Could’ve offered to share the rink. Could’ve said something real.

But instead, he did what he always did — played the part. The cool one. The quiet one. The boy who didn’t flinch.

Except now, he was flinching. Inside.

Sunghoon yanked at the laces of his skates, tugging harder than necessary. His friends were already on the ice, chasing pucks and shouting like always. But his gaze drifted to the water bottle you’d left behind near the bleachers. Half full. Forgotten in the rush.

He didn’t touch it. Just stared.

Jake skated by, raising a brow. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah,” Sunghoon lied.

But something had shifted. Something he couldn’t name — like the sound of skates slicing through silence long after the figure’s gone.

—

“Remind me again why we have to be here?” Jake grumbled as the hockey team filed into the upper bleachers of their own school’s rink.

“Because Coach said attendance is mandatory,” Heeseung said around a mouthful of popcorn he’d stolen from the concession stand. “Support the arts, Jake. Be cultured.”

Sunghoon didn’t speak. He sat two rows down, elbows braced on his knees, eyes fixed on the ice below where figure skaters warmed up.

Flashes of sequins. Stretches. Spinning.

None of them were you.

Not yet.

He didn’t know why he came early. Why he kept scanning the rink like he was searching for something. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe curiosity. Or maybe — it was that water bottle, still sitting in his gym locker, untouched.

A few of the guys around him were elbowing each other, murmuring about the girls from your school who’d be arriving soon.

“Apparently they’re all hot,” one said. “Dancers. Crazy flexible.”

“Not interested,” another added, while still craning his neck to look.

Sunghoon barely heard them. Not until her voice cut through the noise.

“Sunghoon!”

He looked up instinctively.

Yuna — one of the skaters from his school — stood at the barrier, long-limbed, perfectly styled even in warm-ups. She smiled brightly, lips glossed and pink.

“You were insane last game,” she said, twirling a strand of her hair. “That third goal? Unreal.”

“Thanks,” he replied, voice flat.

It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate it. He did. The attention. The familiarity. The praise.

But it wasn’t what he was looking for.

She leaned closer. “We’re short a partner for the duet exhibition next week. I was thinking—”

He never heard the rest.

Because the doors opened.

And you stepped in.

Black leggings. Black zip-up. Hair tied up. No sparkles. No theatrics.

And yet — you were the most radiant thing in the rink.

You didn’t have to try. The fabric hugged your form like it had been made for you. You moved with quiet confidence, walking onto the ice like you belonged to it.

Sunghoon didn’t realize he was staring until Heeseung leaned in and muttered, “Isn’t that the girl from the other day?”

Jake followed his gaze. “Damn. She’s from the other school? Now I kinda get why you were acting weird.”

Sunghoon said nothing.

His eyes never left you. Every stretch, every spin, every flick of your hand. You weren’t performing. You were existing — fully, freely — and that was more mesmerizing than any choreographed routine.

Yuna followed his gaze and her smile faltered.

“She’s not even that good,” she said sweetly, too sweetly. “They always look nice warming up. Just wait until she messes up under pressure.”

Heeseung raised an eyebrow, grinning. “Yeah, we’ll see.”

—

The lights dimmed an hour later for the performance.

Music swelled, rich and cinematic. Spotlights swept across the rink like searchlights, then steadied.

Group numbers came and went in a blur of color and choreography — girls in glittering dresses spinning in sync, boys lifting their partners with practiced ease. It was dazzling, but fleeting, like fireworks fading too fast.

And then—

The announcer said your name.

Sunghoon sat straighter.

His back stiffened, his fingers curled slightly on his knee. Like someone had pulled a string taut through his spine.

You stepped onto the ice alone.

Wrapped in something soft and white, delicate as snowfall — a dress that moved like mist, catching the lights in quiet flashes every time you glided. Your hair was pulled into a low, neat bun, a few strands already slipping loose. There was no arrogance in the way you moved. Just grace. Quiet, unwavering confidence.

The crowd seemed to hold its breath as you reached your starting position. Stillness fell over the rink — reverent. Expectant.

Sunghoon swore it felt like the whole world exhaled.

Then the music began.

And you danced.

You skated like your bones were made of rhythm. Like the ice had been waiting for you. Every glide, every turn, every breath — it wasn’t choreography, it was memory. A story only you could tell, unfolding beneath your blades like poetry written in motion. The kind of performance that didn’t ask for applause. It earned silence. Awe.

Sunghoon forgot to breathe.

By the time your final jump landed — clean, effortless, a perfect punctuation mark — the crowd erupted.

Your team mobbed you at the edge of the rink, shrieking and clapping, wrapping you in scarves and congratulations. Laughter bounced off the rafters. Camera flashes sparked like confetti.

Even the hockey boys were standing now, murmuring amongst themselves.

“Yo,” Jake whispered. “That was insane. That’s not normal flexibility. How do her legs even—”

“Okay,” Sunghoon cut in sharply, teeth clenched. “Calm down.”

He kept his eyes down as they filed toward the exit. Tried not to look again.

Tried — and failed.

Because as he passed the barrier, he slowed. Just a little.

You were still standing with your team, cheeks pink from the cold and adrenaline, eyes shining under the lights. A laugh spilled from your lips, bright and real, your hair slipping loose around your ears.

And then you looked up.

Right at him.

Your eyes met — and your smile changed. Softened, like a secret only he could see. It held. One second. Two.

Then he looked away.

Kept walking.

But it was already too late.

His heart had tripped.

—

You liked the rink best when it was empty.

Before the lights warmed up. Before the shouting. When the sun was still low, filtering through the plexiglass in soft, sleepy beams that fogged the corners of the glass. When your blades were the only sound — sharp and echoing, cutting into the silence like a steady breath.

It was the kind of quiet that steadied you.

The world outside was always too loud. Coaches barking corrections. Judges dissecting routines. Girls whispering with sugary smiles and eyes like knives. Boys shouting in hallways, slamming lockers and laughing too hard.

But here, in the early stillness, it all melted away.

Here, you could breathe.

You landed a clean spin and pushed into a slow glide, arms folding in, the wind brushing your cheeks. Your exhale clouded the air. You were centered. Focused. At peace.

Until—

Clunk.

A metallic thud cracked through the silence.

You flinched mid-rotation — your blade caught—

CRACK.

Knees hit the ice. Hard. Palms scraped against the cold. The jolt knocked the air from your lungs — not painful, but sharp. Enough to snap you out of whatever calm you’d found.

And then—

“Oh my gosh—I’m so sorry!”

You looked up fast.

Sunghoon.

Leaning over the barrier, wide-eyed and horrified, hands braced on the wall. A water bottle rolled lazily across the ice, settling beside you like a guilty pet.

“I didn’t mean to—swear— I was just watching and it slipped—are you okay?”

Your breath fogged the air between you as you stared. Then, despite yourself, despite the jolt still echoing in your bones… you laughed.

“I’m okay,” you said, brushing a loose strand from your face. “Just surprised.”

He looked like he was debating whether to bolt or leap the wall — and then he did exactly that. Vaulted over the barrier like it was nothing, landing on the rink in just his socks with a startled yelp.

He almost fell. Arms flailing. Slipped once. Regained balance.

You laughed again, louder this time. “You’re gonna break your tailbone.”

“I deserve it,” he said solemnly, wobbling toward you. “I ruined your spin. I ruined the whole vibe.”

You raised an eyebrow. “The vibe?”

“Yeah.” He scratched the back of his neck, sheepish. “You had a really good vibe going.”

You looked at him — really looked. No teammates. No smirk. Just a boy in a hoodie, slipping on your ice, cheeks pink, eyes bright.

He stuck out a hand. “Sunghoon.”

“I know,” you said, lips twitching.

He grinned. “Still felt like I should say it.”

You slipped your fingers into his. Warm, despite the cold.

You told him your name.

His smile softened. “I know.”

Your brows lifted. “Do you?”

He nodded. “I saw the program list. And… you kind of stole the show.”

The silence that followed was delicate. Not awkward — just suspended.

Then you pulled your hand back gently. “Flattery doesn’t get your water bottle back.”

He laughed, breath misting. “Fair.”

You nudged the bottle toward him with your skate, then pivoted. “Well. I should let you practice.”

“I don’t mind sharing,” he blurted. Too fast. Too earnest. Then cleared his throat. “I mean. If you want.”

You hesitated near the edge.

He looked completely out of place — tall and hockey-built and still in socks — but his eyes were sincere.

You sighed. “Okay. But you’re going to need skates.”

—

At this point, it had been months now. You and Sunghoon had settled into a rhythm — the ice between you no longer a battlefield, but a shared space where something unspoken grew. The cold had softened, the silence filled with the quiet language of glides and edges.

But today, something was different.

He missed again.

The puck smacked the boards with a hollow thunk, nowhere near the net.

Sunghoon groaned, dragging a hand down his face. This was getting embarrassing.

He was a forward. A starter. Known for scoring under pressure — slicing through defenses like it was second nature. But today?

He couldn’t focus for shit.

Because every time he took a shot, his eyes drifted.

To you.

Skating on the far side of the rink, utterly unaware of the damage you were doing. Poised. Graceful. Lost in your own world.

He was, frankly, ruined.

Another shot. Another miss.

Then—

“You sure you play for the right team?” your voice called out, teasing.

He froze.

You turned, skating slowly toward him, a smirk curving your mouth.

“You miss a lot. Might need some extra practice.”

He flushed. “Guess I’m just… distracted.”

You circled closer, effortless, your hair slipping loose from its tie.

“Wonder what could be so distracting,” you murmured.

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

You raised a brow. “Want a skating lesson, hockey boy?”

He nodded before thinking. “Please.”

It did not go well.

“You’re stiff,” you said, circling him.

“I’m trying,” he grumbled, arms out like a scarecrow.

“You’re overthinking it,” you said, skating close enough that your voice brushed his ear. “Relax your core. Let your edges carry you.”

“Easy for you to say. I’m one wrong move from eating ice.”

“You body-checked a guy into the glass last week. You’ll survive.”

“That was instinct,” he said, wobbling. “This is… ballet.”

“It’s control,” you said gently, stopping in front of him. “Skating’s about lines. Precision. Breath. Not brute force.”

Your hands lifted to his waist — light, grounding.

Sunghoon forgot how to think.

You weren’t flirting. You were focused. Serious. But somehow, that made it worse. Or better.

“Engage here,” you said softly, tapping his side. “Keep your knees soft. Trust your edges.”

“I’m trying,” he murmured — eyes flicking, for a moment, to your mouth.

You stilled — just for a breath — then stepped back.

“Let’s try a crossover,” you said. “Right over left. Follow me.”

You demonstrated. Smooth. Seamless.

He tried.

Wobbly. Awkward. You giggled.

“I didn’t laugh when you missed your shots,” he muttered.

“You were looking at me when you missed,” you shot back, skating backward ahead of him. “I’m not looking at your feet.”

“Maybe you should be.”

“I am,” you teased. “Still not impressed.”

“Harsh coach.”

“Would a harsh coach do this?”

You reached out, took both his hands, and spun him — gently, carefully. He stumbled, caught himself, blinking wide-eyed.

“You just want to see me fall.”

“Not at all,” you said quietly. “I like you on your feet.”

And suddenly, you were close. Hands still laced. Breath mingling.

“I like you here,” you added, softer now.

He stared at you like he was afraid to blink.

You parted your lips — like maybe you’d say more — but then—

“Sunghoon!”

The shout shattered the moment.

You jumped back. He stepped away. Quickly. Too quickly.

Jake. Heeseung. The team, filing in, dropping gear onto the benches.

“Yo,” Jake called. “You figure skating now?”

Sunghoon swallowed. Hard.

And then — he panicked.

“She wasn’t supposed to be here,” he said, shrugging, tone flat. “I was just telling her to get off.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Your expression didn’t change right away. Just slowly faded — like a light dimming behind your eyes.

“Oh,” Jake said, dragging out the word. “Right. Makes sense.”

Sunghoon didn’t look at you. Couldn’t.

And you?

You said nothing.

You turned, skated off the ice with quiet precision, and knelt to untie your skates — fingers trembling.

“Wait,” he called, softer now, taking a step toward you.

But you didn’t look up.

Didn’t speak.

You packed your things, slipped on your shoes, and left.

The door clicked shut behind you.

And the sound echoed through him louder than any puck ever had.

—

You were gone.

The second Sunghoon stepped into the rink the next morning, he felt it. The air was colder, heavier — like the chill had seeped under his skin and settled there. Something was off. Off-balance. Off-rhythm.

Your usual spot at the far end? Empty.

The bench where you stretched before warmups? Vacant.

Even your water bottle — the beat-up one with the sticker half-peeled off — was missing from the ledge.

Gone.

The silence echoed. A hollow kind that made the ice feel less like home and more like a warning.

Sunghoon laced up his skates anyway, heart pounding, trying not to overthink it.

He did a slow lap around the rink, blades carving lines he didn’t care to trace. He wasn’t warming up. He was waiting. Eyes flicking toward the tunnel every few seconds like it was instinct. Like maybe he could will you into existence just by needing it enough.

Every time the door creaked open, his chest lifted with hope.

Every time it wasn’t you — his stomach dropped like a stone in freezing water.

He stayed longer than he usually did.

Didn’t shoot once. Didn’t pass. Didn’t speak to anyone.

He just kept skating in circles like a ghost, watching the door until the Zamboni rolled out and forced him off the ice.

And when he got home, skates slung over one shoulder, throat tight and raw — he did something he hadn’t done in years.

He looked you up.

First your name.

Then your team name.

Then the competition roster that had your number next to it in faded font.

And there — suddenly, you were on his screen. That same half-smile he knew better than he wanted to admit. A photo that looked like it had been taken in early winter, cheeks pink from cold, hair pulled back, captioned with something simple:

“Early morning practices and even earlier nerves.”

His heart twisted.

It felt like you. Even on a screen, even through pixels.

Home.

Without thinking, he clicked follow.

His thumb hovered over the screen.

Then, slowly, he started typing.

hey. i’m sorry about yesterday. can we talk?

He hit send before he could back out.

The second the message was delivered, he froze.

A few seconds passed.

Then — three dots appeared.

His breath caught.

But before he could even feel hope bloom fully in his chest — they vanished.

Gone.

He waited.

Refreshed the app. Checked again. Opened and closed the message.

Still nothing.

That night, he barely slept. Just lay there in the dark, your face etched behind his eyelids like a scar.

The next morning, he went back to the rink.

No you.

Next day: same.

Then another. And another.

By the fourth morning, the ache in his chest had moved to his stomach — something dull and constant, gnawing.

Jake asked him if he was okay.

Sunghoon just smiled. The kind that didn’t touch his eyes. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He wasn’t tired.

He was unraveling.

Every shot he took went wide. Every drill was off. Every shift was colder without you on the other side of the boards.

He hated what he’d said.

Hated that it came out the way it did.

But most of all, he hated that you believed it.

—

He was late.

Helmet half-on, jersey untucked, skates slung over his shoulder — Sunghoon jogged across the pavement toward the bus with a pit in his stomach and panic in his lungs. He didn’t care about being benched. Didn’t care about fines or lectures.

He just needed to see you.

One last time.

If you weren’t there, he was ready to fake a stomachache, call his coach, crawl back into bed and stay there for a week.

But then — just as he was rounding the corner toward the front doors of the rink—

There you were.

Hood up. Hair tucked back. Bag slung across one shoulder. Head low.

His heart stuttered.

He didn’t think. Didn’t care who saw.

He ran.

Called your name like it was the only thing he remembered how to say.

You froze at the entrance.

Your fingers tightened on the handle.

He slowed as he reached you, breath shallow, eyes wide like seeing you was something holy.

You turned.

And gosh — your eyes.

Red-rimmed. Tired. Swollen like sleep hadn’t come easy.

Like maybe you’d been hurting too.

“Can I talk to you?” he asked, voice already breaking.

“I’m late for practice,” you replied, quiet and clipped.

“You’ve been late all week,” he whispered. “I came every day. Just in case.”

You stared at the ground.

Didn’t say anything.

He took a small step closer. “Please. I didn’t mean what I said. I panicked. My friends—”

“You were embarrassed of me,” you said flatly, voice cracking halfway through. “Like skating with me was some kind of shame.”

He flinched like you’d slapped him. “It wasn’t—”

“Then why did you say it?”

“I didn’t think you’d hear me.”

You laughed. Harsh. Disbelieving. “That’s not better, Sunghoon.”

“I know,” he murmured. “I know.”

The silence that followed was sharp around the edges, aching.

You looked at him. Really looked at him.

His eyes were rimmed with exhaustion. His jaw tense like he hadn’t unclenched it in days.

“Why are you even here?” you asked, voice suddenly small. Fragile.

“Because I can’t stop thinking about you,” he said.

You blinked.

“I go to practice, and I can’t focus. I look at the ice, and all I see is you. I listen for your skates. I check your profile like an idiot hoping you’ll post. Hoping you’ll text.”

Still, you said nothing.

His voice dropped lower.

“I know I don’t deserve another chance. But… you became part of my routine too. And I don’t know how to do this without you anymore.”

You stared at him for a long moment.

Your breath came out shaky. “I haven’t been able to land my spin since that day.”

He blinked. “What?”

“I skate. I try. I push through it. But I can’t finish anything. You’re in my head.”

The admission hung in the air between you, raw and tender.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “It won’t happen again.”

You didn’t respond. Not really.

You just turned and pushed the door open.

Walked into the rink like you used to.

And after a beat, he followed — quiet and careful, a shadow trailing behind your blades.

You tried to skate.

Tried to shake him off — the weight of him, the memory of him, the way your body used to move differently when you knew he was watching because it made you feel seen. Lighter. Braver.

Now, it just made you clench your fists.

Because he was still watching.

Still standing exactly where he always used to — near the penalty box, just past the boards, hood up, hands stuffed into his coat pockets like he didn’t trust them to stay still.

Motionless. Speechless.

Like if he said one wrong thing, you’d disappear again.

You clipped in your earbuds, took a breath, and pushed off from the wall.

Your first attempt was stiff.

Your muscles remembered the routine. Your mind didn’t. Halfway through your first jump, your weight tipped just slightly backward — enough to send you crashing onto the ice with a slap that echoed across the empty rink.

You winced. Pushed yourself back up with burning cheeks. Refused to look in his direction.

Tried again.

This time, your turn was too sharp, your timing off — and your foot caught the edge of your own blade. You hit the ice harder. Cold seeped through your leggings. The sting brought tears to your eyes that had nothing to do with pain.

You didn’t stay down.

Couldn’t.

You launched into your third attempt like it was a challenge — like maybe if you just forced it, you could forget he was there. Forget what he said. Forget the way his voice had cracked when he told someone else you didn’t matter.

The music started.

You made it through the first twenty seconds. Maybe thirty.

And then — static.

The speakers popped, your track cut out, and the silence that followed felt cruel. Almost mocking.

Your body locked mid-spin. You stumbled, skated hard toward the bench, the sound of your blades scraping against the ice louder than anything else.

You dropped onto the cold metal like your bones had given up.

Angry.

Exhausted.

You yanked at your laces with trembling hands, pulling your skates off with sharp, jerking motions like they were chains you couldn’t bear a second longer.

Your chest rose and fell too fast.

Breath caught somewhere in your throat, trembling on the edge of something ugly.

A sob or a scream — you weren’t sure which.

You braced your elbows on your knees, pressed your palms to your forehead, and sat there.

Behind you, the sound of footsteps came slowly. Measured.

Careful.

Soft as snowfall.

He didn’t sit.

Didn’t speak.

He just stood a few steps away — the same distance he used to keep before your routines, as if it were sacred. Now it felt like a barrier. Like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to cross it anymore.

He hovered there — like the apology he hadn’t yet finished saying.

Your voice came out hoarse, barely a breath. “What do you want?”

A pause.

“I want to fix it,” he said, quiet. Honest.

You laughed once — bitter, tired. It didn’t sound like you.

“You can’t.”

The silence that followed was thick. Full of everything he’d said and everything you hadn’t.

Then —

“You ruined it,” you whispered, voice unraveling at the edges. “You made me think—like maybe this was something. Like I wasn’t just someone you passed on the ice. You let it matter. You let me matter.”

You didn’t turn. Couldn’t. The words felt like glass in your mouth.

You heard the shift of his weight. Then the gentle thud of a knee hitting the floor beside you.

He crouched down, slow, careful — as if getting too close might shatter you for good.

His hand hovered just above your knee. Not touching. Not brave enough to ask for that yet.

“And now I don’t know how to skate without you,” you breathed.

The truth of it made your chest ache. Made your jaw tighten.

You finally turned toward him.

And when you did — he flinched.

Not from anger.

But from the look in your eyes.

Because you weren’t angry anymore.

You were heartbroken.

Soft. Quiet. Bruised in ways no one could see.

“You broke something I didn’t even know was fragile,” you said.

He swallowed hard. You could see the pulse in his throat.

“I’ll stay,” he whispered. “Every day. For as long as it takes.”

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t nod.

Didn’t reach for his hand.

You just sat there — skin prickling from the cold, emotions pulled too tight inside you to move.

But you didn’t move away, either.

And for now — for both of you — that was enough.

—

The air in the rink felt different.

Not just cold — it always was — but quiet in a way that felt deliberate. Like the space itself remembered what had happened the last time you were both here and didn’t want to disturb the fragile silence still hanging in the corners. The echo of past laughter, whispered apologies, blades carving across ice in harmony — all of it lingered like breath on glass.

Sunghoon exhaled slowly, skating a slow, hesitant circle before coming to a stop near the boards.

You were already there.

Tucked low on the bench, shoulders curled inward like you were bracing against more than just the chill. Your skates were off, placed side by side on the ground like you’d pulled them off in defeat. Arms folded tight across your chest, gaze locked on a scratch in the paint along the lower boards — a single scuff in a sea of wear.

You didn’t glance up when he skated over.

He stopped just at the edge of the ice. Close enough for you to hear him. Far enough not to overstep.

