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autisticlancemcclain · 9 months

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The first bout of whispering, Shiro can ignore. He’s a teacher by trade, after all. Astronaut, sure. Paladin, even. But he always expected to be a teacher, trained for it, and he knows when you put a group of teenagers in a room and expect them to start learning by lecture, there’s going to be some whispering. He’d be concerned if there wasn’t, frankly.

But as it keeps happening, again and again, to the point where it’s almost constant, Shiro begins to lose his patience.

“Lance, Hunk,” he says, catching himself long before then. He tries to smile, gentle but firm. “Everything okay?”

The two boys clam up immediately. Lance even begins to lean slightly away from Hunk, although Shiro’s not sure he notices.

Shiro frowns, puzzled at the reaction. That’s — uncommon. He’s seen embarrassed, seen sheepish, seen unbothered, even seen downright rude, but Lance looks almost… afraid. And Hunk looks at him with a lot more anxiety than the situation calls for, but Shiro is beginning to notice that that’s just Hunk.

The both mutter some semblance of apology, and Shiro moves on quickly, unwilling to dwell on the incident too long.

For the rest of the briefing, he keeps an eye on them. He’s still focused, of course, as their break-in and recon on a nearby Empire warship is not only hugely dangerous, but will also be hugely beneficial, but he lets his notes do a lot of the talking for him. He flits his eyes to the pair every so often, and while Hunk meets his eyes on occasion, smiling slightly, Lance keeps his head down, hunched over his tablet.

Shiro notices that the tablet is powered off. He doesn’t write a single note.

His shoulders are hunched up to his ears.

———

“Alright, kiddo, good job.”

Keith grins, stepping backwards and bowing to finish the fight. Shiro bows back, matching his smile.

“You did great.”

“I know,” Keith says cheekily. “You’re getting easier and easier to beat. Probably because you’re elderly.”

Shiro raises an eyebrow. “Am I.”

His annoying little brother hums, completely unconcerned. He steps off to the side and starts swinging around his training stick, very clearly showing off. “Mhm. It was super easy to fight you. I just went whoosh, smack, bam! —” he punctuates every sound with a swing and slash of the stick — “and every hit just landed. Honestly, I think a punching bag would have been more of a challenge. Adam is a way better spar partner than you. I wish I was shot into space with him.”

Shiro’s eye twitches. It’s a clear goad, he knows it is. Keith isn’t even trying to hide it. He’s a twerp with too much energy and too much experience pressing all of Shiro’s buttons — a favourite button of his, of course, being the bit of…healthy competition Shiro has always had with his boyfriend.

(He’s well aware of the irony. He hears Adam pointing and laughing in his head every time he endures Keith’s complaining about Lance pulling his mullet, so to speak. In fact keeping his mouth shut about the parallels is the only thing keeping him from throwing Keith down the laundry chute. He’s waiting for a moment when the reveal can be well and truly devastating.)

Shiro manages, with herculean strength, to step away from his turd of a brother, putting his training stick away.

“I am leaving,” he says loudly, pointedly turning away. “I said I’d train one hour with you and not a second more.”

He feels Keith’s pout more than sees it. “Coward.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Shiro snorts, waving his hand dismissively. He hears swishing sounds, and the clicks of buttons — Keith is starting up his own training. Again. “Don’t be late for dinner or I’ll send Lance after you.”

“Can’t promise I won’t maim him,” Keith mutters. “Sometimes I just want to wring his neck.”

Shiro is very familiar with that feeling. Or at least the raving about it. He used to feel great pleasure in driving Adam to that point, just because he was hot when he was mad. But Shiro values his limbs — or at least what’s left of them — where they are, so he keeps the comments to himself as he makes his way out of the training room, meandering back to his own quarters.

He takes his time showering and redressing, knowing he’s got some time before dinner. He thinks Hunk even managed to wrestle Coran out of the kitchen, which means no food goo. It also means that he’s banned from even breathing near the kitchen until the food is fully cooked and completed — which is a bullshit ban and one based in false accusations — but he’s sure he can help set the table, or something. Stir a pot. He’s good at that.

He towels off his hair, not bothering to style it, and takes his time walking over to the kitchens. The castle floors are cold under his bare feet, he finds himself wishing he had the lion slippers Lance made him. They’re very warm. He never wears them because he’s terrified of ruining them, but it’s so icy in here that he might start having to, or else he’ll freeze.