He swallowed once. Shifted his stick from one hand to the other. Then said, soft and careful, “I didn’t know how to fix it.”

His voice barely echoed.

“So I thought maybe I’d just... show up. Keep showing up.”

You didn’t speak.

Didn’t nod. Didn’t meet his eyes.

But you didn’t stand and walk away either.

That felt like something. A start — the kind made of silence and space and the smallest flicker of possibility.

The next few days passed in that strange, suspended rhythm.

It wasn’t like before — not quite. You didn’t joke with him after runs. Didn’t tease him for missing shots. Your laugh, once a melody that echoed off the rafters, had gone quiet.

But you came.

That was enough.

Sometimes, you laced up and took to the ice — headphones in, eyes locked forward, your routines sharper than ever but haunted by the tension in your shoulders. Other times, you just sat on the bench, as if trying to remember what this place used to feel like before it all cracked open.

He never pushed.

Never asked.

He simply practiced nearby — running tight stickhandling drills in silence, skating sprints along the length of the rink, always aware of your presence even when he pretended not to be.

Occasionally, you’d glance up. Catch him watching.

He always looked away too fast.

No flirty remarks. No easy banter.

But there was effort.

There was quiet. There was space. And there was something in the way he returned — every day, on time, eyes searching the door until you appeared.

He stopped trying to impress you.

He just tried to be consistent.

And for the first time in weeks, he was focused — really focused. Not just on hockey, but on healing whatever invisible thread still tethered you together.

Because it was still there.

Thin. Frayed. But intact.

And every silent morning you spent on opposite ends of the rink felt like one small stitch in the repair.

—

One afternoon, while you were working on a new sequence, Sunghoon found himself frozen mid-drill — stick loose in his hands, skates still, just… watching you again.

You skated differently now.

Still graceful. Still impossibly precise. But something had changed. Your edges were sharper, movements tighter, each push of the blade like a controlled release of something pent up — anger, maybe. Sadness, definitely. The flow was still there, but it felt… caged. Beautiful, but a little colder. Like a song missing its crescendo.

He followed your path with his eyes as you floated across the rink — edge pulls into crossovers, the twirl of your arms, the sudden snap into a landing. Controlled. Measured. Too measured.

Then — you spun into a stop right in front of the glass, spraying a soft mist of ice. Your chest heaved, breath quick and visible in the cold. He leaned forward instinctively, palms flat against the boards, forehead nearly touching the pane. His breath fogged the glass between you.

And then — you looked up.

Your eyes locked.

Neither of you moved.

For a moment, the air between you felt electrified — not loud or dramatic, but thick with every word unsaid.

Then you blinked slowly, lowered your gaze, and turned away — gliding back to the center like nothing had happened, ready to start again.

He didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until his lungs started to burn.

A few days later, while you were packing up your things — skates half-untied, sweatshirt pulled back on, hair damp from effort — Sunghoon skated over slowly, the thud of his blades echoing lightly through the near-empty rink.

He stopped beside you. Gently tapped the toe of your skate with his own.

You looked up, cautious. Guarded. Expression unreadable beneath the fatigue.

“You…” he started, voice softer than usual, like he wasn’t sure he had the right to ask. “You always warm up that way?”

You blinked at him, wary. “Why?”

He shrugged a little, one shoulder lifting with faux nonchalance, but his eyes didn’t waver. “I just noticed… you do that edge pull. Backward entry. Twice. Then the same crossroll pattern.”

A pause.

Long enough for him to wonder if he’d overstepped.

“You’ve been watching,” you said quietly, not quite accusing — more like acknowledging a fact.

He hesitated. Then nodded. “I always watch.”

Your eyes flickered down. You turned away quickly, hands fidgeting with the zipper on your skate bag like it gave you something safe to look at.

He took a small breath.

“Will you teach me?” he asked. So quietly, it was almost lost in the hum of the rink. “Just something small. One thing.”

You didn’t look up.

Didn’t answer.

But after a long pause, you gave the smallest nod — not even toward him, just toward the ice, like a silent gesture of allowance.

And that’s how it started again.

It became its own kind of rhythm.

Not like before — not easy or full of teasing smiles — but something gentler. Tentative. Careful.

Each day, he’d start by shooting pucks into the net while you skated slow laps, running through your warmups. You never said much. But when you finished, you’d pause, glance over your shoulder, and lift one hand in a wordless signal.

Come here.

So he would.

You never rushed through instructions. You spoke in a calm, even tone, like you were teaching a kid — clear, patient, quietly encouraging.

The first lesson was simple: how to glide without scraping the ice, how to let the blade hum instead of bite. Then: shifting direction using body weight. Lean into the edges, don’t fight them. Trust your balance.

Eventually, you tried to teach him a basic spin entry.

He gave it his best shot.

And landed flat on his back — limbs splayed, helmet askew, dignity somewhere near the Zamboni entrance.

There was a moment of pure silence.

Then — laughter.

Yours.

Bright, surprised, real.

He looked up at you from the ice, stunned.

And there you were, hand over your mouth, shoulders shaking, unable to stop. The sound bounced off the walls and settled into the cracks between you like sunlight creeping through blinds.

He grinned despite himself, still sprawled across the rink.

He didn’t care that his ribs might bruise or that the fall knocked the wind out of him.

That laugh was worth all of it.

But he didn’t tell the guys.

They still thought he was coming in early for extra shooting drills. Extra conditioning. Maybe just working off frustration.

Let them think that.

He kept it to himself — the late nights, the secret lessons, the warmth in your voice when you corrected his footwork. The small glances. The unspoken forgiveness building, brick by careful brick.

It was his secret.

His sanctuary.

And maybe — just maybe — the beginning of something real again.

—

“You’ve been improving fast, Hoon.”

Jake nudged him lightly in the ribs as they unlaced their skates, brows lifted in suspicion. “Like… really fast. What, you got some secret training camp we don’t know about?”

Sunghoon didn’t look up. Just shrugged, eyes fixed on the strap of his shin guard like it was the most interesting thing in the world.

Heeseung flopped down beside him on the bench with a dramatic sigh, then slung an arm over Sunghoon’s shoulder. “Nah, don’t tell me—you’re in your mysterious genius athlete era,” he teased. “You’re just one press conference away from telling the media you’ve ‘been focused on fundamentals and visualizing excellence.’”

Jake snorted.

But Heeseung wasn’t done. He leaned in, eyes narrowing with faux seriousness. “Or… wait. Is it a girl?”

That made Sunghoon freeze for a second — just a flicker. Barely noticeable.

But they noticed.

Jake perked up immediately. “Oh? Ohhh. That was a reaction.”

Sunghoon rolled his eyes hard, trying not to wince as the tips of his ears flushed unmistakably pink. “No,” he muttered, yanking at his bag strap with more force than necessary. “I’ve just… been practicing more. On my own.”

Jake gave him a look. “You? Practicing. Alone. At ungodly hours of the morning.”

“You ghost us now for solo ice time,” Heeseung added, squinting at him. “You never miss your drills anymore. Your shooting’s gotten nasty. And your edgework? Freakishly tight. I mean—did you sell your soul to the hockey gods, or…?”

“I just wanted to step it up,” Sunghoon said, quickly, a little too defensively. He busied himself with stuffing gear into his duffel. “We’ve got regionals. I want us to win.”

That quieted them for a second.

Jake exchanged a glance with Heeseung. Then he just shrugged. “Okay, fine, Mr. Team Player. Keep your secrets.”

“Yeah, whatever, Ovechkin 2.0,” Heeseung muttered, ruffling Sunghoon’s hair as he stood up. “Don’t forget the rest of us when you go pro.”

They laughed and moved on, joking with the others as they packed up, the locker room filling with the usual clatter of gear and easy banter.

But Sunghoon just sat there for a second longer.

And even though the teasing had stopped, he could still feel it — the weight of the secret he wasn’t ready to share.

Because it wasn’t drills that had sharpened his reflexes. Wasn’t shooting reps that had taught him how to move with flow instead of force.

It was you.

You — skating silently at the far end of the rink, unaware of the way he studied your every movement like scripture. You — teaching him without realizing it, every glide and spin unraveling a new truth about balance, about rhythm, about presence on the ice.

You taught him that movement didn’t always have to be about power.

That grace was its own kind of strength.

That the ice could carry you if you learned how to listen to it.

He didn’t want to explain that. Not yet. Not when it still felt fragile. Private. Sacred.

Because what he had with you now — those quiet late-night lessons, your voice in his ear guiding his footwork, your fingers adjusting his stance — it wasn’t just training.

It was the only part of you he still had.

And he wasn’t ready to give that away.

—

The rink was wrapped in a hush only winter could bring — a kind of sacred stillness that settled in the corners like breath held too long. The cold wasn’t biting, not today. It was soft, almost reverent, like even the air didn’t want to disrupt what was unfolding.

The only sounds were the gentle scrape of blades carving delicate lines across the ice, the distant echo of a puck rebounding off the boards, and the low hum of the overhead lights, casting pale, watery reflections that shimmered on the surface like ghosts of memories past.

Sunghoon sat on the bench, lacing his skates with deliberate care, fingers fumbling just slightly around the laces. His gloves sat untouched beside him, his stick leaning against the boards. His pulse beat loud in his ears — louder than it should for a normal night of practice. But this wasn’t just any night.

He’d gotten there early. Earlier than usual. Earlier than he’d admit to anyone. He’d paced in the locker room for a full ten minutes before stepping out onto the ice. He told himself it was to get in some solo drills.

But really, he was waiting.

Hoping.

Needing.

And then — you appeared.

Like a breath of color in a gray-scale world, you stepped onto the ice without a sound, your movements fluid and effortless, the kind that came from hours and years of repetition. You didn’t try to be graceful — you just were. Each glide was purposeful but quiet, like you were painting with your skates, not pushing.

Your warmup jacket clung to you softly, the sleeves pushed up to your elbows, ponytail swaying behind you in gentle arcs. You skated a loop before dropping into your stretches near the center, and Sunghoon couldn’t look away.

His fingers tightened instinctively around his gloves, knuckles white. His heart thumped too loud in his chest. It was ridiculous how nervous he felt around you, especially after everything. Especially now that you were letting him back in — slowly, cautiously, like testing thin ice.

He forced himself to stand, clearing his throat as he stepped out onto the rink, his blades clicking against the surface. He tried to focus on drills. Quick stops. Stick handling. Practice shots aimed with too much force into an empty net.

But every time he glanced up, you were there — back arched in a spiral stretch, leg extended, focus sharp. You didn’t see him watching. Or maybe you did. You always had a way of knowing things without looking.

And every time he saw you move, something unsteady inside him melted. You had that effect — like watching snow fall over floodlights. Quiet. Mesmerizing.

Finally, you skated toward the boards for a water break. He saw his opening and didn’t hesitate.

He coasted over slowly, his breath coming in soft clouds, nerves buzzing beneath his skin.

“You’re early,” you said lightly, voice tinged with amusement, but you kept your gaze on your water bottle, unscrewing the cap with practiced ease.

“So are you,” he replied, smile small and crooked, cheeks flushed more from nerves than cold.

This time, you glanced up. And when your eyes met his, something gentle flickered there — a cautious warmth, a lingering softness that hadn’t fully left.

He cleared his throat. “Hey, uh… so I’ve got this game coming up.”

You raised an eyebrow, teasing. “Another one?”

He laughed under his breath. “Yeah. Last one of the season. Senior night. It’s… kind of a big deal. Whole school’s supposed to show up. My parents. The team’s doing this ceremony thing. All that.”

You nodded slowly, your expression unreadable.

He fidgeted with the strap of his stick. “I was just wondering… if you’d maybe wanna come.”

There was a beat — a small pause that held more weight than it should have.

You tilted your head, lips curving slightly. “You’re inviting me to a hockey game?”

He tried to play it cool. Shrugged like it didn’t matter as much as it did. “Only if you’ll cheer for me.”

You smiled — soft, but distant. A little sad.

Then you said, “I want to… but I have a competition that night. Warm-ups start right when your puck drops.”

For a split second, the quiet cracked around him.

He masked it quickly with a nod, shoulders stiffening as he glanced away. “That’s okay. I get it.”

And he did.

You weren’t saying no.

You just weren’t saying yes.

Not yet.

Your voice dropped a little, more tender this time. “But… if I finish early, maybe I can catch the last few minutes.”

His head snapped back toward you, blinking in surprise. “Yeah?”

You nodded, gaze softer now, like the walls around your heart were loosening, brick by careful brick. “I’ll try.”

That tiny word — try — didn’t sound like much.

But to him, it meant everything.

The cold rink felt warmer. The week ahead didn’t feel as heavy. And the quiet between you didn’t feel like distance anymore.

It felt like possibility.

—

The night of the game was electric.

The arena pulsed with sound — fans cheering from the stands in waves, cowbells clanging, the metallic clang of the puck echoing off the boards. Floodlights cast a sharp glare across the ice, turning each skate-blade scratch into a shimmer, every breath into a visible puff of frost. The announcer’s voice boomed through the rafters, rising and falling with each play, but none of it reached Sunghoon properly. It was all background noise.

Because he kept looking for you.

Every time he circled back to the bench, his eyes darted toward the crowd — row after row of bundled-up students, parents, alumni — scanning, hoping. Desperately. But your seat stayed empty.

And with each passing minute, his chest tightened.

The first period slipped through his fingers like melting ice. His stick fumbled once. Then twice. He missed a wide-open shot that normally would’ve been second nature.

Between plays, Heeseung dropped down beside him on the bench, nudging his shoulder. “You good?”

Sunghoon’s jaw was set tight. “I’m fine.”

“You sure?” Jake chimed in, voice lower, more careful. “You’ve been off all night.”

He just nodded, but his grip on the water bottle in his hands said otherwise.

They let it go — for now.

But the game was slipping. The other team scored. Then scored again.

And Sunghoon couldn’t shake the weight in his chest, that hollow ache where you should’ve been — the echo of your absence thudding louder than the puck.

He moved like he was skating through molasses, legs heavier than usual, thoughts scattered like snow in the wind. The hours of extra practice, the drills, the edgework you'd helped him refine — none of it mattered if you weren't there to see it.

He missed another pass. Swore under his breath.

He glanced up toward the stands one more time, just to make sure—

Nothing.

And then.

With less than three minutes left in the final period, the main doors creaked open behind the bleachers.

He almost didn’t notice — not until the air shifted.

And there you were.

Framed by the open doors and the flood of cold night air behind you, cheeks flushed from running, hair slightly tousled beneath the hood of your jacket. You still had your warmup pants on, your skate bag slung haphazardly over one shoulder.

You were late.

But you came.

You scanned the crowd in a single sweep, eyes sharp, searching — and found him almost instantly. Your gaze locked across the rink, and your smile bloomed like spring breaking through snow.

And suddenly, something shifted in him.

Like a frozen river finally breaking free.

The weight in his chest melted.

The noise dulled into a hum.

And the ice — the ice felt like home again.

On the next face-off, Sunghoon moved like a different player. Fast. Fluid. Certain. He darted through defenders with purpose, every edge control movement clean and confident. The lessons you’d shown him — how to shift his weight, how to trust the glide — they weren’t just technical now. They were part of him.

He didn’t hesitate.

Didn’t second-guess.

He was playing for the win.

But more than that — he was playing for you.

The final seconds ticked down. He received the puck near center ice, the goalie waiting, crouched and ready. But Sunghoon didn’t flinch.

He cut in hard, sharp turn on his inside edge, then — in one breathless, perfect motion — snapped a shot just under the goalie’s glove.

Goal.

The horn blared.

The arena erupted.

His teammates leapt to their feet, pounding the boards, screams echoing around him like thunder. People were cheering his name. Parents stood. Jake tackled him in a bear hug.

But all Sunghoon saw was you — standing now, clapping, face lit up with pride, eyes gleaming like you were holding back tears.

And in that moment, he knew.

It had all been worth it.

After the game, the crowd started to thin, the cold creeping back in under the bright rink lights.

Sunghoon didn’t wait for the locker room. He found you near the exit tunnel, just outside the players’ gate. You were still holding your jacket closed with one hand, the other clutching a half-finished bottle of water, breath misting in the air.

“You made it,” he said, breathless, cheeks flushed pink — not from the cold this time.

You gave a small, lopsided shrug, but your smile was warm. “Barely.”

Jake and Heeseung lingered a few feet behind, catching sight of you for the first time. Heeseung raised an eyebrow. Jake blinked in surprise. But Sunghoon didn’t flinch, didn’t turn. Not yet. This wasn’t for them.

This was just for you.

Without saying a word, he stepped forward and gently wrapped an arm around your waist, tugging you close until your forehead rested against his chest. You let him — no resistance, just soft warmth in the middle of the cold.

“Thanks for coming,” he whispered, his voice thick, his breath fanning against your hair.

You exhaled slowly, the moment stretching between you like a thread pulled tight.

Your voice was quiet, barely more than a breath.

“You killed it out there.”

And with your arms slowly slipping around him too, with your head tucked beneath his chin, with the crowd fading into silence — Sunghoon didn’t need anything else.

Not trophies. Not praise.

Just this.

Just you.

—

The rink was empty — except for you.

The overhead lights hummed faintly, casting a silver glow across the freshly resurfaced ice. Every glimmer off its smooth surface reflected like moonlight caught in motion. The sharp shhh of your blades carving lazy arcs echoed through the space, soft and rhythmic, blending with the low murmur of the heaters hidden in the rafters.

It was a kind of sacred quiet — the hush that only existed in empty arenas. That silence that felt like it was holding its breath just for you.

Sunghoon stood behind the glass, just outside the barrier, tucked into the shadows where you couldn’t see him right away. His breath fogged gently on the clear pane, each exhale catching the chill of the air. He knew he shouldn’t be here — not during your solo practice, not without asking. But lately, watching you skate felt like the only thing that made his pulse steady.

You moved like music.

Each glide was fluid, unhurried — more like painting than skating. The sharpness of your toe picks, the grace of your arms as they rose and fell like wings — it was more than technique. It was emotion. Story. Art.

Every movement held something you weren’t saying out loud.

Sunghoon leaned against the railing, shoulder pressed to the plexiglass, his eyes drinking in every detail like it was the last time he'd ever see it. Your warmup jacket clung to your frame as you moved, ponytail swaying behind you. The faint sound of your breath — that soft little puff each time you pushed forward — drifted through the boards and made something in him ache.

How could someone look so focused and so free all at once?

He wasn’t even sure how long he stood there. Minutes stretched long and quiet. He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He just watched, letting every motion etch itself into memory — the delicate tilt of your head mid-spin, the way your fingertips seemed to dance just slightly ahead of your body, guiding it.

Then, almost imperceptibly, your eyes flicked up. Just a glance — caught in the reflection of the glass — and then they found his.

Your blade slowed.

Your expression shifted — not startled, not annoyed — just… soft. As if you’d known he was there the whole time. A faint smile ghosted over your lips. Not quite an invitation, but not a dismissal either.

And somehow, that tiny smile hit him harder than a slapshot to the chest.

You slowed your pace, letting your skates draw to a clean, balanced stop near the boards, your breaths rising in faint clouds. You turned toward him, and for a moment, it was like everything around you stilled — the hum of the lights, the chill in the air, even the distant ticking of the scoreboard clock.

Sunghoon stood frozen, forehead now resting against the glass, his fingers gripping the railing so tightly that his knuckles paled. His heart pounded loud enough he was sure you could hear it.

“You’re…” His voice came out hoarse, barely louder than the wind outside. “You’re incredible. Every time I watch you, I’m just—”

You raised an eyebrow playfully, the corner of your mouth quirking upward. “Caught speechless?”

A soft laugh escaped him. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking down for a second, then back at you — more serious now.

His gaze flickered to the distance between you — barely two feet, and yet it felt like miles. A thin wall of glass and everything unspoken.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you something,” he said carefully. Like he was placing each word on thin ice, terrified of making the wrong step.

You stepped a little closer. Just enough for your breath to fog against the same panel of glass, leaving two mirrored clouds between you. Your expression gentled.

“And what’s that?”

He hesitated. Not because he didn’t know — but because he did. He knew exactly what he meant. What had been building since the first time he watched you skate alone. Since the first lesson. Since the first laugh.

“I think I’ve been waiting for you,” he said, voice low, honest. “Not just out here. Not just for skating. I mean… for you. All of you. Even before I really knew it.”

Your lips parted slightly, caught off guard by the confession — not flashy, not loud. Just raw truth, handed to you with trembling hands.

Color bloomed on your cheeks, but you didn’t look away.

Instead, your gaze softened into something warmer. Quieter. Like trust beginning to thaw.

And the space between you — the one that felt like a barrier just moments ago — suddenly felt like a bridge.

You pressed your fingertips lightly to the glass, almost touching where his rested. Not quite contact. But close enough for him to feel it anyway.

Neither of you spoke again.

You didn’t need to.

The silence between you wasn’t empty. It was full. Of hope, of tension, of everything that might come next — if only you were both brave enough to keep stepping forward.

And for now, that was enough.

—

The next few practices feel different.

Not in a way you could measure in drills or laps or landing percentage — but in the way your chest feels a little fuller when he walks in.

Sunghoon doesn’t hide anymore.

There’s no more slipping through side doors or pretending not to see you. Now, he strides into the rink like he belongs — and like you do, too. He nods in your direction with that soft, crooked smile that never quite reaches anyone else. Sometimes he murmurs a low “hey” as he laces up beside you, voice rough with sleep or effort, but always gentle. Sometimes, he tosses out quiet compliments — casual, but devastating. “That new spin? You looked unreal.” “Your edgework’s scary smooth today.” “Still can’t figure out how you make it all look so easy.”

Every word leaves your heart stuttering, and he knows it — you can see it in the way he bites back a grin when you glance away too fast.

The two of you fall into a rhythm: skating slow, overlapping loops across the rink during cooldowns. Like two shadows tracing the same path. The way your blades echo in tandem makes it feel like the ice belongs to no one else.

The boys still don’t know. And you can tell Sunghoon prefers it that way.

It’s not secrecy. It’s privacy. This thing — whatever it is, whatever it’s becoming — is something he wants to keep untouched. Untangled. Yours.

One night, after a long practice, you both linger at center ice.

The main lights have been dimmed, replaced by the soft amber glow of the rink’s perimeter bulbs, casting a warm haze across the glassy surface. It’s quiet — the kind of quiet that hums in your ears, like standing in snow. Your breath fogs gently between you, curling in the chilled air like wisps of smoke. But you barely feel the cold anymore. Not when he’s standing this close.

Your skates glide to a soft stop, and he mirrors you. You’re not touching, but the space between you is charged — heavy with all the things you haven’t dared say out loud.

Then, Sunghoon breaks the silence, voice barely more than a whisper.

“You ever think about what happens after all this?”

You blink, caught off guard. “After… skating?”

He nods once, slowly. “Skating. School. Us.”

Us.

It slips out quiet — careful — but it lands like a crash in your chest.

He’s never said that before. Not even hinted. But now it hangs between you, glowing like a question and a confession all at once.

Your heart stumbles. “What about us?” you ask, barely able to get the words out.

Sunghoon turns to face you more fully. His skates nudge yours, the faintest bump — like an invitation. His eyes are darker now, softer, filled with something real. Something certain.

“I used to think I had everything I wanted out here,” he begins, voice steady but low. “Goals. Stats. Big wins. It was enough for a long time.” His gaze drops, like he’s searching for the right words in the reflection of your skates. “But then you started showing up. Floating in with your quiet confidence. Your ridiculous grace. And it was like…” He pauses, swallowing. “Like the ice wasn’t just mine anymore. It became this… thing we shared. This place I looked forward to because I knew you’d be here.”

You say nothing. You can’t.

He’s still going. “You made me want to skate differently. To be better. For me, yeah. But also for you.” He lifts his head now, eyes locking with yours. “I think I was always skating toward you. I just didn’t know it until now.”

Your breath catches.

He lifts a hand — gloved and trembling just slightly — and lets his thumb graze your cheek. The gesture is so delicate it barely counts as a touch, but you feel it like a lightning bolt beneath your skin.

It’s not rushed. Not dramatic. Just real.

And then he leans in.

The kiss is soft. Almost tentative. But warm — achingly warm — like sunlight spilling through a frost-covered window. His lips taste faintly of winter air and something sweeter — maybe relief, maybe hope.

You melt into it slowly, arms slipping up around his neck. His hands find your waist, steady and careful, anchoring you to the spot like you’re something he’s afraid to lose.

The silence wraps around you like a blanket. No crowd, no teammates, no music — just the whisper of blades as you shift closer, deeper into the kiss.

When you finally part, your foreheads stay pressed together, breaths mingling. His cheeks are flushed, not from exertion but from you.

You whisper, barely teasing, “Still think figure skating’s weak?”

A slow, breathless laugh escapes him. He pulls back just enough to grin, eyes crinkling at the corners. “No,” he murmurs. “I think it saved me.”

And somewhere in the distance, the low mechanical hum of the Zamboni stirs to life. The sound should pull you apart — remind you that time’s still moving. But neither of you flinch.

You stay there, hand in hand, lips tingling, hearts still racing, as the world starts to catch up.

But here, on the ice — in your own quiet corner of the universe — you have all the time you need.

EPILOGUE  ↴

It happens a week later.

Whatever unspoken agreement Sunghoon had with himself — to keep things lowkey, just between you and him — it starts to unravel under the weight of how obvious he’s become.

Jake and Heeseung are the first to notice.

Not because Sunghoon says anything — he’s still tight-lipped and cool as ever on the surface — but because something has shifted.

He’s sharper on the ice. More fluid, more explosive. Every play lands. Every pass connects. He’s skating like there’s a fire beneath him and gravity’s stopped applying.

But it’s not just that.

It’s the hum under his breath in the locker room — some tune that doesn’t exist outside the way he heard you humming it under your breath one night while lacing your skates.

It’s the stupid grin that sneaks across his face when he’s doing something as mundane as tying his laces or drinking water.

It’s the way he checks his phone during water breaks, thumbs flying fast across the screen before he tucks it away with that soft little smile, like the words on it are carved from sunshine.

Jake stares at him for a moment one morning as they’re suiting up for practice.

Then, squinting: “Okay. Spill it. Who is she?”

Sunghoon looks up too quickly, too sharply — caught. “Who’s who?”

Heeseung doesn’t even try to hide his laugh. “Don’t even. You’ve been moving like you’re in the opening credits of a K-drama. The smiling? The texting? The skating like you’ve been kissed for the first time? Yeah, we clocked it.”

Jake snaps his fingers suddenly, pointing at Sunghoon with wide eyes. “Wait. WAIT. Is it—? It is, isn’t it? The figure skater?”

Heeseung’s jaw drops like it’s been unhinged. “No way. The one from the other school? The really good one? The hot one?”

Sunghoon stiffens. Silent. Hesitates.

And then, with zero fanfare, “...I mean. Yeah.”

Jake lets out a triumphant squawk. “I knew it! Bro, I told you he was eyeing her during that last comp. Like, full-on ‘main character sees his future wife’ energy.”

Heeseung flails his arms like he’s been personally betrayed. “And you didn’t tell us?! Dude. You’ve been having secret after-hours practices and doing love laps around the rink while we were trying to figure out how you leveled up like a hockey anime protagonist?”

Sunghoon shrugs, but his smile gives him away — soft, boyish, completely unbothered. “I wasn’t sneaking. I just… didn’t say anything.”

Jake clutches his heart dramatically. “You didn’t trust us with your love story? I would’ve planned a playlist. A celebratory montage. Something!”

Heeseung leans across the bench, narrowing his eyes. “So when do we get lessons? You clearly unlocked some kind of romantic-figure-skating power boost and I want in.”

“Never,” Sunghoon replies instantly, flicking a glove at him. “That’s our thing.”

Jake and Heeseung groan in betrayal.

That night, the team heads to a little post-practice dinner — a cozy spot with warm lighting, clinking glasses, and the sound of cleats scraping on linoleum as players shuffle into booths.

Sunghoon arrives late.

And not alone.

When the door opens, heads turn.

You walk in beside him, cheeks pink from the cold, hair slightly windswept, and wearing one of his oversized spare hoodies — navy, with his team’s logo splashed across the chest and his number stitched into the sleeve. It swallows you just enough to make it his, but you wear it like it’s yours.

Jake and Heeseung look at each other, faces lighting up with identical I told you so expressions so dramatic they might as well have been choreographed.

You wave shyly toward the group.

Jake waves back like you’re a celebrity and he’s a fan at a fanmeet. Heeseung literally claps.

Sunghoon just exhales, long-suffering, but there’s a warm glow in his eyes as he places a guiding hand on the small of your back, steering you to the booth beside him.

Heeseung leans across the table like he’s interviewing you for a magazine. “So. Question. Did you teach him all those new spins he’s been showing off? Or just the ones that make us look like amateurs?”

You smirk, resting your elbows on the table. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Jake points at you dramatically. “Perfect. She’s perfect. You’re doomed, man.”

Sunghoon laughs — really laughs — and it’s unguarded in a way the team rarely sees from him. He pulls you in gently, letting you tuck beneath his arm, and rests his chin on your shoulder with a content sigh.

No deflection. No hiding.

For the first time in a long time, he doesn’t care who’s watching.

Because everyone is watching — and this time, he’s proud of what they see.

You.

Him.

Together.

And he wouldn’t change a single second of it.

Thanks for reading! Reblogs + notes always mean a lot 💌

tl: (read rules before asking to be added to any list ᥫ᭡. )

[dwobbitfromtheshire]

Pre-s4 Steddie

Steve tried to ignore the burning jealousy when Robin started talking about Eddie, too. Apparently, they've been hanging out lately as well. It's all about Eddie. He couldn't help the knot that formed in his chest. He was more like Robin and Dustin, he could give them a stimulating conversation that Steve couldn't. What if they both decided that Eddie was better for them than Steve? He couldn't stop the fear of them leaving him like his parents and he hated his parents for abandoning him so much, leaving him with this fear. Rationally, he knew they wouldn't do that, and yet. . .

"So, anyway, Eddie was saying - "

Steve slammed a video tape down on the counter.

"Enough about Eddie!" Steve exclaimed.

"Jesus, who pissed in your cereal?" Robin asked.

"Just - can we go five seconds without talking about Eddie?" Steve asked. "Eddie, this! Eddie, that!"

"I really think that you'd like him once you get to know him," Robin said. "You don't have to follow those stupid archaic high school - "

"That's not what this is about," Steve rolled his eyes.

"Then what, pray tell, is it about?" Robin asked.

"First Dustin is completely obsessed to the point where he just barely hangs out with me anymore and he just spends all of his time hanging out with Eddie, bumming rides off of him, and I don't see him anymore. I don't know, I thought that Dustin was like a little brother to me, you know, and why do I even care what he thinks of me? And now, you're doing the same thing," Steve said, waving his hands. "I know that it's stupid but I -"

"You're afraid of being left behind," Robin said. "Your parents really did a number on you, my platonic love."

"You think that I don't know that?" Steve scoffed. "I hate feeling like this. It's just that you have a lot more in common with Eddie, you and Dustin both."

"Hey, we may not share the same interests but we share the most important thing: shared life experience. You, me, Dustin, Erica. . .Scoops Troops for life, remember?" Robin asked. "I'm far too invested in you, dingus. You're my platonic soulmate, my other half. . .someone is going to have to die before they rip you from my hands."

"A little dramatic," Steve scoffed and wiped his eyes. "But I love you, too."

"We will always need you in our lives, but we want Eddie in there, too," Robin said. "There's a way to fix this, you know."

"How?" Steve asked.

"You get to know, Eddie, too," Robin said, rolling her eyes. "You're both ridiculously jealous of a kid who once tried to keep an interdimensional monster as a pet. Not that Eddie knows that but still. . .that kid has plenty of room in his heart for the both of you. I have plenty of room."

"Eddie's jealous, too?" Steve asked.

"Oh, yeah, big time," Robin said, rolling her eyes.

He didn't know why it made him feel better that Eddie was jealous. Maybe because it meant that Dustin was talking about Steve to Eddie as much as he was talking about Eddie to Steve. It was part of the reason why he agreed to get to know Eddie and meet him with Robin at the new diner in town after school. Of course, Eddie's van had broken down in the school parking lot. Steve and Robin walked over to him, Steve's hand tightly in hers as she had insisted. She was just as clingy to him as he was to her.

"Need some help?" Steve asked.

Eddie pulled his head out from under the hood. He glared.

"If I wanted King Steve’s help, I'd ask for it," Eddie said.

Robin glared at him before reaching out with her leg and kicking him.

"OW! Damn, okay, sorry. This piece of shit is - ," Eddie said and then slammed the hood. "You know what? Fuck it! You can just sit here and think about what you've done! What can I do for the lady Buckley and his highness, the King of Hawkins High?"

"Do you want to go out with us this evening?" Robin asked.

Steve closed his eyes with a sigh, trying not to laugh as Eddie choked on his saliva. He opened them again. Did she have to ask it like that?

"I thought you - I thought you were - ," Eddie said and then he looked at Steve. "What the fuck's going on?"

"Yes, he knows I'm a lesbian. He's the first one I've told," Robin said. "I'm holding his hand because he's got abandonment issues because of his shitty parents and I've got issues because we almost died together in Starcourt. We're like the creepy twins from the Shining."

"Yeah, thanks, Robin, for telling him that I've got mommy and daddy issues," Steve said rolling his eyes. "And really, with the twins again?"

"You're welcome," Robin beamed.

"And could you make me sound more like a puppy?" Steve asked.

"Don't worry, big boy, you're not the only one with mommy and daddy issues," Eddie said, winking at him.

Eddie was definitely a lot more approachable now that he wasn't uttering swear words like he was a cartoon character. He was twirling a lock of hair around his finger, grinning so wide that his dimples were showing, and big brown eyes were shining with amusement, looking between the two of them. It was actually kind of adorable the way his eyes fluttered at him.

"Yeah, well. . .," Steve said and struggled to find something to say.

"And I'd say you were more like a doe than a puppy with those eyes of yours," Eddie said. "You definitely have some Bambi like qualities."

"Oh, man, don't bring up Bambi. I cried when they shot his mother," Steve said, groaning.

Eddie's smile got soft and sweet. He clapped his hands together as he turned to Robin.

"Okay, you've sold me, Buckley, I will dine with you this evening," Eddie said and pointed his thumbs at himself. "This princess is going to need another carriage to get to our destination."

"I've got a car. You can ride with us," Steve said.

"And they say chivalry is dead," Eddie said with a special smile in Steve's direction.

"Don't cream your pants, Munson, it's just a car ride," Steve said and found himself blushing when Eddie grinned wickedly at him.

Eddie went to open his mouth but was interrupted by Dustin walking up to them.

"You guys are talking, awesome! I told you both that neither of you was bad. See, I knew you'd take my advice," Dustin said and paused. "Steve, if you and Robin aren't dating then why are you two holding hands?"

"Because Keith tried to put us on different shifts again so we decided to superglue our hands together in protest," Steve said seriously.

"Woah. . .really?" Dustin blinked and Eddie snorted.

"Although. . .it's not a bad idea," Robin said, thoughtfully.

"No! Why can't Robin and I just hold hands platonically without getting the third degree?" Steve asked. "And it's a terrible idea, Robin!"

"I don't understand why you don't want to date Robin," Dustin said. "Just because she's a nerd - "

Eddie took out a cigarette and put it in his mouth, watching the scene unfold before him in interest.

"That has nothing to do with it," Steve said. "Hell, I'm more interested in dating Eddie than I am Robin!"

Eddie coughed and accidentally inhaled his cigarette, choking on it. Steve acted quickly and came up behind him. He pressed his hands to Eddie's stomach and began performing the Heimlich maneuver to help him. Eddie coughed up the cigarette, holding his chest. Steve patted his stomach gently and moved back.

"Careful, those things will kill you," Steve said.

"Jesus," Eddie said, looking at him in awe.

"Okay. . .I didn't know guys were an option for you," Dustin blinked.

"Well, not all the time," Steve said and Robin's head snapped to look at him. "I like women. It's just sometimes men grab my attention, it's just something that guys don't talk about."

"Uh, straight guys don't think like that," Robin said.

"Yeah, they do. It's just one of those unspoken guy things," Steve said. "I told you about this, didn't I?"

"No, no you did not!" Robin exclaimed.

"I like women but sometimes men grab my attention," Eddie smirked.

"See!" Steve exclaimed and pointed at Eddie.

"But then again, I'm not straight," Eddie said.

"What?" Steve asked and looked at Eddie.

"Bisexual," Eddie said and wiggled his fingers at him. "Hi, that's me."

Steve stared at him for a minute before shrugging.

"Huh. Cool, guess that's me, too," Steve said. "You coming with us to eat, Dustin?"

"That's all you have to say when you realize you're not straight?!" Robin exclaimed.

"Yeah, I mean, what's the big deal? I mean, I already knew about it. Now, there's a name for it," Steve said.

"My God, man," Eddie said shaking his head at him. "I'm super jealous as hell. I freaked the fuck out."

"I mean, before everything. . .before Nancy, Jonathan. . .before meeting Robin and Dustin I think I would have freaked out about it," Steve said. "But I learned that there are worse things in this world than being queer. Plus, Dustin and Robin, the rest of the kids. . .they make me feel more comfortable being myself than anyone ever did."

"Damn," Dustin cursed, sniffling. "I think I have something in my eye."

"You know, I think it's the same thing that's in my eyes," Robin said as she rubbed her eye.

"Let's go fucking eat already before I mount your babysitter right here in the parking lot," Eddie growled.

"Well, that image ruined the moment," Dustin scowled. "Thank you, Eddie."

"Glad I can help."

Steve laughed and shook his head before waving them over to his car. Just as he opened the passenger's side door for Eddie, Dustin tried to get in. Steve pushed him back.

"Woah, hey, what are you doing?" Steve asked.

"Getting in the front," Dustin blinked. "It's my turn. Robin had it last time."

"No, that spot is reserved for Eddie," Steve said. "He's the guest of honor."

Dustin stared at him for a moment before conceding and sliding into the back seat with Robin. Eddie moved towards the seat and smiled at Steve.

"Thank you, sweetheart," Eddie said.

"Anytime," Steve said, his heart beating faster the longer Eddie looked at him.

"You know, I'd show you just how much I appreciate it but I left my scrunchies at home and I don't want to scar our boy," Eddie whispered, leaning in.

Steve swallowed and he could feel himself getting hotter.

"I don't want to be scarred either," Robin said, poking her head through the seats. "You're terrible at whispering, Munson."

Eddie cackled and slid into the passenger's seat. As soon as they peeled out of the parking lot, Robin and Dustin started whispering together in the back.

"You know, I was jealous of you," Steve said. "You're all that Robin and Dustin talk about. I thought they'd end up choosing you over me because you had a lot more in common with them."

"Well, that's just stupid," Eddie said. "You're all they talk about especially Dustin. He like hero worships you, man, and I didn't get it until today. Steve Harrington, has great hair, is rich, and good with the ladies, but to top it all off he's a good dude? Nope, no way. I was super jealous as hell. . .still am."

"Didn't even make it out of the parking lot before I changed my mind about you," Steve said. "I'm glad I did, though."

"Me, too," Eddie said shyly.

Suddenly, Dustin popped his head out in between the seats, startling both Eddie and Steve.

"Turn around, look at what you see. . .," Dustin sang.

Steve groaned and shoved Dustin's head back with his elbow. Dustin hissed.

"What was that about?" Eddie asked in amusement.

"You don't want to know," Steve and Robin said.

"You know, I just realized that I promised my mother that I would eat with her tonight," Dustin said suddenly. "Can you drop me off at home?"

"Yeah, sure, okay," Steve said.

After dropping off Dustin at his house, Robin moved to the middle seat and leaned forward.

"Yeah, I think I'm going to have to do this another day because I've suddenly had - well, you know - my monthly!" Robin exclaimed and then cursed herself. "Damn!"

"You've suddenly had your monthly?" Steve asked doubtfully.

"Are you calling me, a woman, a liar?" Robin asked.

"I would never," Steve said, rolling his eyes at her antics. "Yeah, I'll drop you off at home."

"Thank you," Robin said.

Steve pulled up to Robin's house and watched her slide out.

"You're a terrible liar, Buckley," Steve said.

Robin flipped him off and skipped off into her house. He pulled away.

"How did you know she was lying?" Eddie asked.

"Because we spent all of last week, when we weren't at work or she wasn't at school, glued to her bed eating chocolate ice cream, and watching all of her favorite movies with a huge heating pad stuck to her stomach," Steve said.

"I guess it's just the two of us," Eddie said. "It almost feels like a date."

"What do you mean? It is a date," Steve said and paused, holding out his hand.

"Hell yeah!" Eddie exclaimed and took Steve's hand. "Goddamn, baby, your hand is huge! . . . Nope, not complaining at all."

He spent the rest of the car ride playing with Steve’s hand, mesmerized by it, as he lined his hand up with Steve’s. Eddie ran his finger down the lines in his palm, trying to read his future as though he were a Psychic. Steve could already see it, as Eddie spoke wildly about his future in a dramatic accent, and they hadn't even been on a date yet. Yeah, Steve was done for.

[mapis-putellas]

Three’s a crowd

Pairing: Mapi Leon x Ingrid Engen x reader

Words: 3389

Warnings: swearing

Summary: You accidentally tell Ona about your relationship with Ingrid and Mapi despite promising them you’d keep it to yourself. Their reaction is nothing like you expect.

Notes: I’m sorry I’m advance for the terrible Spanish. Also, this may not flow smoothly and I apologise for that. I tried my best!

"I mean, I'd make out with them but like -platonically, you know?"

"You can't make out with someone platonically, idiota."

"Of course you can! We've done it like, so many times before already. I mean, maybe it was platonic at first, anyway. But it's definitely not now." You wave your hand dismissively. It takes promptly three seconds before you freeze in the midst of shoving your belongings into your back at the words that had just escaped your mouth without meaning to. Eyes widening, you turn to face Ona who was staring at you with a look of pure shock on her face. Her mouth was agape, hands frozen mid air in the midst of pulling off her jersey.

"qué?" Her eyebrow raise.

You panic. "Uhh, nothing. I said nothing," you scramble to collect the rest of your things, hoisting your kitbag onto your shoulder before slowly backing away from her. "You're just hearing things, Ona. I didn't say anything."

You see, this...relationship, or whatever was going on between Mapi, Ingrid and yourself was new. So new, in fact, it didn't quite have a label. In the privacy of their home, you were like any typical throuple. You kissed. Cuddled. Held hands. They'd dote over you and you craved their attention and affection. In public, however, they tended to stay away from you. Not in a mean way. A least, you didn't think so anyway. Sure they'd speak to you. Pull you into he occasional side hug if you did particularly well in training. Soft, subtle smiles would be shared between the three of you.

But that was it, and that was okay. It was just easier that way anyway. Nobody questioned you; talked you into thinking that maybe joining their relationship wasn't the best idea. You were already going a good enough job of that yourself, after all, and the rumours and speculations that would surely appear if started being affectionate in public certainly wouldn’t help.

It wasn't like you didn't want to be with them, because you very much did. It was just...they were perfect together. Had been together for years before bringing you into the mix. What did you bring into this...relationship that they didn't already have?

The answer was nothing.

Perhaps that train of thought wasn't fair, you thought. It had only been a month, after all. A month was nothing. It was why you'd chosen to remain silent. That way, you wouldn't cause any issues.

"ey ey ey, no," her hand grabs your arm, preventing you from making your escape. "You are not going anywhere chica. Sentarse." She all but demands, pointing your cubby.

"No, Ona," you futility attempt to free your arm. Ingrid was going to kill you. Literally murder you before bringing you back to clean up the mess. Both she and Mapi had asked you to keep this to yourself, and you'd broken their trust before talking without thinking. You and your stupid big mouth.