As he approaches the kitchen, he hears voices. He freezes, quieting his steps and pausing behind the wall to listen. Hopefully no one else walks by, or that will be humiliating.

“— all you have to do is ask, Lance, just casually, it’s not even —”

“— it is even, Hunk, it’s the worst and I’m not doing it, why would I inconvenience —”

“— it isn’t! Not even a little! It’s the smallest tiniest thing!”

“Hunk —”

Hunk throws his hands up in exasperation, spoon going flying and splattering some kind of blue sauce all over the cabinets. Neither of them even blinks at it.

“I am tired of watching you struggle, Leandro! Heaven forbid you ask for help!”

Shiro frowns. That’s not good. That sounds serious.

“I asked for help,” Lance huffs, arms crossed over his chest. “I asked you, didn’t I?”

“I don’t count and you know it,” Hunk says sharply, mirroring him. “I already knew.”

Lance looks away, clenching his jaw. His fingers are tangled in his jacket’s sleeve, tense.

“You don’t have to help anymore if it’s too hard,” he mumbles. “I can handle it myself.”

Hunk softens. “It’s not that, Lance.” He wipes his hands in his apron and pulls Lance to his chest. Lance goes, although he doesn’t move his arms, burying his face in Hunk’s shoulder. “You know it’s not that. If that’s all we have then I’ll keep doing it, damn the consequences.” He pulls back slightly, nudging Lance back so he can look him in the face. “You can just do better, dude. All you gotta do is tell Shiro about your —”

A hand claps over Hunk’s mouth, cutting him off, and Lance squeaks, “Hey, Shiro, hello, hi!”

Shiro startles. He scrambles upright before Hunk turns all the way, so at least he’s only seen crouching by the door like a weirdo by one person.

He clears his throat. “Uh, hi.”

“You’re banned from the kitchen,” Hunk says, muffled. How he looks so mighty and dignified with Lance’s hands still very much pressed to his face is well and truly beyond him. Shiro is frankly awed.

“I just came to help set the table,” he assures, hands held up in surrender. “Promise I’ll stay away from the actual food.”

Hunk narrows his eyes, but must decide he could use the help, because he nods, stepping backwards so Lance’s hands fall back down.

“Alright,” he sighs. “I’m making stew. You can set out utensils if you must but know I’ll judge you heavily for it. Lance, come help me finish up.”

Lance scrambles after him, avoiding Shiro’s gaze like he’s sure he’s going to get yelled at. Shiro watches him go, perplexed.

———

The next few days are, for the most part, manageable. Their mission goes well, Keith is surprisingly mellow — Shiro suspects the little nerd has discovered a library of some kind — and distress calls are minimal. All in all, Shiro should be taking the time as the blessing it is and catching up on some much needed R&R.

Instead, he’s worrying about the Blue Paladin.

Shiro can’t say he knows him well. They’ve hardly been in space a couple of months, after all, and while Shiro must have taught him a couple times — he was in the piloting program so it’s almost impossible that they didn’t cross paths — the Garrison is huge, and Shiro largely teachers younger students. Shiro can’t recall teaching a Lance, anyway.

But he can tell something’s off.

Besides the fact that Hunk keeps looking at Lance with concern, the Cuban seems…withdrawn, almost. He still works hard in training and smokes them in any kind of long distance, but there doesn’t seem to be any joy in it. Even his arguments with Keith seem halfhearted, which Keith will never admit leave him agitated as much as it has Shiro’s eyebrows raising. Shiro is sure, basically, that something is the matter, and surer still that he has to be the one to fix it.

How exactly he should go about it…well, that’s the part he’s struggling with. He knows Lance is kind of star-eyed around him, even though they’re on the same playing field, so Shiro’s not sure just regular talking to him about it is going to do something. And he seemed pretty resistant when Hunk pressed, in the conversation Shiro overheard. He’s just not sure what to do.

Luckily, the situation starts to resolve itself.

“Hey, Shiro, can I talk to you?” Lance mumbles into his breakfast, as everyone else is distracted by Pidge and Keith’s loud argument about cryptids (Shiro has heard it too many times at this point. He’s tuned it out).

Shiro blinks. “Sure,” he says, trying to keep the shock out of his voice. “Now?”

“Uh, after we eat, maybe.”