"Really. I have to go. I said I would-"

Ona shakes her head, effectively cutting you off mid sentence. "Sentarse." She says again, sounding less amused than she had before. It has you shrinking in place, but yet, your stubbornness has you once again shaking your head.

"No. I'm not a dog." The door was just there. Your eyes desperately flicker around the room in hopes of finding something that would distract the defender so you make a break for it.

"Y/n, I swear-"

"What is going on?" A new voice fills the room, and both your heads turn at the sound. At the sight of Mapi standing before you, tanned, tattooed arms crossed against her chest, your eyes wide almost comically. Oh shit. Shit shit shit. You were dead. You were so dead.

Mapi's eyes flicker from Ona's face to her grasp around your arm, prompting the defender for sigh heavily before dropping it. She turns and sits, bending down to begin removing her boots. The knowing smirk on her face was hidden. She knew it.

"Qué está pasando?" Mapi asks again, dropping her arms and making her over to you. You instinctively take a small step closer to her, staring at Ona with pleading eyes when she looks up and makes eye contact. She stares right back at you for a few moments before sighing lightly and shaking her head, rising to her feet and tugging off her jersey.

"Nada," she finally speaks, and you let out a subconscious breath of relief as feel your heart beginning to settle in your chest. Crises averted. For now, anyway.

Mapi eyes Ona for a second before nodding and turning to face you. You don't seem to realise the look of concern still etched on your face, but the Spaniard decides that for now, she'd drop the subject in an effort to prevent furthering your impending panic.

"Are you ready to go?" She asks instead, and you nod, allowing her to place a steady hand on the small of your back to guide you out of the locker room. You glance back at Ona who just so happened to be staring right back at you. She raises an eyebrow and tilts her head slightly to the side in question, and you nod, the defender mimicking it before focusing her attention back to her kitbag.

"Ingrid is in the car already." Mapi tells you in her heavily accented English as you make your way outside, her hand absentmindedly trailing up and down your back in a subconscious action of comfort.

You hum does little to comfort her.

"What happened, amor?" She gently pulls you to a stop, her hand on your hip gently coaxing you to face her. You comply, albeit a little hesitantly, eyes focusing on the tattoo on her neck. Looks can be deceiving. They could be indeed. A small part of you admittedly wants to tell her, but you figure doing so and spilling your guts and in the middle of a car park with all your teammates surrounding you wouldn't be the best idea.

"Later?" You plead instead, and though the Spaniard hesitates, she nods her head and once again starts guiding you back to her car with her hand on the small of your back. The remainder of the walk was completed in silence, Mapi opening the trunk of her car allowing you to dump your kitbag in the there along with Ingrid's and her own before opening the back passenger door.

You slip inside with a tight smile and without your usual kiss to her cheek in thanks, and the defender finds herself frowning as she closes the door and makes her way round to the drivers side, completely missing your less than enthusiastic greeting to Ingrid. You settle in the back with your headphones in, perhaps a not so mature response, but one you deemed necessary to get your thoughts together before the inevitable conversation ahead.

"Is she okay?" The Norwegian questions, glancing back a you in concern. She doesn't normally like talking about you with you in such close proximity, but she figures due to the loud music currently emanating from your headphones that you wouldn't be able to hear them. Besides, she was only doing so out of concern.

Mapi shrugs, "no sé. Ona said something, I think. Said something she did not mean to, maybe?" Her eyes follow Ingrid's for a second before she starts the car, pulling out of her parking space with relative ease. The plan had been for you to stay with them tonight, so she purposely misses the turn to your apartment and continues straight to theirs.

"Ona said something to her?" Ingrid frowns.

"Sí. She look like, how you say..." Mapi tightens her hands around the steering wheel, "como un ciervo atrapado en los faros?"

"A dear caught in headlights?" Ingrid responds, and Mapi nods.

"Sí." The Spaniard confirms.

Ingrid reaches out and places a steady hand on the defenders thigh, giving the bare, tanned skin a soft squeeze. "Did you ask?"

Mapi nods as she eases the car to a stop at a red light. "Talk later, she said. So obstinada." She grumbles.

Ingrid couldn't help but smile, "Like you, you mean?" She teases, earning herself a playful punch to the arm.

"She is worse." The Spaniard grumbles, and Ingrid laughs softly.

With a quiet sigh, you place your AirPod back into your ear. You were stubborn, she was right. But it wasn't like you weren't willing to talk about it. You just didn't want to do so where there was a risk somebody would hear.

The looming conversation ahead seemed way more daunting now.

*

"Go shower, bebé," Mapi finally breaks the silence as Ingrid closes the front door and locks it behind her, and you nod mutely as you kick of your shoes and make your way down the hall to their bathroom. Their bathroom. Ingrid and Mapi's. Not yours. That thought alone makes your eyes burn with tears.

Pathetic.

You miss the look of concern shared between both women share as you close the bathroom door behind you.

"I need to text Ona." Mapi murmurs as she pulls out her phone, a gentle hand resting atop of her own stopping her in her tracks.

"Qué?"

Ingrid shakes her head, "I know it's hard, but you need to let her come to us. It's obvious that she doesn't want us to know what happened with her and Ona, and we need to respect that. Forcing her to talk will only end badly."

Mapi sighs, knowing her girlfriend was right. Still, she couldn't help but push.

"But, what if-”

"No, kjære," Ingrid takes both Mapi's hand in her own and squeezes. "Let her come to us."

"Sí, mi amor."

Both knew the topic of conversation between you and Ona had evidently been about them. If not, you would have come to them. Just like you had when Lucy had said something to upset you. It wasn't like you to push them away. Mapi knew that. She also knew Ingrid was right about letting you come to them, despite her reluctance to do everything possible to figure out what was going on.

"Okay. Go find us a movie to watch. I'll make a start on diner." Ingrid places a soft kiss against the Spaniards cheek before disappearing through to the kitchen. Mapi watches her go before letting out a quiet sigh and curling up on the corner of the couch, picking up the remote to turn on the tv.

You finish with your shower long before Ingrid finishes with dinner, and you appear in the threshold of the living room clad in both their clothes. Ingrid's sweater, and Mapi's sweatpants, your hair wet and hanging down by your face.

Mapi gestures you over with one of those smiles that makes you melt, "Let me do your hair, amor. Sit." She opens her legs and pats the spot in between them. Your reluctance was evident as you comply, placing your hands on either of the Spaniards thighs as you settle and allow her to start combing through your hair.

"Dinner smells good." You finally find it within you to talk as you feel Mapi's fingers beginning to part your hair with the intention of braiding it. You didn't like leaving your hair down to sleep, and you found it endearing that Mapi had somehow remembered that fact despite it being weeks since you’d told her.

"Mhh," Mapi hums, "huele deliciosa." She agrees.

After tying off your hair with a hair tie, Mapi's tattooed arms loop around your waist, her hands clasped together against your stomach. You expect her to talk. To push you into opening up about what had happened earlier. But she surprisingly does neither. She simply rests her chin against your shoulder and presses a kiss to your cheek before once again picking up the remote.

"You pick." She mumbles into your ear, and you nod, eyes skimming over the screen.

Ingrid makes her way into the room just as you'd decided on the lion king, carrying a plate in either hand. She hands one off to both you and Mapi before once again disappearing and returning with her own.

It was pasta. Your favourite.

"Gracias." Mapi grins, settling back against the couch with you still between her legs and shoving a large forkful of food into her mouth.

Ingrid stares at you with a smile, one you couldn't help but mimic as you both watch the Spaniard stuff her face. Knowing you were in the way, you shift yourself over Mapi's leg and settle on the couch between them instead.

You ignore Mapi's playful pout at the action.

"Thank you." You whisper, and Ingrid smiles again as she gives your thigh a squeeze.

"You're welcome, elskling."

It didn't take long before dinner was quickly demolished, three empty plates sat on the coffee table as the three of you lay comfortably on the couch. You were in between Ingrid's legs now, your back to her chest with one of her arms wrapped securely around your waist. Mapi was curled up next you both, her head on Ingrid's shoulder as the Norwegian combs her fingers through her hair.

The defenders arm was thrown lazily over your stomach, tattooed hand resting on the gentle curve of your waist. Your own hand settles on top of her arm, the pad of your thumb trailing over warm skin. 

The silence between you was comfortable. You were comfortable. So much so you almost want to bring up the elephant in the room. It couldn’t be that bad, right?

You sit up suddenly, yanking yourself out of both woman's grip. Mapi whines unhappily, but Ingrid nudges her softly as she shakes her head and sits up too.

Understanding, Mapi sighs lightly and forces herself to sit in front of you, her rear end perched on the edge of the coffee table. She tries to take your hands, but frowns when you gently push them away.

"I told Ona." You blurt out.

Ingrid's eyes widen, but you didn't need to see it to know she was disappointed. You could tell by the way an alarmed Mapi meets her gaze over your shoulder. You desperately try and fix your mistake.

"Well, I didn't tell her. We were talking, and it just slipped out. I didn't mean for it to happen. I swear. It was just a joke. I mean, it wasn't a joke. I was just trying to tell her a joke. That's when it happened. Please don't be mad. Or well, you can be mad. I betrayed your trust. But please don't be mad. It was an accident, I swear." You weren't aware that you had started crying until you feel Mapi's hands cup your cheeks and wipe away your tears.

Her hands were warm, and you relish in the feeling as you force yourself to take a few breaths. Ingrid's arms, you now notice, were tight around you too, her hands beneath your shirt resting on the bare skin of your stomach. You inhale and exhale, feeling her hands move with you.

"It is okay," Mapi was the first to speak, scooting a little closer and moving her hands to rest on either of your thighs. You desperately cling to to them with your own. "I am not mad. And Ingrid is not too, right?"

"Right." The Norwegian murmurs in your ear, her chin hooked over your shoulder. Her hair tickles your cheek.

"But I told..." You whisper, your voice breaking slightly, leaning back into Ingrid as much as your body would allow.

"Sí. You did," Mapi agrees. "But it was an accident, no? You did not mean to."

"Mapi's right, elskling."

"I always am." Mapi smirks, and you couldn't help but laugh when Ingrid playfully kicks her with her foot.

"She is right,” Ingrid repeats. “We are not mad at you. Being mad at you for something you didn't mean to do would be stupid. And besides, it's about time we start letting people know, mhhh?"

You blink, craning your head to the side so you were more or less looking Ingrid in the eye. She stares down at you, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to your nose. It scrunches up at the action, and both she and Mapi share a look when you flush and bashfully stare down at your lap. When Mapi reaches out to take your hands again, this time you let her.

"You want to tell people? About us?" You murmur.

This was not how you thought this conversation would go.

"Mhh," Ingrid nods. "Sí." Mapi agrees.

"But, what if..." you trail off.

"What if what, amor? Talk to us, por favor." Mapi coaxes, squeezing your hands again. You look up at her, and she smiles oh so gently at you it has your mouth opening before you could give it permission to do so.

"People will talk. About us. And that won't bother me, not really. But I don't want you guys to change your mind. You were perfect before, and I don't exactly bring anything to the table." You admit.

"Baby, no. Do not think like that. This is new, yes, but that does not mean we have any doubts," Ingrid starts, her frown identical to Mapi's whose eyes have grown shiny at your words. "I can almost guarantee people will talk. That's just what they do when they see something that they're not used to. But that doesn't mean their opinions matter."

You nod, feeling something inside you slotting into place.

"My opinion, yours, Ingrid's are what matter amor. If we are happy, then that is all that matters, sí?"

"Sí." You nod.

"You are happy?" Mapi pushes, and you nod with a genuine smile. "Bueno. Now stand, por favor." She holds her hands out for you to take, and you place your own into them allowing her to easily pull you to your feet. With a kiss to your forehead, she takes your place in between Ingrid's legs and tugs on the material of your sweater to pull you closer.

You yet again comply, ending up sat on her lap with your legs either side of her hips atop of Ingrid's thighs. Mapi's arms loop tightly around your waist, holding you tightly to them both, and you melt in their embrace as you rest your head against her shoulder.

Ingrid's face was just millimetres away from your own, and you smile when you feel her lips press softly against the top of your head.

"Something to the table. What does that mean?" Mapi settles back into Ingrid when she feels the Norwegian secure her arms around both herself and you.

Your eyes rip open. Damn. You hoped they wouldn't bring this part up. When Ingrid remains silent, it becomes clear she expects you to answer Mapi's question. So with a sigh, you do.

"It's an idiom. It means to do something that will benefit others." You mumble, less than happy.

Mapi's eyebrows furrow.

"You do not think you benefit us?" She places her hands on each of your sides and gently tugs your upper body away from her. You let her, but not without a pout and refusing to meet her eyes.

"Bebé, look at me por favor."

You shake your head.

"Elskling." Ingrid's warning voice echos around the room along with her fingers tapping gently under your chin, and you sigh heavily as you comply with the Spaniards words. Mapi's eyes immediately meet your own, but they didn't hold the stern look Ingrid's did.

"You do not think you benefit us?" She asks again, and you hesitate to shake your head.

"Por qué?"

"I don't know. I just...your relationship was perfect before me." You fumble with the chain hanging from Mapi's neck.

"No relationship is perfect, my love." Ingrid cuts in, Mapi nodding in agreement. "We love each other, yes. But all couples have their issues. Including us."

"If anything, being with you only makes us stronger. Because now there's three of us, instead of two. Meaning there is lots more love and time to go around." Ingrid hand grips your thigh and squeezes. You rest your own on top of it, gripping her fingers and squeezing hard.

Mapi nuzzles her nose with your own for a second before dropping her head back onto Ingrid's shoulder. "You make us better, sí?" She reaches up and cups your cheek, her thumb grazing gently over the still damp skin.

Your lips quirk up into a hesitant smile.

"There's that smile." Ingrid coos, and you flush slightly as you fall forward into their arms, hiding your face into the Spaniards neck. Mapi grins as she cups the back of your head, and Ingrid mimics is as she presses a kiss to her cheek.

"Our girl."

**

@ktgoodmorning @goldenempyrean @girlgenius1111 @alexias-putellas @mapis-russo @wileys-russo

[mika-no-sekai-blog]

One bed

Azriel x reader

Word count: 3000+

Summary: Due to unforeseen circumstances, you end up in the same room as Azriel

Warnings: none

I'd love to say I have solved the Frozen thingy, but I haven't yet. I've started writing part 3 and that's where I stopped because of the madness around. I was so close to making a solid plan for it. Unfortunately, the work happened, then Christmas at work baking f***ing chicken farm. Then husband got fever🙄and he couldn't live without getting someone else sick as well, so now son has high fever too and I'm the last one somehow surviving here. At least I have whole week of holidays next week. I hoped to relax and write more, but we'll see. Wish me luck🥴

Anyway here's something small and not so angsty that just popped up suddenly. Hope you enjoy it.

And for everyone who celebrate, have a peaceful holiday 💕

"I thought I've reserved enough rooms," Rhysand sighed. The last hour he was talking with the owner of the inn we were staying at, trying all possible tactics to persuade him to find us one more room. Impossible task from the very beginning as the inn was full.

We were on non-official official mission. At first, there were only six of us supposed to go as Amren declined, intending to stay with Mor in Velaris, protecting it. However, the two of them had yet another quarrel recently, which led to Amren suddenly appearing with a packed bag in hand a few seconds before intended departure. Nobody, not even Rhys, had balls to tell her no. And that's why we ended up in this situation. Rhys had everything perfectly planned, as usual, but he couldn't have known this would happen. And now we were one room short, but again - nobody dared to tell aloud whose fault it was. Amren was like hungry bulldog, ready to tear to shreds anyone and anything at the best of her days. Now, she was pissed off.

Feyre and Nesta took their keys, Feyre giving me an apologetic look. From the start, they were supposed to share rooms with their mates. This was also kind of vacation for us, so it was only logical they wanted to be with their partners.

That left Rhys with last two keys in hand. Amren snatched one and without looking at anyone or even a small mumbled sorry, she left. We exchanged look and whole group finally relaxed.

"Sorry," Feyre murmured as she headed to her room with sorrowful expression.

Before she left, Nesta gazed at me with silent question and I nodded. I would be fine, for sure. Cassian winked at me as he followed her. They both knew about the feelings I had for Azriel for quite some time, each supporting me in their own way. At this point, probably everyone around knew, except for the mentioned Shadowsinger and I didn't plan to be the one to break the news. I knew my limits and he was off them.

Rhys turned to me and Azriel with sorrowful expression, brows furrowed. "I'm sorry, Az, but you know.. Ladies first," he offered me the last key. Spymaster didn't even as much as blink, no protests at all. He looked as his usual self, unbothered by the problem at the hand.

"Thankies," I smiled, took the key and looped hand to Azriel's arm. "Come."

They both opened mouth in surprise, none of them expecting this from me. Rhys recovered as first.

"Enjoy yourself," he smirked and I rolled my eyes.

"Ha ha ha, how funny," I stuck out tongue at him. He chuckled and hurried after his mate, leaving the two of us alone. I raised brow at Shadowsinger who was still too shocked to speak. He didn't even notice Rhys' teasing.

"What? Did you think I would let you sleep on roof or what?"

"B-b-but," he stammered, his cheeks dusted with pink.

"No buts. Come!" I had to pull reluctant Azriel down the hallway.

"I can try another inn-"

"Nonsense! You would miss all the fun. Plus, I really don't mind. We are friends after all. I have nothing to be afraid of, right?"

I came to a sudden stop, realizing something.

"Wait! You mind staying with me in the same room?"

Before, it didn't occur to me that he could be against. I thought we were getting along pretty well, given the fact that we tended to seek out each other's company, sitting together and talking. The two of us even often hung out in the city, venturing cafes and bakeries. I thought he liked to spend time with me, but it could be only my mistaken impression. I knew I couldn't hope for more than friendship and I was fine with that as long as I could be close to him. He could feel differently though.

"No!" he hurried with an answer, eyes wide. "No, nothing like that. It's just.."

"What is it?"

"It's just.. you are female and I'm male."

I was so relieved to hear that, that I wanted to laugh, but I didn't. "That means that you will pounce on me like an animal as soon as door close?"

He flushed fiercely, averting his eyes. "You know I will do no such a thing. It just means that you might be uncomfortable because of that."

"I'm fine. Believe me," I said softly and took his hand. "So come on, silly."

He chuckled and this time, he willingly followed me.

The room, we got, was quite a nice one for an old inn, but it was rather smaller one. Most of the space was occupied by bed big enough to accommodate Illyrian wings. It was one of the reasons Rhysand chose this place, thinking about the comfort of his brothers. We were supposed to spend here whole week, maybe longer, so it was necessary.

Except of bed, there was only small table with two old chairs, hearth and connected bathroom.

After we settled down, the air had somehow thickened, both of us suddenly embarrassed. And so I did what I could to lighten the atmosphere a bit, but every try for a conversation died out soon after it started. At last, I gave up.

"It was long day," I stretched out, all my joints making a satisfying cracking sound and Azriel grimaced. He didn't like when I did it. "I'm tired. Do you want to use the bathroom as first?"

"No, go ahead," he offered and started to line up on table all the daggers he had on him. I paused and watched him, amazed. How could he hide so many? I thought he had only two, max three. He noticed me and smiled shyly.

"I'll clean them while you take shower. Don't worry, I'll put them away afterwards."

"I don't mind them at all," I mumbled, ashamed I got caught. "I'm just stunned you managed to sneak in the whole arsenal. Seeing it now, I would bet that not only do you have one for each of us but also even one spare."

At that he finally laughed, the rich sound warming my heart. I already missed that sound. Corners of my mouth curled into satisfied smile and I quickly gathered all necessary things and went to the bathroom.

When I came out, the daggers were gone from the table. Azriel was seated on the same chair he occupied since we came, pyjama in hands. He was staring into space, looking somehow troubled. Shadows gathered around his ear and he looked up at me, faking smile. Without a word, he stood up and hurried to the bathroom.

While I was waiting, I shoved my used underwear to the bottom of my bag and climbed to the bed, snuggling up in a warm blanket. It was quite cold here, old window hardly blocking the cold wind from outside.

Azriel took quite long to finish. By the time bathroom door creaked open, I was almost asleep. He rustled around for a while and adding big log to the fire, he turned off lights. I waited. The room went completely silent.

I opened eyes. "Are you kidding me," I sat up, sighing. "Az, I thought, we already talked it out." I glared into a dark corner by the hearth.

"Don't worry about me and sleep," he replied from his place on the old chair.

"You can't sleep on that old crap. It will most likely give in soon." The only answer was silence.

"C'mon, Az. It won't do you any good if you're sleep-deprived. To none of us in fact. What if something happens and you won't be able to fight because you are too tired and sore?"

Again silence.

"Do you want me to help you to the bed? I warn you, I'm going to drag you here not by arm but by ear this time."

He chuckled. His wings rustled and mattress dipped under his weight. "Fine then. Have it your way."

I tucked him in like a small child, mindful of his wings and settled down, heart pounding in my throat.

"That wasn't necessary."

"Believe me it was. And don't try to fake it. I'm light sleeper. I will know if you get up in the middle of the night."

"Fine, fine." He sounded amused. He was lying on his back, wings folded and tugged close to his body.

"Relax. The bed is enough big for both of us. Even if you touch me. I'm not made of sugar, I won't melt into puddle," I assured him as I curled up on my side of bed with back to him, taking as little space as possible so he had enough comfort. He made a sound at the back of his throat.

I thought I wouldn't be able to sleep at all with him being so close. But as bed warmed up with his presence and his calming scent wrapped around me as another blanket, I fell asleep in no time.

* * *

Azriel didn't even blink an eye. He was just lying there, stretched on his back, gazing at ceiling. He wasn't used to falling asleep next to someone. After she reassured him, he relaxed a bit but only his body. He was too nervous and excited at the same time. He was scared to even breath, not wanting to wake her up. How could she sleep so soundly? Didn't she feel the same? Didn't his presence stir her nerves?

Shadows curled on pillow near his ear, whispering. They described him in detail how she drifted off with sweet smile on her lips. Smile that she was still wearing. He wished he could see it with his own eyes.

He dared to turn his head to the side to watch her back, her shoulder slightly rising with every breath. Even at place like this in the middle of nowhere, she kept smelling like field of spring flowers, delicate and sweet. He inhaled deeply, enjoying the moment.

He felt so lucky right now and thanked the Mother for sending Amren at last minute, giving him this opportunity. For years, he was trying to get closer to Y/N. No matter how many times, he was ready to tell her about his feelings, he always gave up in the end, not daring to even suggest it. She was everything he wasn't, beautiful, kind and perfect. She deserved better.

He watched her entire night, mesmerized. It was strange. She was always so energetic during the day, yet at night she didn't move at all. It made him wonder whether it was because of him or it was normal.

It was after the sunrise when he finally calmed down and dozed off for hour or two.

* * *

Three days later, a knock sounded on our door. We were just finishing off the lasts of our breakfast. We looked up in time to see Rhysand's head peeking in. He held hand over his eyes with sassy smirk on his lips.

"Can I come in? I wouldn't like to see something inappropriate."

I rolled my eyes while Azriel bid him in, unaffected by his teasing. Honestly, everyone was making fun of us for no reason. After the first night, Nesta pulled me aside to ask me how it went and how I felt. I had nothing to tell her. At least nothing interesting anyway. I slept like a baby and not only the first night, but every night after.

Every evening, Azriel dutifully took his side of bed and I curled up on mine. No touching, only a pleasant small chat between friends. It was noticeable that he didn't sleep much the first night, however after that, he didn't seem to have such troubles. I was glad for that.

"I came to inform you that finally one more room is available. If you want, one of you can take it," he grinned and waited for our reply with one brow raised.

Out of the corner of eye, I looked at Azriel who was already eyeing me with unreadable expression. It seemed he wouldn't speak and it was up to me to decide.

"Well.. I don't mind to share room with Az at all. But if you'd like to have your privacy.." I turned to him.

His eyes widened slightly and his lips moved without making a sound.

"I don't mind, too," he managed.

"So," Rhys dragged the word. "You want to stay together? Really?"

We nodded as one man, not willing to give him what he hoped for. He was visibly disappointed.

"Fine then," he sighed, "as you want. I'll inform the owner."

* * *

A week later we were so used to this situation and each other's presence that we returned to our usual selves, rambling about anything, laughing, even touching lightly.

Our mission was over and this was our last night of sharing room. Azriel was spread on bed next to me, his wing gently touching my back. I was slowly falling asleep while we did small talk. Somewhere between dream and reality I got idea. Crazy as it was, my sleepy brain didn't find anything strange or wrong with it and my body acted on its own.

With closed eyes I rolled to his side, wrapped arm around his waist and rested my head on his chest. Azriel made a surprised sound and stiffened, but he didn't try to push me away. His smell filled my nose, his warmth seeping into me. Frantic but steady melody of his heart lulled me deeper into sleep. Last thing I felt before I completely drifted off, was his body relaxing under me and his arm holding me close.

* * *

Azriel was so surprised, he couldn't think straight. What was happening? He touched Y/N lightly, yet she didn't mind. She was almost asleep, relaxed and seemingly comfortable with him as her pillow. He felt her smiling into his chest and that gave him courage to wrap his hands around her. She hummed with satisfaction and dozed off completely.

Azriel gazed at her, unsure what to think or feel. Naturally, it made him happy, a dream-come-true kind of situation, but was it really okay? Was it really happening? It seemed to him just like a figment of his imagination, fed by amazing week spent by her side, so close to her.

He pinched himself, really painfully, leaving a bruise on his forearm. It was real. He swallowed hard. Slowly small smile spread on his face. He could get used to this.

When the initial surprise and embarrassment had passed, he found himself enjoying this. His heart was pounding fast, as he touched her hair and pushed them aside to see her face. He couldn't help it and traced a single finger down her face and jaw, mapping her full lips, lovely nose and soft arches of her brows.

He chuckled lightly. Y/N didn't even stir. So much to a light-sleeper.

As he watched her, his fantasy took over, offering him all kinds of imaginary situations that could lead to them ending up in this position; from innocent snuggling together for the night to them being naked, covered in sweat and spent after good sex. His heart squeezed in pain. He loved it and wanted it all. He didn't even realize that he was tugging her closer and closer, holding her so firmly there was no space left between them.

Despite everything, the scenario of innocent snuggling immediately became his favourite one. It held a certain kind of peace and warmth, something he longed for the most. He kept replaying it again and again until he fell asleep, too. The fantasy followed him even to his dreams where it became so real that it was unbearable.

* * *

I woke up unusually early at dawn. Still drowsy I looked around, not comprehending where I was. I was warm and comfy, so ready to close my eyes again, until I notice rising and falling steady flesh under me. That completely woke me up.

I looked up, finding Azriel still fast asleep. He was smiling sweetly, yet the tears rolled down his cheeks, soft whimpers leaving his lips. My chest tightened at the sight. It hurt me to see him like this. I reached up and gently wiped the tears off.

He slowly opened eyes and looked at me, still smiling.

"Good morning," I whispered.

"'Morning, Y/N," he replied, his deep voice raspy in the most sexy way. His thumb started to move up and down my waist in soothing motion.

"Bad dreams?"

"Sometimes dreams can be so beautiful that they make one cry," he murmured. He sounded so sad that I felt like crying too. Instead, I placed both of my hands on his chest and rested my chin on top of them.

"Do you want to talk about it?" I searched his eyes.

He shook his head and wiped off the rest of his tears. "I just wish I could go back and keep having the same dream for the rest of my life," he sighed, his eyes never leaving my face.

I propped up on my elbow and caressed his cheek. "You know that dreams don't have to stay dreams. They can became reality if you want them to."

His eyes widened and he swallowed hard. He seemed to be thinking very hard about something. Determination filled his eyes and he lifted up his head, stopping an inch from my face, waiting.

It was so sudden that I held my breath, but I didn't pull away. Watching me closely, Azriel leaned even closer and his lips lightly grazed over mine. I moaned, my body acting on its own. My eyes closed and I firmly pressed my lips to his. All the years of my suppressed feelings poured into this one kiss, not believing that there would be any more. He groaned and opened up, slowly moving, testing the waters. His fingers dug into flesh of my waist, holding me impossibly close.

It ended as suddenly as it started. He reluctantly broke the kiss and rested his forehead against mine, heaving.

"I want it to become real."

[i-dont-even-know-anymore976]

my spine split from carrying us up the hill (i’m just getting colour back into my face)

a buddie relationship breakdown fic | 21.8k

tags: buck pov, buck centric, established relationship, break up, cheating, sad buck, emotional/psychological abuse, unhealthy relationship, eddie diaz bashing, 118 bashing, (tho i think it’s more critical but for the filters), season 7 au, in an au where buddie got together after the shooting, Relationship Breakdown, Buck & Ravi Friendship, anti buddie, No Beta We Die Like Bobby Nash, (doesn’t in this fic)

It took Buck a moment to process what he saw before him.  Eddie — his arms wrapped around some woman. His face buried in her neck and his fingers brushing her skin.  The other man’s eyes widening, his face going pale as he realised they’d been caught.  Buck barely heard Eddie gasp Chris’s name — the boy motionless next to him as they stared at a ghost.  At Shannon.  At Chris’s mother — who Buck knew was dead.  Had been to the funeral and seen them both through the messy aftermath. Had helped this child mourn once and already knew he’d have to do it again.  Or: What if it was Buck instead of Marisol

in a surprise to everyone — and most of all me — i’ve actually written something ?? for the first time in like three years ?? wild

tbh i think that scene in 8.17 just reaffirmed everything i'd been slowly realising about buddie and why they could never work and it somehow manifested itself as this 😅

anyway - a lil excerpt for you all xx

He regretted it as soon as the dial tone sounded. Had let his thumb hover of the name — debating — for more than a few seconds before giving in to the urge to press call.

And yet — as soon as it actually started ringing — he knew he shouldn’t have done it.

That he was fine. That he was being dramatic, once again.

But he also knew he couldn’t just hang up. That it would create a panic — force them to call back — to ask questions.

“Doctor Copeland’s office,” it was a new receptionist. Her voice melodically neutral as she answered the phone, “May I ask who’s calling.”

Buck stumbled over his words for a second, before rushing to explain, “Uh — don’t worry. It was an accident.”

“Are you sure… Mr Buckley?” She drew out the question as if reading the name off a screen and Buck cursed whatever Caller ID system the psychologist’s office employed that still recognised his number.

Her tone more concerned as she asked again, “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah — yeah, of course.” He felt almost breathless as the lies left his lips, “Just a wrong number. Pressed the wrong person by mistake. Sorry for any trouble.”

“Okay — then,” she sounded doubtful. “Well, we’re here if you ever need us, Mr Buckley. Don’t hesitate to ring back now. Okay? I know Doctor Copeland would be more than happy to fit you in.”

“Yeah—” he agreed half-heartedly. Desperate to get off the phone before he did something stupid like actually ask for an appointment.

Knowing it was pointless. That he was fine.

“Have a nice day then.”

He finally freed himself from the conversation. Heart racing like it usually only did when he’s had to run up six flights of stairs in full turn outs.

He forced himself to drop his phone onto the counter — hands shaking as he thought about reaching for it again — and made himself walk away instead.

Looked around the kitchen desperately for something to do and was relieved to spot the small stack of dishes from the night before.

They usually did them together. Buck drying as Eddie washed — accused of almost flooding the kitchen one too many times before Eddie had finally relegated him to the less dangerous of the tasks.

They’d been too tired the night before. Exhaustion dragging them towards bed and leaving the dishes to wait until the morning.

It had been happening more and more lately. Truthfully Buck couldn’t remember the last time they’d shared their little ritual. Meals eaten in a rush as they raced out the door to work — whoever drew the short straw and got home first left to do the tidy up.

At least if Buck didn’t end up eating alone. Eddie always out these days — the friendship he'd struck up with Tommy keeping him gone until late whenever they had the day off.

Chris, even more sociable than his father. Forever at a friend’s house, or out with the girl that he swore to Buck wasn’t a budding romance. Swindling invites for sleepovers through charm and good humour that a young Buck could never have dreamed of emulating.

Always clinging just a little too tight for people to ever really settle in his presence.

It left him alone most nights. At least the ones he didn’t spend at the firehouse, revelling in the thrum of activity. Instructions from Bobby as they cooked, Chim and Hen’s quiet rivalry as they wrestled for control of the TV remote.

Eddie sitting next to him in the engine — their legs brushing they were sat so close. Sometimes it felt like the most intimate they ever were anymore.

Never mind the way they’d clung to each other having rescued Bobby and Athena. Buck pressing into bruises to leave them there a little longer. To remind himself that Eddie had chosen him, that he loved him.

Not that he needed the reminder.

Buck knew that. Intrinsically. He did.

Read on AO3

[captain-bubble-wrap]

Happy New Year!! Could you possibly do an imagine about kissing Q at midnight? Ty!!

10:43pm. 

Was it really New Year's Eve already? It was incredible how quickly the year had flow. So much had happened between Quinn and yourself; some for the better and worse. Right now, things were bad again. Not between the two of you, but with the team and with his ability to stay healthy. After healing fully from the high-sticking, you thought Quinn was going to get back to his old self, sniping wristers from the blue line and stacking up points for a back-to-back Norris run. Sadly, he was looking at another two to three weeks of off-ice rest, not counting the time off during Christmas. 

Quinn hadn't traveled to Calgary with the rest of the Canucks and you could feel the effects of Quinn not being with his boys while you sat beside him in his living room. He hadn't said a whole lot today, nor had you pressed him for conversation. If he wanted to talk, he knew you were available. Other than that, you had left him alone. However, it was nearing an hour from the new year and you were itching for something to do. 

"Wanna get dressed up and take a walk downtown?" You turned toward him on the sofa, crossing your legs up under you. You weren't sure how your proposition was going to over, but you would remain hopeful nonetheless. 

Quinn sighed deeply, "Not really. I'm not in a 'going out' mood. I'm sorry, sweetheart." He would look up from his phone and give you a sympathetic glance. It was all over his face that he had no interest in leaving his apartment that evening. Normally, you'd share that same sentiment, but New Year's was once a year, and it wasn't often that Quinn was home for the holiday. You just thought that maybe he would want something to get his mind off the raincloud over his head.

You both had watched the game together. He was tense the entire time, like he was on the bench and completely powerless to command this team. Everything was a struggle, but when they had finally tied it up there was some hope that they could still turn it around. Unfortunately, the score would end with a 3-1 Canucks loss and Quinn shaking his head. This was two games without their captain they would lose, and another two points they wouldn't be going home with. 

Leaving him alone with his thoughts and whatever business he was doing on his phone, you tried to keep yourself awake and the collective mood in the apartment from completely going to shit. Watching any kind of movie was out, because you knew his mind would be elsewhere, but what could you do where it wouldn't be back in the arena, replaying plays and fixing errors? You'd pout as you bounced from idea to idea before you felt your stomach grumble. 

"Wanna bake some cookies?"

This would cause him to put his phone down, like it had been the magic words he didn't know he needed to hear. "I'd actually love that."

You'd give him a warm, beaming smile before hopping to your feet and excitedly hurrying to the kitchen. Now, you nervously hoped that you actually had everything needed for cookies! 

"What do you need me to do?" Quinn would ask, looking at you on your tip-toes, going through the cabinet before finally getting up to help you. 

"Can you grab the eggs and butter? We should have enough eggs.... I hope so anyway!" You remarked nervously. 

"Sure," he replied flatly, taking a moment to scan the interior of the fridge. "Anything else?"

"Nope! That's it for the cold stuff, thank you."

"Mhm."

Quinn would shuffle around to the island, taking a seat while you messed about, adding more and more ingredients to the space in front of him. You knew he was trying his hardest to come off as happy, but you knew he was having a hard time. You wouldn't press him to cheer up, and if he had wanted to go back to the living room, leaving you to finish them, it wouldn't have bothered you.

"Sorry I'm not much help," he mumbled, like he had read your mind. 

"What? Oh, you're okay, baby! I'm glad you're here, that's enough!" Your smile had brought a little glimmer to his eyes while he continued to sit and watch. Quinn had been the only boyfriend you had had where just being in the same space with him brought you joy even if you were both doing different things. You could feel him watching you, making you smile more when you had your back to him. The slight squeak of him moving back his chair had been the only indication that he was on the move. 

"What can I do to help?" He would say, snuggling in tightly to your body, making it near impossible to move anywhere. 

You'd take a minute to think of what you could have him do, but you also didn't want to take him out of his comfort zone. 

"Can you just keep doing what you're doing?"

"Just...holding you?"

"Mhm!" You giggled, reaching for the sack of flour and measuring cups, struggling to reach due to Quinn's grasp. "I'm not asking for too much, am I?"

"Not at all. I just feel guilty watching you do everything." His voice was low, and sprinkled with the sound of depression and anguish. You knew that's how he had felt watching the games he couldn't participate in: hopeless and useless. 

"Well, I can't hold myself," you laughed, overlapping your hands on his at your waist. "You're doing a great job."

Quinn would playfully scoff at you giving him a verbal gold star, but deep down, he was so thankful that you didn't ridicule him when he got in these moods. He knew he could be so hard to deal with and the fact that you took every one of them at stride meant so much. Tonight was no different. 

The minutes would tick by quickly as you measured numerous ingredients into varying bowls before finally combining them into one, homogeneous mixture resembling chocolate chip cookie dough. From time-to-time, Quinn would dip a single finger into the dough, and each time you would softly tap him on the hand.

"Baby!"

"Quality control test," Quinn teased.

"You've said that three times now! Don't make yourself sick!"

He would let his arms fall from around your body, when you hinted that you needed to move away from where you had been standing. He seemed to be in a slightly lighter mood, having peppered you with delicate kisses the whole time you worked. How you loved having him home with you, just doing silly little domestic things like a normal couple did. However, having a partner like Quinn, and his profession, you never took the little things for granted. 

"Okay, fifteen to seventeen minutes," you said, putting the filled pans into the already hot and ready oven. You'd set the timer and walk back to him as he leaned against the counter. Quinn smiled at you, taking your hands in his at his sides. 

"Now we wait?" He asked, blinking slow, like he was fighting sleep despite being awake at this time rather often. 

"Mhm, come on, baby. You look exhausted," you confessed, trying to drag him back towards the direction of the living room. 

"I'm okay. I'm afraid if I sit down I'm going to fall asleep."

You acknowledged the truth in his words before another brilliant idea came to your mind. "Oh! I know! Wait right here, 'kay?"

Regrettably, you'd let go of his hands so you could cross the room and dim the kitchen lights to a low, golden glow. 

"Alexa, play Moonlight Serenade," you'd ask, returning to Quinn's arms. 

"Playing Moonlight Serenade, by Glenn Miller on Amazon Music."

Quickly, the apartment was filled with the crackling of a vintage record recording and the 1940s orchestra that was responsible. It was an easy enough waltz to sway to in the comfort of each other's company, there in the kitchen while the cookies bubbled and baked in the oven. Quinn would smile over your shoulder the whole time, having finally been able to shake off the feelings of failure. 

"Everybody loves somebody sometime~," Dean Martin would croon through the apartment's speakers. "And although my dream was overdue, your love made it well worth waiting for someone like you~

You couldn't help but giggle. It was like the song was saying what you were feeling and Quinn held the same sentiment. Silently, you two would continue to dance together to the love songs of old until the beeping of the timer pulled you apart. You'd both turn to see that the clock also read 12:00. 

"Happy New Year's, baby," Quinn would say first, tipping your chip up towards his awaiting lips. 

"Happy New Year's!" You replied, your lips just hovering next to his. The kiss was long, and sweet and everything you wanted to welcome in the new year with. Neither of you would let the other go for several minutes after, sharing multiple more affections until Quinn reminded you of the cookies.

"I'd really hate for your hard work to go to waste. We can always finish this later," he chuckled, pulling you in for one more heartfelt kiss. 

"Well, we'll have another fifteen to seventeen minutes," you winked, taking the pans out of the oven. "Does that work for you?"

"Oh, absolutely."

[multiverseofstrangeness]

Day 3: Blizzards and Blowjob - Mark Sloan x female!OC

A/N: sorry guys I am still sick and I dunno if I can publish the one for today. I'll do it tomorow if not, I promise! Anyway, this is a whole new genre I know and yeah... Hope u enjoy it anyways. Have a great day! Pairing: Mark Sloan x female!reader Warnings: explicite language, smut (18+!!!), Sexual Content, Power dynamics, kinky stuff, blending of professional and private boundaries Words: 918

The snowstorm outside was relentless, turning Seattle Grace into a temporary shelter for everyone on shift. Roads were closed, flights were delayed, and the heating system worked overtime. No one knew how long they'd be stuck.

She sat on the couch over some files as she noticed Mark leaning against the doorframe of the on-call room. His smirk infuriating as ever. "Looks like we're stuck here. Could be worse," he quipped, letting his eyes wander over her for too long.

She rolled her eyes, feigning annoyance as she tried to get comfortable on the small couch. "I'm sure you're loving this. Trapped with no escape - your dream scenario, right?"

He chuckled, closing the door behind him. "You're not wrong. But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't glad it's you and not, I dunno, Karev. He snores."

She scoffed at that and rolled her eyes. But her bad mood quickly changed into one of annoyance as he picked up her files, placed them on a table, and sat down next to her. "What is this, if I may ask?" She asked in a sarcastic tone, clearly not in the mood to share her place on the couch. "What? Shall I freeze to death on the floor?" she rolled her eyes at his answer but pulled her legs to her body to minimize their body contact. But she didn't succeed. She still felt his warmth against her side the smell of his cologne was still filling her nostrils. Mark ripped her out of her thoughts as he started talking.

"You know," he murmured, "if you keep looking at me like that, I might start thinking you're interested."

Her breath hitched. "I'm not-"

"Uh-huh." His hand grazed her knee, and his smirk deepened as he saw the way her resolve was wavering. "You can tell me to stop anytime."

She didn't.

Mark pushed her legs apart as he leaned closer and let his lips softly brush over hers. His hands found her hip to pull her closer, his fingers digging enough into her skin to make her heart race. Before he pressed his lips against hers in a proper kiss, she gasped slightly as his hands started to wander. His mouth moved softly against hers, and after a moment she responded to the kiss, her hands tangling in his hair as he leaned back on the couch. His legs were spread wide his scrubs already worked up so that she could see some of his waist. She had to swallow at that sight.

It was more out of instinct as she dropped onto her knees in front of him. Her breath hitched as she already saw his erection and how his eyes grew darker at the sight of her on her knees. Mark's hands slipped into her hair as she started to kiss the smooth skin that was visible. Her nimble fingers worked on the fabric of his scrub pants. As she had removed it, his cock bobbed against his stomach. Her breath hitched again. Her small hand wrapped softly around his length. Mark let out a soft moan, and his hand in her hair tightened, pushing her closer to his cock.

She leaned in to let her breath and lips ghost over his cock before she started to kiss his length. Every kiss let him moan, and every moan was her insurance that she did it right. Her hand started to move along his length as she pressed a few kisses to his tip. His hips started to buck against her hands, a sign of his impatience. "Don't tease." his voice was a low growl. His hand in her hair guiding her hand.

She couldn't help but smile before she finally took him into her mouth, her tongue swirling around him. His head fell back against the couch, and a deep, guttural sound escaped him.

"Just like that," his voice thick with his upcoming orgasm, "So good, baby. You're perfect."

His words spurred her on. Her hands now worked in tandem with her mouth. Her eyes were always on him, watching his reaction. Mark's moans filled the on-call room as he came closer and closer to his edge.