Shiro tries very hard not to seem over enthusiastic. He sucks at that, so it doesn’t work, and it seems to make Lance more stressed, which only stresses Shiro out more. By the time everyone has finished up and people are starting to file out to various tasks, the tension between them is so thick Shiro feels as if he might suffocate.

Suddenly, as if he propelled himself, Lance springs to his feet, snatching his bowl and Shiro’s and powerwalking towards the kitchen sink. Shiro, startled, follows him.

“You okay?” Shiro asks softly, noticing the whiteness of Lance’s knuckles, clenched around a sponge, and the robotic way he scrubs it across a dirty spoon.

Lance says nothing. He keeps his eyes trained resolutely on the soapy water, spine ramrod straight, nerves bleeding from him in waves.

Hesitantly, Shiro rolls up his sleeves, standing beside him and beginning to dry what he rinses. As Shiro gets close he gets tenser, shoulders hiked up to his ears, but as the minutes drag on, empty kitchen echoing the sound of swishing water and clanking cutlery, he begins to calm down. Shiro watches his face relax, easing its worries twist, and terror fade from his brown eyes.

He hands Shiro the last clean dish to dry, then pulls the plug on the sink, darting over to grab a hand towel and starting to dry.

“Can you write mission plans in pink?”

The words rush out of him, like he’d been holding them between his teeth for God knows how long and they’d finally spilled out. He looks almost nauseous after he says them.

Shiro blinks. That was…not what he’d expected.

“…Why?”

“It’s perfectly okay if you can’t,” Lance continues, as if Shiro had not spoken. “I mean, whatever. I’ll figure it out. I’ve gone without this long, after all, and it’s totally doable. Of course there’s the migraines and the agony but that’s all light work. It’s war, after all. Ha.” He chuckles nervously.

He’s shrunk in on himself, looking almost small. Shiro stares at him with a dropped jaw and wide eyes. Lance doesn’t even notice, eyes focused intensely on the hand towel, breathing worryingly erratic.

“I just swore to Hunk that I’d ask, you know. He said it wouldn’t hurt. And of course it wouldn’t but I don’t need it. It’s just. You know.”

Shiro cannot stress enough how much he doesn’t know. He hasn’t felt this lost in a while.

“Pink makes the letters stick to the page. And I know that sounds stupid as shit and that’s because it is stupid as shit, unfortunately. Dyslexia is the dumbest thing in the world, actually. And who named it that? You know how hard that word is to spell? It’s hard. They should have called it — I dunno, I just mean, it’s whatever. It’s fine. I’ve handled it this long. Uh.” He looks up, finally, and maybe he doesn’t know how to make sense of Shiro’s expression, because he winces, shame overtaking his face. He sets down the towel and gestures vaguely behind him, stepping towards the door. “I’m just gonna — go. Sorry. See you later. Sorry.”

He all but flees out of the room. Shiro barely manages to snag the back of his hoodie, holding him in place.

“Lance. Chill a second. Give me time to respond.”

Lance looks deploringly at the door, then back at Shiro. He looks like he’s accepting his death. Shiro can’t help but feel the teensiest bit offended.

“I’m not going to bite you,” he says, aghast. “Jesus, kid. You’re going to give me a complex.”

To Shiro’s great relief, the remark makes Lance grin. Some of the tension eases from his face.

“You sound like my mother.”

“From what I’ve heard, that’s a compliment,” Shiro says lightly. He pulls out two chairs, orienting them so they’re facing each other. He deliberately takes the one farthest from the door, so Lance doesn’t feel trapped. He gestures to the other one. “Sit.”

Lance does.

“Now. From the beginning and with a little less fear, hopefully. Tell me what’s up, kiddo.”

Lance looks down at his hands, where he’s picking at a scar on his wrist.

“Um. So. I have dyslexia. I can’t read too well.”

Lance cringes as he says it. Shiro wonders who he has to kill for putting the idea that this is something to be ashamed about in his head.

“Cool,” Shiro says, as encouragingly as he can manage. “The main character of my favourite book series as a kid had dyslexia. I was jealous of everyone who had it. I used to pray for it.”

The revelation startles a laugh out of Lance, like Shiro hoped it would. The tension melts right off of him.

“You prayed?”

“Every night,” Shiro affirms, grinning. “I even crossed my eyes and pretended when it didn’t work. My mother didn’t believe me for a second.”