"You take me so well, my good little girl," he groaned, his hips rocking against the sensation. Her mouth twirled around his tip. Her hands softly stroked his length. As she looked up at him again, she saw how hooded his gaze was and how close he was.

After a few more strokes from her tongue, he came. His body shuddered as he came, his hands in her hair tightened.

She slowly pulled back, their eyes met as she wiped the corner of her mouth. Mark reached out to wipe her swollen lips before he pulled her up and into his lap. Softly stroking her hair and pressing tender kisses all over her face. She smiled softly at the feeling. "You are full of surprises," he mumbled, peppering kisses all over her face. She scrunched her nose at the ticklish feeling of his beard. He chuckled at her expression and pressed a soft kiss onto her nose.

"Blizzards are not so bad now, huh?" he teased, stroking hair out her face. She shook her head, "Not at all."

She leaned in again to press a kiss to his lips before she rested her head on his chest. She smiled softly as his hands continued to stroke her hair. It was comforting and exactly what she needed in a blizzard like this.

( @ewanmitchellcrumbs )

[eemamminy-art]

wip wednesday!!!

I was tagged by @lilas !! I'm always working on a zillion things so the hardest part is picking which thing(s) to share haha

No pressure tags: @henarikat @4th-make-quail @fuerrziah @phillypumpkin @oorangesoda @gothgarbageboy @fishyfarms @theasnewgroove @benjineedssleep @usernamemybeloathed @halixius @hullygeee @starskullz -- and anyone else who sees this and wants to share something!

This is the main thing I'd really like to finish this month:

I feel like I need to mess with the pose a little, particularly Sebastian's legs... dude is tall in my version but I fear he's displacing his hips

also some year of the otp wips for the next three months!

And under the cut I'll post a writing snippet! It's a chapter much later in my fic, chapter 65 currently if I don't keep ADDING CHAPTERS 😩😩😩 I don't think this bit reveals anything about the plot, it's a scene where Sebastian is really fucked up and turns to Mal because he has nowhere else to go:

“Are you alone?” Sebastian asked quickly. “I need to talk to you.”

“Yeah, it’s just me here,” Mallory admitted. “Would you like to come in?”

“No, can you just come outside?” Sebastian asked hurriedly. “I want to be able to smoke while we talk.”

“Yeah, sure,” Mallory agreed, slipping on his shoes and a light hoodie before he stepped out onto the porch to meet Sebastian.

“I don’t know who else to turn to,” Sebastian admitted bitterly as he sat down on the porch steps, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and his lighter from his pockets. “And even though I know I don’t deserve it, you’ve always been good to me.”

The metal flicked as he spun the wheel of the lighter, blowing away the smoke of the first hurried drag of his cigarette in the opposite direction of Mallory as he pocketed the pack and lighter once again.

Mallory sat beside him, taking care to make sure that there was still ample space between them, his back pressed into the wooden railings of the deck. His long legs cascaded down the length of the steps, while Sebastian pulled his knees close to himself, his own equally long legs kinked up like a dead spider. One knee bounced anxiously, the wood creaking beneath them.

“Where's your boyfriend anyway?” Sebastian asked suddenly, looking around nervously as if Alex were lurking nearby waiting to ambush him. “I thought for sure he would have been here, he’s always with you.”

Only the orange and pink fading light of sunset greeted him, the silhouettes of distant fruit trees and the chicken coop which had gone quiet sat on the horizon unassumingly. A few yards away, the creek trickled and splashed lightly, and insects hummed and sang their usual songs to usher in the summer evening.

“It’s Sunday,” Mallory said simply. “He’s at home, watching sports with his grandpa like always.”

“Oh. Of course,” Sebastian rolled his eyes. “I wonder what it’s like to have a family who gives a shit about you.”

Mallory frowned knowingly, making Sebastian wince. How was he so good at fucking things up? It was a talent, truly.

“Sorry,” Sebastian muttered. “I know you’ve had it rough too.”

“Maru cares about you,” Mallory reminded. “She told me so. She wishes she was closer to you.”

“She does?” Sebastian croaked, compressing himself into a somehow even smaller ball of skinny limbs. “More things I just keep fucking up, I guess.”

[neoraso]

i like the way you love me | ldh

nonidol!haechan x nonidol!reader again- something no one asked for yayyyyy ftl, literally just fluff like nothing but happiness oops! there's only one joke about being like- deathly ill but i figured i'd warn you in advance wc:~ 2.5k

all plans you had about “going out on the town” with haechan were dashed as soon as you walked into his apartment. you could tell he was in the middle of gaming when you let yourself in with the spare key he hid “so well” under the mat that you bought him as a housewarming gift. walking through the door and placing your shoes neatly against the wall amidst the array of sneakers and grandpa sandals thrown around the entrance, you absentmindedly noted that the boundaries between you and haechan were almost nonexistent. it had been that way since you met in middle school, when he was baby faced and wild. back then he didn’t know the insinuations of sharing a drink with two straws or passing notes littered with hearts and stars just to say “hi.” now, his face had begun to sharpen, cheekbones more prominent and a jawline that defined his matured appearance. he was still wild, but his energy and teasing were tempered, and he had figured out how to sense when enough was enough.

affection between the two of you was not uncommon nor was it uncomfortable. in fact, haechan was the person you felt the most comfortable with out of your friends- even those you had known as long as him. you moved in sync, matched each other’s preferences and both equally gave each other the push or pull the other needed. he was your “person” as they say, and you sometimes told him this when you were drunk- or sometimes even just on a late-night phone call, falling asleep after your confession. you meant it platonically of course, but these days you couldn’t tell if there was more to your own words…      

you heard him before you saw him, which snapped you out of your thoughts. he was talking to whoever he was playing with through his headphones, but you figured it was jaemin given the sassy (and borderline offensive) comments that were thrown out but you all knew there was no real strength behind them.

the bedroom door was already open as you welcomed yourself in. as usual, even though it was midday the only light was coming from a floor lamp -another gift from you so he didn’t live in dungeon-like conditions- in the corner of the room. clearly, he did not notice you because when you poked his shoulder to announce your entrance he yelped and could’ve easily punched you in the stomach if you hadn’t been used to these reactions and jumped backwards with a smile.

“god, y/n! seriously i could’ve killed you! oh my f- sorry guys i’m sorry.’

he quickly got distracted again trying to resume his place in his game while you tugged on the strands of his bangs sticking out from his headphones.

“my bad, i knew that if i waited for you to respond to my text i would’ve been standing outside for four hours.” you took a pause as you twirled his hair between your fingers. “also, i think you need a haircut. you should let me do it.” you teased, knowing 50% of his concentration was not even on you anyways.

he swatted your hands away and huffed, still furiously clicking his keyboard.

“i thought you liked it long. or do you just want an excuse to touch my hair?” he replied, his smirk turning into a frown when you lightly pulled his dark strands again.

“i do like it, but how do you even see?” not waiting for his response, you flopped onto his bed which was- unsurprisingly- half-made but still smelled clean and slightly like his perfume. putting a pillow over your head, you closed your eyes, humming when he talked just loud enough to let you know when the match was over you guys could figure out what to do.

at some point, even despite his constant clicking and talking, you nearly fell asleep. nearly, until you felt something hitting the pillow that was actually, nearly suffocating you, still over your face. you blindly reached above you trying to catch the hands that were attacking you, glaring at a grinning haechan when you threw the pillow across the bed.

“come on y/n it’s like 2 pm this is no time to be falling asleep.”

“ok mister ‘i’d-lay-in-bed-all-day-if-i-could.’” you said, rolling your eyes.

“yeah but not when i have my lovely dearest bestest friend waiting to have fun with me~”

it was a bit odd how the term “best friend” had been bothering you lately. there was absolutely no reason to consider yourself more than that, but the more horrific probable possible cause was that you wanted more. in the 10+ years you had been friends with him, there had been no romantic feelings. you didn’t think he was unattractive by any means, and you always got along- never having a disagreement that lasted longer than 20 minutes. but you both dated other people, and never had any sort of tension or yearning that you could remember. that was until about six months ago, when you started noticing how pretty he looked when the sun started to go down, or the way his lips moved and pouted, glossing when he ran his tongue over them. it was getting kind of freaky at this point, and you tried to ignore these newfound “noticings” about your best friend.

pulling you out of your reverie, you realized you had been staring at him for about three seconds without speaking which was three seconds too long as he raised one eyebrow, maneuvering his hands back over yours, tugging on them to prompt you to get up.

“i know i’m gorgeous, but it is tiimeee to get uppp come onnn.”

he dragged out the words in singsong as your hands started to get clammy being this close to him.

this was getting to be absolutely ridiculous you thought. he was in a loose black tee shirt and basketball shorts that were a size too big, and he still looked too good.

he finally pulled you into a sitting position but held in his breath when you let go of his hands and wrapped your arms around his middle, gripping the fabric of his shirt. he tentatively draped one arm over your shoulder onto your upper back and placed the other one on the back of your head, slightly petting your hair.

“what’s gotten into you hm? you’re not usually this cuddly... are you terminal or something? please don’t tell me you’re terminal.”

your response was slightly muffled when you turned your head, so your lips were slightly pressed into his side. even you had no idea what you were doing. this was probably wildly inappropriate, but you were close enough you could play it off…most likely.

“don’t be ridiculous, i’m not sick. im just tired… or …something.”

“or something?” he almost sounded disappointed, which was concerning but also made you feel better that you both seemed to be dancing around something. he pulled the back of your hair to get you to look at him and you complied. you rested your chin on his stomach, enjoying the way he smelled just like he always does and how warm he was, his hand still resting on your shoulder blade.

for once, he was speechless, his hand stilling in your hair. luckily (for both of you) he regained his composure, blinking rapidly and clearing his throat, trying to change the subject.

“well, either way, what did you want to do today? i know i said we should go out but now i kinda wanna… stay in… i guess…” he trailed off noticing how your eyelashes brushed against the tops of your cheeks as you sleepily blinked up at him. suddenly the air became thick, waking you right up, your heartbeat picking up against your chest. he looked at you intently, like he was scanning your face for whatever you were thinking to be spelled out for him.

“y/n…”

this was bad. it’s like you were drunk, dizzy and face flushed, your skin was tingling but also numb everywhere you could feel him. you had a feeling where this was going and though it scared the hell out of you, you also wanted him badly. more than anyone you ever have before and certainly more than you ever thought you would feel towards him.

you could only hum in response as he trailed both of his hands to the back of your neck.

“do you think we’re changing too or is it just me?”

his question caught you off guard and you wished he’d do pretty much anything else (mainly, kiss you) than continue this vulnerable conversation. but he was still looking at you, with eyes that were more earnest than usual, and you knew this was a time he needed sincerity and honesty from you.

“changing…” you repeated his term thoughtfully before finishing your sentence. “well um… yes. i mean- i think about you differently than i ever have and i…” you were almost too embarrassed to continue, but his eyes still staring into yours and shining with the fondness he always had for you, you felt you owed it to him to let him know how you felt- even if he didn’t reciprocate. “the thought of you with anyone else scares me. i want to be able do…this” you said tugging his shirt to emphasize your intimate position, “all the time, not as friends. i don’t want to just be your friend.” he still wasn’t speaking which made you nervous and continue to ramble when you probably, most definitely should not have. “lately i don’t want to be away from you, and i… want to be yours…if that’s ok and you feel the same obviously… i mean i hope you would-“

he cut you off with a whisper of your name. to which you replied with a meek “yes?” your voice cracking a bit from nerves, not expecting to say all of…whatever that was. you shocked even yourself with everything you admitted to him.

“do you not know how i feel about you-or have felt about you? it’s been like three years.” though his words were loaded, he was still smiling down at you. then you realized he said three years.

“you’re kidding.” was all you could manage, deadpan, as he started to chuckle, rubbing the tips of your ears between his fingers.

“mmm i’m not~ thank you for meeting me in the middle i knew you would.”

you poked his side at that and narrowed your eyes, making him laugh more. “well don’t sound so smug, or i’ll take it back.”

“you couldn’t even if you tried~ i’m irresistible.” he didn’t even give you a chance to roll your eyes as he lifted you up under your arms to stand in front of him.

looking up at his face, you tried to keep your voice steady.

“we’re very close right now…”

he looked down at your lips and leaned in, just close enough to where you could feel his breath hit your nose.

“yes we are. is this ok?” his breathing was even but his pulse was not, you could feel it fluttering against your chest at the same beat as your own heart. he leaned in more as you nodded and closed your eyes as you waited for his lips to finally meet yours. his hands reached down to grab your hips and he grinned against your mouth when you put your hands over his, slightly pushing your fingers in between the gaps of his own. after what seemed like eons, he kissed you, inhaling deeply and gripping your waist just a bit tighter. not wanting to overwhelm you by slipping his tongue in like he wanted, he opted begrudgingly to pull away and kiss the corner of your mouth, squeezing your side and kissing your cheek next when he heard you whine and felt your hands climbing up his stomach to his shoulders then the nape of his neck to pull his mouth back on yours.

indulging in you again because – when has he ever said no to you- he gave you one, two, three more kisses, each louder and wetter than the last until kissing your nose and pulling away.

“hey, we still never figured out what we wanted to do today. i haven’t even taken you on a date yet.” he said thoughtfully.

“we can date tomorrow, can’t we just stay in and do this all day? we can watch a movie later… i guess…”

he gave a real laugh at his and pet the top of your hair noticing your frown at the thought of parting from him.

“you’re so cute like this, ohh what am i gonna do? but ok, you win. i wanted to stay in too. and now,” he started with his signature mischievous look, “i get to have you all to myself~ and do this- “he slightly lifted you again and pretty much tossed you on the bed earning a yelp as he climbed into his side, lifting up the blanket to encourage you to slip underneath with him. cuddling was nothing new but with this newfound stage in your dynamic it seemed a bit daunting now.

“come on, i won’t bite-unless you want me to” he said wiggling his eyebrows, grinning when you lightly smacked his thigh before lying next to him. immediately throwing your arm around his middle and slipping your ankle between his, you adjusted your position and watched as he reached over onto his bedside table to grab his laptop. he set it on his lap and typed in his password with one hand while the other arm was around your shoulder, securing you to him. he pressed his face into your hair and kissed you there before dramatically sniffing.

“baby… i think you need a shower…”

you gasped at his audacity (but mostly the pet name) and tried to get up from his iron grip threatening to go home as he laughed at you even more, relenting,

“i’m just kidding baby. ohhh my baby~ you actually smell great is it that perfume i got you?”

“yes…” you grumbled with hot cheeks, “i wear it every day.”

quieting down to look at you so tenderly, before he could say anything you spoke again,

“weird how we kind of skipped all the normal steps huh.”

he hummed and threaded his fingers through your hair.

“did we need the steps? we’ve known each other forever and everyone already acts like we’re together. actually, we wouldn’t even have to say anything to anyone. i could probably makeout with you at the next group dinner and no one would care. wow that’s actually a great idea we should do that.”

“we absolutely should not? you’re crazy.”

“yeah, crazy for youuu~” before you could cringe at such a cliché line, he poked your shoulder and said with a faux stern tone, “hey, kiss me again.”

“now who’s obsessed?” you said, but still embarrassingly quickly lifted up from his grasp to lean over his face. he looked up at you with a slightly devious expression which did not match how carefully he moved your hair out of your face as you met him in the middle making him sigh into your mouth, breathing you in. he pulled away and pressed his head against the pillows to look at you better.

“me. i’m obsessed. i am completely obsessed with you, always have been. i’ll tattoo it on my neck and hands and update every social media letting everyone know how much i-“

“okay! i get it. but just know i feel the same… times 1000.” you interrupted him, becoming more bashful with each word. thankfully, he spared you, pulling you down to lay all your weight on top of him with your face in his neck and lightly rubbing your back.

“what should we watch? wait i have an idea-“

“not the kissing booth.” you managed to muffle against the skin of his neck. sick of that movie he made you watch at least once a month. but he could feel your eyelashes closing against his skin.

“you’re so mean. and you know what? i don’t even think you want to watch a movie you’re already drooling on my shoulder.” when he got no response from you, he got nervous he had actually offended you until he felt your soft, even exhales on his collarbones. realizing you actually fell asleep, he smiled to himself and continued to play with your hair. he was so content finally being able to have you this way it didn’t take him long to close his eyes and meet you in your dreams.

[angeliteeyes]

Now, that we've set the groundwork for amazing Oni S/O for Herta~, let's have them being sent to penacony during the events of the Watchmaker incident on behalf of Herta cause I feel she'd definitely receive an invitation and they end up running into the Astral express and more importantly their older sister. For added drama, they thought the other was dead.

A little embarrassed... but I drew this for you (ᵕ ´ ∇ ˋ ˶) based Oni's hair off of Acheron's during Izumo times but made it more androgynous

The Herta x Oni Reader - Penacony Encounters

-> Masterlist with all Herta x Oni works

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

"Stop moving around so much. You're the one that asked me to help you get dolled up, you know?"

You can't help but squirm as Herta straddles your lap, one hand coated with skincare products and the other holding your face still. Although cosmetics like this were baked into your homeland, Izumo's culture, you typically spared the effort. You would've today, too, if it weren't for the upcoming excitement.

After Herta received an invitation to Penacony, she had deemed it unworthy of her time. Instead, she handed it over to you. She claims that her decision's due to her believing you'll have fun there, but... you can tell by the glint in her eyes that she's hiding something from you. Not that it bothers you much. You'll figure it out soon anyway, right?

"How much longer is this going to take? It's almost time for me to go." You look up to pout at her.

"Oh, enough of that. You're the one who was causing so much mischief that I had to personally step in and clean up your mess. You're lucky I like you, or I'd have thrown you out into the cosmos for that stunt." You groan, knowing she has a point, and let her work her magic.

"There, that should do it. Now be good while you're out, alright? Oh, who am I kidding—I'll be amazed if you don't blow up the planet." You two giggle in each other's embrace despite the teasing remarks.

"No promises. I'll see you soon, Herta." She hums mildly in reply as you stretch your limbs in preparation. Right before you leave your shared room, she calls out to you.

"Dearest, remember to keep your eyes peeled. This is a rather large gathering. I'm sure you'll find... someone of interest to you."

*

You'd seen the scenery of Penacony countless times in photos, especially since Sparkle arrived before you, but... wow. Nothing could've prepared you for this dazzling view. Perhaps this was why Herta got so pushy about this trip?

Speaking of, her final words play in your head once again. Someone of interest, huh. Your eyes scan over the ever-growing collection of people surrounding you. Surely, at least a few celebrities had to be sprinkled in. You just have to scout them out.

Orrrrrr maybe not.

"I'm sorry, but your name really isn't in the system."

"But in the information I received from the Astral Express, it states that we already reserved rooms. Please check again for me."

Your keen ears know the sound of trouble like the back of your hand. Before long, you find yourself right behind none other than Himeko. You'd heard of her from Herta's stories, but you never considered that you could run into her. Quickly, you lift the chest area of your hoodie to cover your lips. It would be so embarrassing to be caught fangirling about her, but how could you not? It's Himeko, the leader of the Astral Express.

Unfortunately, your fun has to end as more and more of the crew members show up. That's so lame! Surely it's not a problem if you just snap a couple of photos as compensation, right? Right? You totally deserve it.

After taking an embarrassing number of pictures on your phone, you decide to turn around and get away before someone spots you. You shift your gaze back and forth, feeling a bit nervous. Thankfully, there's nobody... looking...

. . .

Huh ?

That can't . . .

"Why are you here... Mei?"

She turns and looks at you. This is her. It has to be her. You would never forget your sister's eyes, no matter how much time has passed.

"Mei... Mei!" Before she can respond, your body lunges towards her. Finally holding her again, embracing her, feeling her warmth... every memory you'd tried to bury came rushing back to you like a flood. "I can't—I can't believe you're alive."

You feel a palm press into the back of your head gently, cautiously. As you look up to meet her eyes, you notice how wide they are. The way her breath falters. And as you gaze at her expression and body language, you realize that she, too, must have been left in the dark.

"I don't understand... How did you survive?" Her voice trembles slightly as she speaks, but that's alright. You are too.

"Well, Aha sort of saved the day for me back when... you know. That was all happening. What about you? How are you alive?" You two share a biting sense of somberness at the memories of your pasts. The ends of her lips turn downwards.

"I'm afraid I can't say that here. Listen to me." She places her hands on your shoulders. "This place is too dangerous for you. You must leave right now, while you still can."

Your breath hitches. "What? But we finally found each other after all these years, and now you're telling me to just abandon you?" It feels like the world around you is collapsing all over again. A couple of guests begin to turn towards you two, but it's hard to care anymore.

She reaches out to hold the side of your face, wiping the tears now trailing across it. "I don't like this either, but... I need you to be safe. Do you understand?" After many sobs leave your body, you eventually regain most of your composure.

"You have to promise me something first. Promise me that we'll see each other again." She pauses, then slowly nods. The two of you hurriedly exchange your contact information, her rushing you for reasons unknown. With one final embrace, she sends you off on your way.

Before you leave for good, you take one last look behind you and wave one of your hands meagerly in the air at her. This may be goodbye for now, but it's not the end. After all, both of you managed to survive and reunite after everything that had happened so far. A couple of extra days couldn't stop you now. You're sure that, in due time, you'll be by each other's side once again.

Meanwhile, a shadowy woman's figure steps out from the darkness.

"Interesting... I didn't expect you two to know each other, Acheron. Or should I say Mei?"

[hgfictionwriter]

Maybe This Time

Jessie Fleming x Reader

Summary: UCLA was a long time ago. Jessie couldn't bring herself to make a move back then and missed her chance. But now that you're back in her life, maybe things can be different.

Warning: None

A/N: A bit more fluff for y'all! And sorry for flooding the Jessie tags. I’ve got a bunch of fics just sitting around!

"Jessie?"

Jessie turned and couldn't believe her eyes. Y/N. Y/N L/N. The girl she'd pined over at UCLA; who her friends had relentlessly made fun of her for liking and never pursuing; the girl who still showed up in idle daydreams from time to time, even all these years later.

"I heard you were playing in town now. Oh my gosh - it's been so long. I was hoping I'd run into you at some point."

Here you were standing in front of her. Smiling at her. Instead of being the...relatively...confident person Jessie now was - she was national team captain, a gold medal athlete, for goodness sake - she wasn't a young girl anymore hiding behind textbooks and her friends, instead though, she felt her cheeks burn hot and her words got caught in her throat. She stood there staring speechless at you.

"Don't tell me you don't recognize me," you said, a hint of apprehension beginning to cast over you.

Finally, Jessie began to react. She closed her eyes briefly in hopes of resetting, shaking her head and allowing herself to smile.

"Of course I do," she finally managed, only stammering slightly. "I mean, I recognize you. Of course."

"Okay." You let out a small laugh of relief. "For a second I thought worldwide athletic stardom made you forget your favourite lab partner."

"Of course not," Jessie readily assured you. "I'd never forget you."

The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. She clenched her jaw as she reprimanded herself internally for imploding so quickly and after so much time. She cut herself some slack when you smiled again at her.

"That's comforting to hear. Well, I mean, I know you're just leaving," you gestured to the door of the coffee shop, "but, um, I don't know." You laughed nervously before settling on what to say. You offered her a resolute nod. "It was nice to see you again."

Jessie's mind whirled with ideas and options. Anything coming out of her mouth now was mere instinct.

"Nice to see you too. Um, I don't know, maybe we could chat sometime? Are you in Portland too?"

"Yeah, I work at a logistics firm in town." You cracked a smirk. "Not nearly as glamorous as being a national icon, but you know, I do my part."

Jessie chuckled and ran her fingers through her hair.

"If you call 4 am wake-up calls, jet lag, and bruises to high heaven glamourous, then sure, I guess it is."

"Sounds not too unfamiliar from your UCLA days," you teased. "I still remember when you showed up to class with a black eye. And I see you've healed fine from your recent one."

Jessie blushed. So you watched her games? And you remembered moments from uni.

You'd been friends in university, but that's all it ever was. Her friends had goaded her again and again to ask you out, but Jessie could never work up the courage. She'd doubted herself too much. And then before she knew it she'd lost her chance. You dated other girls and that was the end of it. She stepped back and time ticked on.

You remained close friends throughout uni, sharing deep conversations, hopes and fears, silly moments, too. There were moments where Jessie felt hope starting to blossom in her chest - that maybe you had feelings for her, but she'd stamp it out. She’d just be setting herself up for disappointment.

After you both graduated, that was it. She'd gone off to London and you fell out of touch. It was for the best really. Well, maybe.

"Anyway," you started again, drawing Jessie back from her thoughts. "Sure, I'd love to catch up. I'd say I'll message you on Instagram, but I know your social media is a black hole. I can give you my number if you like."

Jessie gave you a tight-lipped smile as she scratched the back of her head and let her gaze fall to the bulletin of flyers instead.

"Yeah, I'm not much for social media."

"I know," you chuckled. "You never were."

Jessie cleared her throat and looked back to you. "And sure, what's your number?"

She almost missed you telling her because her mind drifted back to class when you reached over and scribbled your number on the top corner of her paper and told her to text you about the reading. Jessie’s words had died in her throat and she had to settle for merely offering you a delayed nod as you gathered up your books and left. She’d felt light on her feet, nearly dizzy even, all day. Her hands had shaken when she texted you and her palms were clammy as she awaited your response.

That was a lifetime ago. But now here you were, and number newly confirmed. Jessie tucked her phone away in her pocket.

"Okay, I'll let you go," you told her. "And truly, if you aren't up to a chat of any kind - no pressure. You probably have so many people vying for your time. I won't be offended." You said with true earnest. "In case I don't see you again, I just want to say I'm really proud of you for everything you've achieved. And I'd say I'm impressed, but A) that goes without saying, and B) I always knew you were going to do great things. I told you time and time again. Anyway, it was so good to see you. Take care."

Before Jessie could respond, you'd turned and disappeared to the other side of the shop and into the line. She forced herself to turn and leave.

The door had barely closed behind her when she opened her phone and pulled up her messages with Teagan.

"You will NEVER guess who I just ran into."

-----

"Hi Y/N. It's Jessie. UCLA."

"Lol the one and only. How are you?"

"Well forgive me for not assuming that you would know who a random 'Jessie' is lol. I'm doing well, thanks. How are you?"

"You were always very humble. It was always very endearing, so I'm glad to see you haven't lost that. I'm doing well. Working late. Some of my vendors are shitting the bed, so I'm scrambling to find alternatives."

"Seriously? That sounds brutal. I'm sorry to hear that. Well, if it makes you feel better, the team had to run extra drills today because of how bad our last game was."

"It's the start of the season - lots of new players. Chemistry takes time. You guys will find your groove soon. I'm positive. How is Portland treating you, by the way? I'd love to hear more about your time in London too at some point."

"Well, if you still want to grab coffee, I can tell you all about it. And I want to hear about you too. Did you ever make it to the Ghibli museum?"

"Oh my gosh lolol. You remember that. And yes! I did. And it was amazing. And coffee would be amazing, too :)"

Jessie belatedly realized that she was smiling as you texted back and forth. It was an odd feeling - it was strange to be talking with you again, yet entirely natural.

To her surprise, you ended up texting every day until you met up Sunday afternoon. She'd mentioned to Teagan that you two had this scheduled and soon Jessie was hit with an onslaught of messages from all her Bruins mates stepping right back into form and teasing her.

On a scale from 1-10, how red did you blush? And why was it 20.

Can I finally tell her you mumbled her name in your sleep? Several times?

Please tell me you immediately pulled out a vision board with her face all over it.

LOL the universe said, “Think you’ve suffered enough pining for this girl? Think you’re over her? Guess again!”

She still hot? Send pics.

Jessie sat in her car down the street from the coffee shop and essentially gave herself a stern, mental talking to about your get together. She was not who she was 5 years ago, and neither were you. She didn't need to be so nervous. There were no stakes at all, she could just relax, be in the moment, and reconnect with an old friend.

When she stepped into the coffee shop, her pulse picked up just so when she saw you seated at a table, but thankfully by the time she sat she'd composed herself again.

"The good news is, the rain is nothing new to me after being in London," she joked as she swept some rain off her baseball cap.

You looked up from your phone and a large smile crossed your face.

"Yeah, I hear you. And what's going on - how did we both go from sunny LA to rain central?"

Not entirely surprising, conversation flowed easily between you two. And it wasn't all reminiscing and nostalgia, it was easy to talk about current things as well. Pretty soon, you were both at the ends of your second cups of coffee and yet neither of you made a move to leave.

"So, um, you've been in Portland for a while now," the ease Jessie had felt faltered some as she broached a topic she'd been highly curious about, "did [y/gf] come with you?"

You screwed up your face and laughed.

"No," you answered easily. "We broke up like a couple of months after convocation. Let's be real - that was never going to last."

"Oh," Jessie replied, surprise showing on her face at how readily you dismissed the notion. "I had no idea. I thought you two were solid."

"Well," you drained the last bit of your drink, "I guess I wasn't entirely forthcoming then. Sure, things were okay. But, I was lying to myself if I thought that was going to be a 'forever' kind of relationship." Jessie's look of surprise lingered and you rolled your eyes, leaning in. "Jessie. She'd get distracted every time she walked by a mirror. I wish I was exaggerating, but I'm not. Come on, don't tell me you didn't notice. Her full on checking herself out anytime she caught her reflection?"

Jessie sat back and gave you a brief look of disbelief, shaking her head. "I tried not to notice."

"Smart," you retorted good naturedly. "She was nice, and we had fun, but beyond our values not exactly aligning, an equal partnership it was not."

"Well, okay, she's out of the picture. You must be with someone new, then," Jessie went on. She ignored the twinge in her chest when you shook your head 'no'. Just as quickly, she scolded herself. Why would it matter? She was getting way ahead of herself here. She supposed that old habits - and evidently dormant feelings - died hard.

"No. I mean, I dated a couple of girls since I've been here, but nothing's really stuck." You looked up from your drink to Jessie. "Now, superstar, you have to tell me your update."

Jessie mouth contracted into a tight smile and she felt her cheeks begin to burn under the scrutiny.

"That's confidential," she quipped.

You rolled your eyes dramatically and leaned forward. "That is so not fair." Jessie remained smugly silent and merely shrugged. You let out an exasperated sigh and slouched back in your chair. "Fine," you relented not wanting to push too much. "You were always tight-lipped in university, too. You could've had anyone and you - as far as I know," you said pointedly, "didn't date anyone."

"Oh come on." Jessie now rolled her eyes. "I was so shy and quiet. Even if I'd liked someone I would've never gotten up the courage to ask them out." She felt a buzzing in her head as she watched your reaction. You smiled sweetly.

"You were shy and quiet, yes. But you opened up once you were comfortable. I mean, look at us, look at you with your teammates. And you were so smart, incredibly sweet, and pretty, and you had that dry sense of humour. And, hello, captain of the football team!"

"Co-captain," Jessie interjected pointedly. You hung your head briefly with a laugh.

"I repeat - you could've had anyone."

Jessie subconsciously fidgeted with her hat and planted her feet further apart as she shifted down in her chair. "Well, didn't seem that way at the time."

"Wait - so who did you like?" You probed.

"No one," Jessie retorted, her features scrunching up as she played off the question dismissively. "I barely had time to breathe. There was no way I could date someone."

"You are so cagey sometimes," you said lightly, not being able to resist ribbing her once more. "Fine, so, what about now? Are you seeing someone?"

Jessie's composure was long gone and her face burned hot as your interrogation got her flustered. She took a subtle breath and worked to calm herself.

"No, no one's caught my eye just yet," she relayed.

You studied Jessie, discerning whether to drop the topic or not. You eventually relented as you crossed your arms and reclined in your chair.

"Well, I imagine that's not easy. There's a lot to live up to. And you're surrounded by impressive people every day, so the bar's gotta be high. Again, you can have your pick."

You grabbed your phone and looked it over quickly.

"I need to get going. I have a few errands to run still before the weekend's over," you said, a hint of regret in your voice before you offered a smile. "I had a great time though. It was so good to catch up with you."

Jessie removed her hat, running her fingers through her hair briefly before pulling the cap back down on her head.

"Yeah, I had a great time, too."

For the first time this conversation, a small lull formed and neither of you jumped to bridge it. Eventually, Jessie cleared her throat.

"Maybe we could get together again. Coffee. A drink. Whatever, really."

A mild look of surprise crossed your face, puzzling Jessie.

"Sure, I'd like that," you told her warmly as you shrugged on your jacket.

"Okay." Jessie gave you a small smile as she, too, rose from the table. "Will you be at the game next weekend?"

"I hadn't planned on it, but I could be." You smirked.

"No pressure," Jessie said as she felt that old nervousness begin to bubble up. "I could get you tickets if you ever want to go. That's all."

You smiled, looking at her in appreciation. "I'll have to take you up on that."

Jessie chuckled, but gave you a pointed look. "Honestly, you don't have to. I know you weren't a big soccer fan even in university."

"But," you started, drawing the word out and returning her pointed look, "I started going to games after becoming friends with a certain someone. I just haven't had a reason to go to a Thorns games yet."

Jessie resisted her impending blush and instead crossed her arms loosely in front of her, shifting her weight to one leg. "Okay, just let me know," Jessie said. She gave you a small nod. "And I promise these games are even better than Bruins ones."

You cocked your head, a hint of a smile on your face as you lifted a finger to your lips and narrowed your eyes in mock contemplation.

"What are they calling you these days? Midfield Maestro?"

Somehow, Jessie didn't even feel the urge to blush. Instead, she gave you a cocky smirk.

"So you really have been following my career."

She nearly grinned at how your cheeks flushed pink and you broke eye contact. You only took a moment to compose yourself and look back to Jessie with a half smirk.

"Hard not to," you simply said.

Jessie relented, feeling like she'd teased you enough. For now. She smiled and spoke earnestly.

"Offer stands - if you wants tickets, just let me know. Regardless, let's get together soon."

"Deal," you told her, your blush slowly fading.

There was a brief moment of stillness and uncertainty before you stepped forward and pulled Jessie into a hug. It only took her a moment to relax into it, her arms wrapping around you. Even though your body felt different now - so was hers - it felt natural to hold you close again.

You stayed like that for several moments, surprise and tampered excitement filling Jessie when you tightened your embrace before letting go. She noted the renewed colour on your cheeks when you stepped back.

"Text me?" You asked.

Jessie nodded. "Of course."

A\N: Part Two is available here.

[chaoticbasicallyuselessbisexual]

Your Miracle brought you to me, but it is my Faith that'll make you stay

based on this post by @colorlessjay

the third and final part finallyyy (can I get a wahoo)

(you can find the previous two parts here)

as per usual, I have no one to beta read, so there probably will be some mistakes (a lot), either way - I don't respect the english language enough to care, sooo yea

anyway, go nuts

☆*: .｡. :*☆*: .｡.:*☆*: .｡. :*☆*: .｡.:*☆*: .｡. :*☆*: .｡.:*☆*: .｡.:*☆*: .｡.:*☆

"Excuse me, but what the fuck are you doing with my dog?"

Dean had to pry his eyes off of Miracle, which was honestly a herculean fear, and looked back at the very attractive and still very pissed off guy.

"Hi, umm, sorry about this," the guy started explaining himself while still sitting on his ass on Castiel's porch with Castiel's dog in his lap, "I lost Miracle here a few weeks back, and I've been looking for her since and well-"

"If you lost her, then you don't deserve her in the first place. Give her back."

Hearing this, Dean started getting defensive.

"Wha- listen, I know I should've made sure she couldn't haul ass, but hear me out here man-"

"No. I will not be hearing anything that you have to say for yourself. You come here with your loud car and this big leather jacket, storm my porch, and just expect me to hand you over my dog? Not happening."

"Dude, be reasonable. You've had her for what, a few weeks, maybe? This dog has been my best friend for years-"

"Which is exactly why you don't deserve her. I've had Faith for a few weeks, and I know if anything were to happen to her, I'd kill the person responsible and then myself."

"Faith? You named her Faith? Seriously?"

"How is that any different from you naming her Miracle?!"

It was at this point that both men started raising their voices.

"Because she clearly looks like a Miracle!"

"That doesn't even make any sense!"

"I don't need your opinion on the name of my fucking dog!"

"Your dog my ass! She's staying with me and that's it!"

"Hell no! She's coming back with me!"

"Fuck that, she stays here!"

"She's coming-"

"She's staying!"

"I've had her-"

"I don't give two flying fucks how long you've had her-"

"She was mine first!"

"And chose to run away from you!"

Dean was about this close (and the space between the imaginary fingers was smaller than Castiel would've thought) to pulling out his gun and just shooting the infuriating guy in front of him.

"That's it. We're leaving, Miracle."

"You just try that. I legally adopted her. You try running with her, I'm calling the cops."

Dean considered his chances.

"I am not leaving her here with someone who doesn't even look like he can care for an artificial plant!"

"Well, too bad. She's mine, so hand her over and get the fuck off my porch!"

Dean considered his options. Again.

Option no.1: run to his car, carefully lay Miracle on the backseat, jump in the car and drive away as fast as possible, all while praying he'll outrun the cops and that the mean dude didn't already try to remember his plate.

Option no.2: once again, try to talk things out with the guy (who was currently staring daggers at him) and work out something that would hopefully be okay with both of them (shared custody?)

Option no.3: glue himself to Miracle so that the guy wouldn't have any other option but to let him leave with her and never. ever. come back.

Dean opted for a sober version of option no.3

(He didn't have any glue currently on him, which was a mistake he would never make again.)

"I'm not leaving without her!"

"She's not going anywhere!"

"Guess I'll just have to move in here then!"

"Fine!"

There was a beat of silence, and then a small

"what"

as Dean tried his best to process what the (insanely) hot guy just said to him.

Castiel pinched the bridge of his nose as if he were trying to handle a conversation with a particularly stupid five-year-old.

"That dog is the source of my will to live. If I have to keep you to keep her, I'll live."

For the first time in a very long time, Dean felt truly speechless. Castiel waited a few small moments for a reaction, but he didn't get any. So with another old man sigh, he continued.

"Look, don't lash out at me now, but you seriously look like you live in that car anyway. If I'm wrong, then by all means, you are very welcome to get the fuck out of here and leave the dog here, but if I'm right, hell, just stay here dude. I really don't have the energy to sort this out with you right now, and I hate having to make calls, much less to the police. So if you're so set on not leaving this dog here with me, just stay here."

Castiel half expected the man to bolt, scream, yell, point a gun at him, and call him weird and god knows what else, but to his surprise, none of that happened.

"Okay."

"Okay? That's it?"

"Dude, I'm not leaving Miracle-"

"Faith."

"- whatever, here with you. I almost went crazy when I lost her. I'm not leaving her side ever again."

Plus, you're kinda cute, Dean thought, but never really said.

"Alright then, come on in."

The last thing the neighbours heard was a muffled 'Hold up, what do you mean I look like I live in that car?'

☆*: .｡. :*☆*: .｡.:*☆*: .｡. :*☆*: .｡.:*☆*: .｡. :*☆*: .｡.:*☆*: .｡.:*☆*: .｡.:*☆

if you've got this far, I'm honestly surprised. good job.

a big thank you to anyone who enjoyed this and to @colorlessjay for the idea, and to my dear friend who bullied me into finishing this one

any interaction is welcome!

thank you for reading

(bonus - Dean's pov)

[mercurial-chuckles]

Permanence

| Part 01: Echoes of Reverie

Pairing: Steve Rogers x OFC x Bucky Barnes | Stucky x OFC (I referred to her as she/her, as requested, to help with connection, and only used her name where it felt relevant) Warnings: Fluff | Angst | Slight Pining | Angry Bucky | Poly relation | Eventual Smut Galore | Eventual Fluff Galore | ~4.5k | Canon divergent | Named OFC: Lienna Nightingale | Happy ending (it's me!) | Kept the warnings basic 'coz I don't wanna reveal a lot | Unbeta'd | Lemme know if I'm missing anything. A/N: This is my first-ever OFC, so forgive any indiscretions. 😅 I'm super nervous, TBH! I have a lot of people to thank. Firstly, thank you for trusting my writing enough to send in this beautiful ask @ohmylovewhereartthou-blog You know how much I adore this story, and I hope I do it justice. I'm truly sorry for how long I sat on this one--I know it's special to you, just as it is to me. I really hope I deliver. Thank you for bearing with me for so long, dear. And thanks to @stellar-solar-flare , @buck-star , @late-to-the-party-81 Every teeny suggestion helps! You guys are the absolute best! 🩷 This is also my submission for Stucky Bingo | Prompt: Adrenaline | @stuckybingo Note: Do not Steal, Copy, or Plagiarize any part of my work! Banner and Divider made by me. Picture credits to the internet! Thank you :) Check out my other works: Masterlist

Indulge Away!

New York City, 2011

Steve felt a little queasy. Maybe skipping breakfast wasn't the best idea. But he was too excited to care. Watching the game with Bucky and her, especially from the incredible seats Mr. Barnes had scored for them, was more than enough to keep his spirits high.

Curveball. High and outside for ball one.

It was a pleasant day. The bright blue summer sky gleamed, cloudless, and Steve was so happy, that he was practically floating on cloud nine. He felt strange though, like he'd lived through this memory countless times, and yet, he didn't want it to end.

"Hey, give 'em to me, punk. You gonna eat it all?" Bucky's voice rang loud and warm in his ear, right as he yanked the fries out of Steve's hand.

"Let him eat, Buck," She grumbled. She reached over, snatched the fries back from Bucky's grip, and handed it to Steve, her fingers brushing his. Then, the little menace she was, she dipped into the fries Steve had been cradling and stole a few for herself.

"Hey, now. I said I'd buy extra," Steve teased, holding the fries behind him far from her reach with a smirk that made her squint at him in mock irritation.

"Guess you'll have to make that run anyway, punk," Bucky laughed, nudging him. She and Bucky both doubled over, cackling. Steve turned only to find a little kid who'd wandered over and taken a fistful of his fries, grinning up at him. Steve chuckled and gave him the rest.

"Sharing your food? You might be the kindest man I've ever met," she said, with that beautiful smile that revealed a tiny dimple on her left cheek and never failed to make his heart flutter. Bucky caught his gaze and winked, grinning like a devil. Steve felt his face flush, heat creeping up his neck.

"Shut up," Steve muttered turning his focus to the field, but his mind was on the two people beside him.

Steve leaned back into the warmth beside him, Bucky's shoulder solid against him. She clutched his other arm, her delicate fingers laced with his own, eyes fixed on the game. This was home. The game in the background, the cheer of the crowd, and the two people he loved on either side. Perfect.

But there was that queasy sensation again. Steve shifted, and for a moment, he thought he felt something soft pressing against his head.

Suddenly, he was no longer in the Ebbet's field.

.

.

She sat beside him on the windowsill of his apartment, squeezing his shoulder lightly, assuring.

"You've got me, Steve. Bucky will be fine," she said, but he could sense she didn't believe that either, but he held onto her hand tightly. She leaned her head onto his shoulder as they stared at the Hudson, watching boats float by.

Something felt off.

Was he dreaming?

.

.

His surroundings shifted to that dreadful afternoon when he received the letter with a small pocket watch and a tiny feather. She left him. She left him. He cried unbothered as he read the letter sitting on that wobbly chair in Chicago's USO tour. Steve felt his world close in.

It all faded again, and then he was somewhere else. Bucky beside him in his uniform. A bar. 'Listen to me, Steve. Once this is over, we're gonna find her,' Steve could only nod at the conviction in Bucky's voice as he stared at Bucky's raging blues.

"Steve," Bucky's voice became more muffled this time. What's that noise? A train? He was on the train.

"STEVE."

"BUCKY…Buck...hold on."

Bucky looked up at him silently, fearfully. He lost the grip on the bar and Steve couldn't reach him in time.