“You’re a dweeb,” Lance says, sounding kind of awed. Like he’s shocked that Shiro, too, is a nerd loser on this castle full of other nerd losers. “Dyslexia sucks.”

Letting his face settle into something more serious, Shiro nods. “I imagine it does.” He reaches over and squeezes Lance’s hand, subtly stopping him from picking at the skin. Keith has the same bad habit. “Writing in pink helps?”

Lance shrugs. “Sorta. Dunno why. But things are less squiggly when they’re written in pink or red. Not perfect, but it’s something. I can hardly read at all when they’re in black; it’s like my eyes are spinning out of my head trying to focus on ‘em. Gives me migraines like you would not imagine.”

“And thus Hunk whispering the plans to you so you don’t have to read them,” Shiro surmises, the whispering during briefings suddenly making sense. Guilt twinges in his belly.

“Yeah. Sorry about that, by the way. Didn’t mean to be rude.”

“Of course not,” Shiro says gently. “I get it now. Sorry for not understanding.” He frowns, remembering something. “I should’ve asked beforehand. Or suspected something, or known better, really. I had a kid a few years back in one of my astronomy courses. Li-something. I marked all his stuff in red for the same reasons.”

Lance makes a very particular face. Warning bells go off in Shiro’s head.

“I appreciated that very much,” Lance says politely.

It takes a moment for it to click.

Shiro considers banging his head against the table.

“Please tell me no,” he begs, ears reddening.

“It was a great honour to be renamed by the Takashi Shirogane,” Lance insists.

“I had you in my class for three years!” Shiro says, aghast. “I — I called you Li all the time! In front of people!”

“I didn’t want to correct you! That’s — embarrassing!”

Shiro cradles his head in his hands. Dear God. He knows he’s not great with names, but — Jesus. To rename a kid. Blatantly. Other teachers must have thought he was some cruel jackass.

“I think there was a Li McKinney ahead of me in roll call,” Lance offers, patting Shiro’s back delicately. “So. Pretty easy to mess up.”

“Did you write your name as Li on tests? And assignments?”

“After the first couple times, yeah. Hunk laughed at me. At a certain point I’d just dug myself too deep, I think.”

Shiro sighs, dragging his hand down his face. It’s still quite hot. He looks up at Lance, who’s mouth is twitching.

“You were short as shit back then,” he observes, trying to picture the kid in his class. “Like, shorter than Pidge.”

Lance scowls. “I was — saving up on growth spurts. Yeah. So. Purge that from your memory.” He smirks. “Like my name.”

Shiro groans. “I’m never hearing the end of that, am I.”

Lance smiles. “Probably not. I didn’t know you were uncool. It’s interesting. I’m seeing you in a whole new light.”

Shiro rolls his eyes, but reaches over to mess with Lance’s hair, like he would Keith. Unlike Keith, Lance freaks out way harder, screeching something about hard work and artistic expression.

He smiles. “Glad you came to talk to me, kid.”

Lance sticks out his tongue, but he looks pleased, too. “Yeah, yeah.”

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dearsnow · 1 year

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NO PROMISES

- just as you’re settling down, hobie takes you out for the night. (hobie brown x gn!reader, fluff)

word count: 1129

a/n - this is for my very good friend @literally-hobie as part of a trade we did :) go give them all my love!!

The night is a relaxing one. You have your music playing as you relax on your bed, inhaling the crisp midnight air. The gentle rhythm of your breathing matches the song’s saccharine melody and the plushies next to you smile kindly at your figure. You are completely embraced by your calm sheets, until a sudden noise causes you to shoot up.

It’s a fast rapping at your window, like knuckles covered in fabric. You move to open it, staring directly into the eyes of your official-but-not boyfriend.

“Hobie!” You hiss. “You can’t be here. My parents are asleep in the next room over, and I seriously can’t be caught with you at,” you check your phone, “12:32 AM.” Your voice is rapt with hushed concern. “What do you need?”

He tilts his head lazily, like sticking to your windowsill is the easiest thing in the world. “I jus’ thought it would be cool to have some fun tonight. Hidden concert and all that. It starts in like ten minutes, but we don’t gotta be early.” Oh, it is so like him to do this sort of thing. You bite the inside of your cheek as you weigh your options. Though it’s not the safest idea, there’s nothing that you and him can’t handle. You don’t really have anything better to do anyways, and despite the late hour, this could be the opportunity of a lifetime.