Bucky fell, and Steve jumped after him.

~

Steve's eyes flickered open. He blinked a few times; the pale white ceiling came into focus. He frowned. He was in a room. Everything came to him at light speed. The memory of him crashing into the water, thoughts of Bucky and her before he felt the cold seep through, lulling him unconscious.

So, the Dodgers are tied, 4-4.

But he was there at the game. Then why was it being broadcast? Something wasn't right.

And the crowd well knows that with one swing of his bat, this fellow's capable of making it a brand-new game again.

Steve remembered Bucky and him assuring her that the game would turn.

Just an absolutely gorgeous day here at Ebbets Field.

It was. Steve knew that. He remembered filling pages and pages of memories from that day. She looked exceptionally pretty. She wore a white dress, with faded prints of lilacs and poppy flowers, spattered across her dress. Bucky wore a much darker shade of blue shirt than him. He looked so young and handsome.

Steve felt the softness of the bed, the light sifting through the window too bright as his focus shifted to the room around. It looked like a hospital room, the fancier kind. The radio looked familiar, and the flowers smelled fresh, too.

The Phillies have managed to tie it up at 4-4. But the Dodgers have three men on.

The memory of crashing into the arctic water rushed into the forefront of his mind, and he mentally scanned his body, but the pain was the last thing he felt.

Pearson beaned Resiser in Philadelphia last month.

Steve vividly remembered the day. Dodgers win. Bucky, Lienna and he had gone to the little Italian place two blocks from Ebbets Field after the game. His memory was sharp, and it was that game, the day that remained one of his most treasured memories.

Something was terribly off. Where was he? Did he die? Was this some afterlife thing? Would he find Bucky like he thought? Would she be here?

Wouldn't the youngster like a hit here to return the favor? Pete leans in. Here's the pitch.

Steve's enhanced hearing picked up noises from outside the room. Kids playing, some buzzing, cars running, two people talking outside.

'What are you doing here, agent?'

'Vitals?'

'Agent.' Steve picked up from the conversation. Was this Hydra?

Steve turned back to see the potential exits. The window seemed possible, but something was wrong. He could see the people in the building, but they were blurred and moving in a loop.

Swung on. A line to the right. And it gets past Rizzo.

'Stay alert,' he heard from outside the door. Footsteps approached the door, and Steve's heart picked up.

Three runs will score. Reiser heads to third. Durocher's going to wave him in. Here comes the relay, but they won't get him.

The door opened, and a woman entered.

"Good morning," she smiled, closing the door and standing near it, blocking. "Or should I say afternoon?" Steve gathered she was an American. Was this the agent?

"Where am I?" He asked, his throat felt rough, unused. He needed water.

"You're in a recovery room in New York City," she said.

The Dodgers take the lead, 8-4. Oh, Dodgers!

Steve heard a distant whistle and turned to look through the window again, nothing had changed.

Everyone is on their feet! What a game we have here today, folks! What a game, indeed.

The woman was lying clearly.

"Where am I really?" Steve asked again, listening intently to the conversation outside. He could hear men talking, walking closer.

"I'm afraid I don't understand." She said.

"The game. It's from May 1941. I know, 'coz I was there." Steve told her firmly. "Now, I'm gonna ask you again. Where am I?" Steve could sense her fear, and he noticed her hand flicking to something behind. Was it a weapon? He could jump out of the windows, but those windows didn't seem right to him. The door was the only option.

"Captain Rogers…"

Steve heard more footsteps and hurried voices.

"Who are you?" Steve yelled.

The door opened, and two men entered, and Steve punched them right through the door before they approached. They went flying and fell into the hallway, cracking open the whole space.

The room was a setup. Where the hell was he?

Was it Hydra? But how could that be possible? Did they find him?

Doors burst open as he charged through level after level of the mysterious, clinical-looking facility.

Something was terribly wrong. Where was he? Was this Hydra? Did they capture him after all? He most definitely didn't feel this was an afterlife.

'All agents, code 13!' He heard through the speakers. He dashed through the double doors and there were more men in suits. He saw two armed men on the end, and Steve took off through the other end of the hallway and out through the exit.

Shit. Shit.

He ran as fast as he could, but his steps faltered as he took in his surroundings.

His mind exploded. Lights in broad daylight. Massive screens. Towering buildings. Crowds. Noise.

Steve stood frozen. This was wrong.

His breathing quickened. A thousand questions flooded his mind, memories clashing with the overwhelming reality before him. Too many people. Crowd. Loud. Honking.

What were those? Cars? They looked different.

"At ease, Soldier," he heard. A man with an eye patch approached. Steve's thoughts went berserk. Who was he? Should he punch the other eye and run for it?

"Look. I'm sorry about the little show back there, but," the man started speaking, sighing before he continued, "We thought it best to break it to you slowly." He said.

"Break what?" Steve asked, confused out of his wits.

"You've been asleep, Cap. For almost 70 years," he said.

Steve felt his ground shift.

No.

No.

No.

When he took down the jet, Steve felt an eerie kind of peace. In his final moments, he let himself believe he'd saved her, along with the countless others who'd never known him. It was poetic, really. He'd taken the serum for her, after all. For a chance at a future they were never granted, and maybe--just maybe--he'd see Bucky again if there was an afterlife.

Fate, however, deemed he needed to simply suffer.

"You gonna be okay?" The man asked.

Steve said nothing as melancholy settled thickly in his mind.

What would he do in a world without Bucky and her?

Skovheim, Norway, 2011

It was bitterly cold. She draped the throw blanket from the couch, hoping to keep herself warm. She hated the cold. It reminded her of terrible times, times of loss.

She'd pushed those thoughts away and went to check on the cake. Plum. His absolute favorite. She turned off the oven and set the cake on the tray to let it cool.

The clock ticked past seven, and the branches of the birch tree outside rattled on the kitchen window. The wind picked up. It had been raining since morning, which was rare for this time of year.

Bucky was never late.

Fear mounted her by the second.

She turned off the light in the kitchen to get a glimpse down the winding road.

The sensors had stopped working and needed to be replaced. Bucky had installed several of them, starting from the point where the hidden road to their cottage began, down at the base of the hill.

The cottage was located up the steep hill, hidden by luscious trees, with a patch of birch trees between the thick coverage. It was beautiful, to say the least, but most importantly, it was strategic. One side was shielded by the edge of the mountain, which overlooked the sea, and there was only one way of entry and no residences nearby.

She told herself the roads were probably flooded--or maybe there were fallen trees. Bucky was a supersoldier; moving a tree or two would be nothing for him. Still, unease coiled tight in her chest. She could sense him, just like she had always known he was alive--even back when the world grieved Sgt. Barnes' heroic death in World War II. She knew Bucky was alive. But she worried. She was, after all, more human. Moments like this made her wish she had the power to teleport.

She didn't want him to go in the first place, but they were running low on groceries, and Bucky was fretting about replacing the sensors and security system. Usually, night was a safer time to avoid interaction with the townsfolk. Also, Arne, their trusted contact, was to meet with Bucky in the town to deliver the equipment, monitors, transponders, sensors, and a few others. She hated that she couldn't convince Bucky to let her join. James Buchanan Barnes was a stubborn man, alright.

She heard a distant roar and ran toward the window; she could barely make the lights--one brighter than the other--of their pickup truck in the foggy downpour. She ran and waited by the door. Her nerves wouldn't settle until she saw him.

She stood by the door. 'Come on. Come on,' she chanted. After a few minutes, she heard the shuffling behind the door.

Then came the creak of the door--a groan against the frame that made her freeze.

Silence.

Then, two knocks. Two seconds apart.

Her body moved before she could breathe in relief, hand on the knob, waiting.

He'd drilled it into her head: Never open unless you hear the knock.

She unlatched the door and let it swing open against the push of the wind.

Bucky stepped inside, closing the door behind him, with more force than necessary. Water dripped from the hem of his coat, pooling on the wood floor. The cap was soaked, plastered to his head, shadowing his eyes.

He didn't greet her with the usual, 'I'm here, I'm okay.' in that gentle tone like he usually assured her every time he returned.

She searched his eyes, worry wrecking her gut.

"I'm fine," Bucky muttered after a few seconds, eyes flicking to her face.

She let out a sigh of relief. He seemed off but she didn't think much about it, more worried that he was soaked to the bones.

"You're drenched," she said, worried.

"It's pouring," he offered with a faint, bitter chuckle, trying to toe off his boots, but they were sloppy wet, squelching with the slightest movement.

"You don't say," she chuckled, trying to tug the boot off as he shifted his weight.

"I got it," he hissed sharply.

She stilled immediately, retrieving her hand and standing up. Bucky rarely got this way. Touch used to bother him a few years ago. But for the last couple of years, it seemed like he was past that. Now, her mind was back to worrying.

"Are you okay?" She asked softly. Bucky stiffened. Her focus shifted to his right hand, fisted tightly around the box in his hand. He seemed to notice as he flexed his palm, and he dropped the box beside the door, along with two other bags, wordlessly.

She dragged the old chair from the dining table, the legs scraping softly across the wood.

He lowered himself into the chair, broad shoulders hunched, clothes clinging to his body and accentuating his form. Bucky didn't meet her eyes, removing his shoes, almost tearing them off his feet.

She reached for his cap and gently tugged it off his head. He finally looked at her, and she was pretty sure he looked miffed.

"You'll get sick," she muttered.

"I don't get sick," he quipped.

She tutted, his mood firing up her frustration further, but she knew nothing would yield when he was in a mood. She'd wait to ask questions later, once he showered and ate.

"Hang up your things. I'll make you some tea. Don't take long in the shower." She said.

She noticed the stiffness in his shoulder as he walked to the bathroom at the far end of the living room. That shoulder must be acting up again. The cold always made it worse. She wondered if he'd let her ease the pain in peace or if she'd have to coax him into it.

By the time Bucky returned from the shower and changed into his joggers and Henley, she had mopped the floor and unpacked the groceries from the waterproof bags.

His hair was still wet, droplets falling. It was fricking cold, and this man didn't flinch. It bothered her how blatantly reckless he was with his health. It bothered her how much he affected her, all while looking infuriatingly gorgeous. She'd rather not delve into those waters. It was a dangerous realm.

So, she ignored the trickling water droplets down the expanse of his neck and internally berated herself. She handed him the cup of tea and turned to fetch a dry towel. Bucky's gaze followed her as she walked to get another dry towel.

She noticed him eyeing the cake when she returned with a towel. "You're not getting a single piece if you don't dry your hair right now," She said, pushing the towel toward him.

"Is that so," he sniggered, looking down at her, and she caught the sly twitch of his pink lips before he turned to sit on the couch.

Bucky wasn't the man she remembered from the 40s--the playful, flirty, sassy, nerdy boy from Brooklyn. Hydra had changed him immensely so. It had been almost a decade since he escaped their clutches, a decade since she found him. He was healing slowly but surely. She'd like to believe that. They'd been through a lot, collectively as well as individually. So, the little glimpses of the lost man always rejoiced her.

Eventually, he'd get there. He had to.

"Stop it, you'll hurt your neck," She chastised when she noticed him vigorously moving his head against the towel. She pulled the towel from his grasp, at least tried. Initially, Bucky didn't budge but he reluctantly let go. She smiled, victorious, as he slumped into the couch and sighed, letting her gently towel off his hair.

She knew he hadn't slept well last night. He'd almost finished reading the book he had started--she noticed the bookmark.

Every time he had to go into the town, he got tense. Bucky wouldn't tell her, but she knew it. They'd been living and navigating through this life for a few years now. Though she was grateful he'd come a long way, Bucky still had a long winding road ahead to fully heal.

"That's how you do it, Sgt Barnes," She jested, pulling his hair back into a small bun. He let out a satisfied hum, which made her stomach flip.

"Hand me that scrunchie," she asked.

He leaned over, tugging her gently along the couch as she held his hair up. That's when she noticed him flinching.

"Bucky?" She quickly tied his hair and moved around to sit beside him on the couch. She tried to reach for his hand, but he pulled away.

"Bucky," she prompted, this time pleading.

He sighed, pulling the sleeve of his right arm up his veiny forearm, and the long gash of red and blue bruise marred on his skin. If his serum didn't already heal, it only meant the bruise was worse, to begin with.

"What happened?" She asked, worried and angry that he hadn't told her about it.

"It's nothing," he dismissed, "Got a flat, had to change the tire in the nasty weather. Hurt myself," he finished, already pulling away, but she held onto it with all her strength, fighting him. He didn't look guilty, unlike the other times when he hid his injuries or sufferings. He looked unapologetic.

"Bucky."

"Anna," he murmured.

"Shut up and stay put," She hissed, livid. This wasn't the first time, and she knew it wasn't going to be the last. Bucky loved to suffer, and he thought he was reaping all the consequences of his actions. She'd fight this war with him until she won despite losing the battles every now and then.

She cupped her palm over his bruise and closed her eyes, feeling the warmth emanate. She felt the faint, dizzying sensation. When she opened her eyes, the bruise faded, and the skin on his warm forearm looked normal, with no sign of the gash anymore.

Bucky's silence was telling, the sharp tick of the jaw and the crease between his brows, and she waited for a long moment, but he said nothing.

"What?" She asked, not being able to bear his silence anymore.

"Nothing." He bit out rather harshly.

"I can't see you hurt," those words hurtled before she could stop. In an attempt to belie her vulnerability--her love, she got up from there, hoping to fade her emotional turmoil. She blinked back the tears threatening to spill and made her way to the kitchen, willing her thoughts to quiet as she focused on heating up dinner.

"Bucky, dinner's ready," she called out, surprised to see him already near his bedroom door.

He paused, hand resting on the doorknob. "I'm not hungry," he muttered.

"I made your favorite cake," she said softly, trying to coax him. She hated it when he went without eating. He hadn't skipped a meal in a long time, not since the early days after escaping Hydra, when nausea haunted him daily. She knew too well that when the mind is in chaos, the appetite is usually the first thing to go.

"Not hungry," he repeated, more bitterly this time, before disappearing into his room and closing the door behind him.

~

She couldn't sleep--not until she knew he was. She got up to get a glass of water when she heard him cry out.

"NO. PLEASE. NO."

Bucky was sobbing, groaning.

She dropped the bottle, heart pounding, and ran to his room. The door was open, thankfully. But he wasn't in bed. She switched on the table lamp and found him curled on the floor.

"Buck. Hey, hey…it's okay," she called, crouching and reaching for his face.

"No… not you," he cried, grabbing her wrist in a panic.

"It's a dream, Bucky. Wake up."

He jolted awake, eyes red and glassy, staring at her.

"It was just a dream," she soothed, wiping his face. He grasped her hands, pressing her palms to his cheeks. Bucky pulled her into his lap.

"You're hurt, Anna," he gasped, frantically inspecting her neck and arms and turning her hands over.

"Bucky, I'm alright. Just a bad dream," she whispered, eyes stinging.

"Breathe. You're okay. I'm okay."

"I…" he choked, then pulled her into a tight hug, sobbing into her shoulder. She held him just as tightly, tears falling freely now.

"I'll get you some water," she whispered after a moment. But he wouldn't let go.

"Okay… okay… just lie down with me. I'm not going anywhere," she murmured, gently easing him back on the bed and snuggling into his warmth.

~

In an attempt to calm him, she talked about random things--from constellations to the book she'd been reading, which she thought was horrible, and why. He let out a throaty chuckle when she told him they should seriously reconsider the situation with Gollum, the alpine hare they'd named, who visited their humble garden now and then and caused a ruckus.

Eventually, she convinced him to let her make some tea. He followed her to the kitchen without a word.

"Buck…" she started, unsure.

She slid the mug toward him. He leaned onto the counter and slowly sipped. She studied him for a long moment and then asked softly, "What happened out there?" She was pretty sure something was bothering him.

He didn't answer immediately. Bucky took a few slow sips.

"I saw Hagen," Bucky said finally, eyes fully focused on her.

She stilled. Her eyes widened as things clicked into place. The subtle hostility when he'd returned home that evening. The nightmare that followed. It all made sense now.

She had chalked it all up to the rain--he was soaked through when he walked in. She should've guessed that his silence was more telling than his words.

She didn't expect this.

The odds of that encounter were next to none tonight. That's what she'd counted on. Exactly five days ago, when Bucky made the trip to the city to place an order with Arne, their electronics guy, she'd ventured alone into town. She'd broken his most sacred rule--never go anywhere without me.

But they lived in a far corner of nowhere, surrounded by mountains and mist, and the town was safe even if Bucky thought otherwise.

Mr. and Mrs. Hagen, who owned the small bookstore they frequented, were kind people. That day, she'd noticed how worn Mr. Hagen looked, how his eyes sagged with worry. When she gently asked about it, he told her Mrs. Hagen's health was failing. And when he asked if she wanted to see Mrs. Hagen, she agreed.

Mrs. Hagen was a lovely lady. She and Bucky visited the store every now and then, hoarding books as they both enjoyed reading, and Mrs. Hagen often added a couple of books onto the pile for free. 'You can never have enough books.'

"He thinks it was a miracle," Bucky said flatly. "Said you visited," Bucky bit out loud.

When she said nothing, he snapped, "Anna."

Bucky stared at her. His jaw tightened. "It fucking makes sense why you looked off that day. You know the price of using your gift."

"She was dying, Buck," She said quietly, not turning around. "I couldn't walk away."

"And what about…you?" His voice dropped lower. "What happens when someone gets a whiff?" He gritted out.

She looked at him. The shadow above him from the kitchen light cut sharp lines across his face, making him look like a sculpted god. Albeit an angry-looking god.

"She was suffering." She said, moving her gaze onto the foggy kitchen window.

"That doesn't matter," he growled.

Bucky stepped forward, his right hand finding her elbow as he tugged her toward him. She didn't resist.

"Look at me." Bucky gritted out, frustration marring his features.

Her gaze rose slowly to meet his, guilty.

"What were you thinking?" he asked sharply. She could see the pain in him.

"I was thinking she would've died."

"And I'm thinking I can't lose you too," he thundered, like the sky outside. His arm slipped around her back, his grip tightening as he pulled her closer.

She wanted to argue. She wanted to remind him that she was strong, more than human. That she'd lived in the harsh world alone for decades, that she went into the clutches of Hydra's lair to find him, that she wasn't the one people should be afraid of. But her mother's words rang loudly in her head, 'Sweetheart, sometimes what makes you powerful is exactly what makes you vulnerable…hunted.'

Her shoulders dropped. She felt utterly helpless. She couldn't see people suffer. She carried a lot of regrets herself. The fact that she didn't find Bucky soon enough after he fell off the train, the fact that she should've stopped Steve from getting the serum. If Steve hadn't, he would not have sacrificed his life. So, she couldn't help but alleviate Mr. and Mrs. Hagen's suffering.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, burying her face into his chest.

He sighed into her hair, kissing her tenderly.

"I need you to resist helping people," he pleaded.

"I don't know how Buck," she whispered, holding him tightly.

Bucky dreaded love more than he ever feared Hydra. While he mourned the love he had lost--Steve--he also mourned not being the kind of man she deserved.  

The way she saved him persistently, and resurrected him after Hydra, with years and years of patience. It was beyond his understanding. Gosh! She could totally beat Steve when it came to being stubborn.

He watched her, relaxed in his arms, deep in sleep. His little angel! Sometimes, it was hard to believe that she was by his side. His fingers traced her cheek, and she leaned into his touch.

He knew he was a selfish man because he'd never said he loved her out loud, afraid he'd cause an imbalance in the perfect ecosystem. Because he knew she loved him. And even if she never explicitly worded her love, she defined it in every little action. It pained him how deeply she loved him despite what he'd done.

In the late hours of the night, when he curled up beside her--nightmares as an excuse--he'd usually think of a better tomorrow. One where he'd repented the doings of a man in his mind who he'd been unwillingly sharing space with. Where he could love her the way she deserved. Where Steve was still alive, and they all lived in a world where freedom wouldn't be weighed by norms.

But fate couldn't be that forgiving, right?

Bucky still hoped and prayed for forgiveness--for the actions he had unwittingly committed. He tried to be a better man every day.

Bucky was protective of her--territorial might befit. But the fact was, she protected him every day. From himself. From his nightmares. She was his salvation.

She shifted, turning more into his side, still deep asleep, slipping her hand around his waist. Bucky chuckled softly, clutching the oversized T-shirt on the little of her back, and pulled her closer.

God! She was divine. So far out of his league. Did she even know that?

He could literally kill for her. And he was close to committing that heinous act that very evening.

He'd gone to the bookstore to buy the book she'd been waiting for, only to overhear Hagen talking about her and 'miracle' in the same breath. The fear hit him instantly. For a moment, he stood frozen, staring at the wrinkled man. A sinister thought crawled into his mind: kill Hagen and his wife. Make it look like a robbery.

Then, Bucky thought of her and felt utterly disgusted with himself for even thinking of it. He wasn't that person, and he'd never be him again. He fled from there as fast as he could, terrified of himself.

He wondered if he could ever truly be the man she deserved. He highly doubted it. But the fact was, he couldn't let her go. He'd already lost Steve. He couldn't fathom losing her, too.

Bucky loved her. With every tiny, broken piece of himself--he loved her.

He moved closer, admiring her peaceful face and enveloping himself in her intoxicating scent.

She looked so goddamn delicate. So mesmerizingly pretty.

She'd be up in a few hours. She hadn't eaten because he hadn't.

And he'd been a fucking prick all evening. She'd even baked him his favorite cake, but he'd been too cooped up in his head, too angry at her for being so reckless. Didn't she understand he couldn't live without her?

He leaned in and placed a small kiss on her forehead.

He'd make her favorite breakfast and apologize. Maybe she'd kiss him on the cheek like she had yesterday. That little kiss where she'd rise on her toes and tug him down gently always made him feel alive.

Next:

The phone rang three times before it was picked up. "Pepper Potts speaking." "Hi... um, hi, Pepper. This is Lienna Nightingale," she said, her voice a little shaky, "I need to cash in that favor."

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