“...Alright, just don’t get me killed on the way over.” He grins, and the sight makes your heart skip a beat.

“I can’t promise you anything. Nothing is ever certain.” He says, eyes sparkling and motioning for you to follow him.

You climb out your window carefully, helped by Hobie’s rough hands and gentle touch. He keeps a secure hold on your waist, sending butterflies flitting through your stomach. He always manages to fluster you, no matter the situation.

He pulls you up, slinging a web up to your roof and setting you down upon the shingles. The view atop the world is the sweetest thing you’ve seen in a long while- excluding Hobie, of course. Stars twinkle overhead, fully visible and bright. You take a deep breath, smelling the hints of wet leaves and a touch of smoke.

“Shall we?” Hobie asks. As you nod, he swiftly picks you up and swings away without even a hint of effort.

Your heart flutters at the sudden weightless feeling, causing you to release a breathy laugh. You’ll never get used to flying through the air, no matter how many times he takes you swinging. Utter exhilaration courses through your veins as Hobie takes you from building to building until you finally reach the concert venue.

It’s set in a run-down old building that looks like it hasn’t had a roof for centuries. It must’ve been an office building or something, judging by the size of the ground floor. The walls are blown through, with many entrances and exits for quick escapes. Dozens of people are milling around the area, and all of them look extremely pumped. There are zero security guards, just how Hobie likes it.

As soon as he sets you down, right in front of the unstable looking makeshift stage, a drum beat starts. It’s followed by a guitar riff and the screaming of fans. Hobie slides an arm through yours and peers at your face, illuminated by the flashing stage lights. He’s never seen anything as amazing in his life.

The music gets your heart pumping as the band appears on stage, the melodies familiar yet nothing you have ever heard before. In every way, this night reminds you of Hobie.

“Like what you hear?” He all-but shouts into your ear, trying to be heard over the screams and rhythm. You smile wider than you’ve smiled in a long, long time as you nod. He seems satisfied as he pulls you impossibly closer to him.

The music lasts about an hour, which is way too short in your opinion. Everyone else seems to agree, but it seems the band members have other places to be. Hobie pulls you aside as you walk out of the building, buzzing with excitement.

“Pretty nice, huh? I dig their commentary on the corruption of our current political system.” His voice is raspy as he stares at you. He always maintains eye contact, something you’ve noticed as you spend more time with him. He has a smile on his face, seeming to be genuinely happy. You’re so, so glad you went on this little adventure with him. Even if it was the worst experience of your life (which it definitely wasn’t), just seeing his smile would make everything worth it.

You smile back. “I loved it. You should take me out more often,” You tease, grabbing his arm. He lets out a quiet laugh, tipping his head back and staring the night dead in its eyes.

“We havta do this again. I follow the punk scene, so there’ll prolly be another show here in a few days. Would ya want to go with me?” His breath forms clouds in the cold night air, and you shiver a little bit.

“Of course, Hobie. Just warn me in advance.” You quip.

“Again, no promises.” He grins. “C’mon, there’s still night left. Let’s chill.”

He leads you away from the venue and down a street, making a game out of kicking pebbles and twigs. A laugh bubbles up from your chest as he kicks a rock so hard it dents an abandoned metal trash can. Damn, being Spider-Man really has its perks. When you finally reach the end of the road, you see a little set up of pillows and lights between two buildings and an overhang.

You take a step forward hesitantly. “Did you set this up?”

“Yeah, I figured it might be nice to have a place to ourselves.” He shrugs. There’s a sparkle of excitement flitting around in his eyes.

“Cool.” You breathe. He motions for you to sit down, and you comply.

Before you know it, he’s hanging from the overhand, face-to-face with you upside down. You laugh as his breath tickles your face. You know exactly what he’s asking for.

Your touch ghosts over his face, and you press your lips to his. You’ve kissed him before, but this is something new and exciting, something straight out of a comic book. It feels electric. His lips are a brushstroke of warmth against a soft canvas.

When you finally pull away, he is breathless like he just finally figured out how to be alive.

“We should do that again.” Hobie smirks, eyes gently peering into yours. The string lights overhead shimmer with a newfound glory.

“I would love to,” You whisper, smiling, “but no promises.”

#solar eclipse.#hobie brown atsv #hobie brown x reader #hobie headcanons #hobie spiderverse #hobie x reader #hobie brown #hobie x you #atsv hobie #hobart brown #hobie brown x y/n #hobie brown x you #atsv #across the spiderverse #spider man across the spider verse #atsv x reader #atsv fanfiction #atsv fic

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 4 months

Text

I've been dreaming of the Deep Sea Tactician.

The Sea Witch has to be as shrewd as he is kind, collecting all manner of wealth.

All the treasures in the world, his--but what is truly invaluable to him is...

How does a moment last forever? How can a story never die?

"Please sign right here on the dotted line.”

Azul taps on the line in question and offers the client his pen. It's a marvel, gifted to him by his stepfather upon graduation. The pen is carved of bone and made to resemble a fish's insides, the nib flaring out into ribs and then ending in a skeletal tail.

The writing implement is claimed.

He watches with eager eyes as the client scrawls on the golden parchment. The signature flows as smoothly as the ink writing it, and as easily as the conversation exchanged with the signer.

One leg of the letter K drags out, underlining the entirety of his first name.

Kalim Al-Asim.

"There you go!" he declares, sliding the contract and the pen back to Azul.

“Thank you very much!" he gushes, snatching up the paper like an octopus might ensnare its target--it is worth its weight in gold, and more. "It’s a pleasure doing business with you, Kalim-san.” “My people will be in contact with your people.”

"Looking forward to it." Kalim reclines in his cushy armchair--one of many that decorate Azul's office. "It's crazy how things work out, huh? I didn't think this is how we'd reunite all these years later."

"Fufufu, it must be fate. I'm honored that you would come and seek me out like this."

Azul rolls up the contract and ties it with a string. It will soon be filed away with the others in an ever-expanding vault.

"Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that the heir to the Asim trading company would approach me for a franchising opportunity."

"Everyone wants a piece of the hottest new restaurant chain. You see Mostro Lounges everywhere now. Having locations in the Scalding Sands can offer tourists a little bit of home away from home if they want the option of something familiar."

"Of course, I completely understand," Azul drawls. "On our end, we will do our utmost to craft unique menu items which will showcase the best of what your home country has to offer. It's sure to be a success!"

Calm, he may display outwardly--but inside, Azul is cheering, fist pumping, and bouncing off the walls with glee. Securing this deal is massive for him, for his business.

"We should celebrate," Kalim suggests, gesturing for his attendant. He wears many bejeweled rings which sparkle with the flicker of his fingers. "A drink? I can call for a bottle of the finest wine."

Azul holds up both hands. "Oh no, I couldn't possibly. I'm afraid I have a lunch engagement right after this. I wouldn't want to ruin my appetite."

His client laughs from his belly, deep and resonant. "I won't keep you any longer then. You have my contact information if you need to discuss the project."

Kalim rises, and at once, his attendant is magically at his side, helping him into his coat.

Azul waits several minutes after they've filed out to enter the code into his safe and deposit the agreement safely inside. The vault door swings shut with a heavy CLANG--and upon its shiny metallic face, he glimpses himself. He's grinning like a cat that has gotten the cream.

His digital watch blinks on, buzzing slightly. Right on cue, his alarm is going off.

Lunch.

Azul heads for the door, tidying himself up on the way. Adjusting the brim of his hat, the lapels of his suit. He mustn't be embarrassed, mustn't be teased.

He opens the door and--

POP, POP, POP!!

Confetti rains down, catching in his headwear and the jacket that hangs off of his shoulders. His assailants wear the same sharp-toothed smiles and mischievous glint to their eyes.

"Jade, Floyd. You two never cease to surprise, do you?" Azul sighs, brushing off the confetti and letting it flutter to the ground. "I thought the plan was to meet at the restaurant, not at my office."

"That was the original intent, yes."

"We changed our minds and came to see you instead, since it's such a big day!" Floyd elbows him. "Finally cinched that big deal with Sea Otter-chan, eh? Now you can make truckloads more money!"

"It's not about the money," Azul corrects him. "The money is nice, yes--but it's the new connections which will prove to be a long-term benefit.

"A clause in the contract stipulates access to the highest quality ingredients procured by the Asims. If all goes well, I can make other requests! Fine china, lavish furniture, a working relationship with Kalim-san, a hefty name with which to brag to other potential clients...!"

The world, his oyster.

The idea makes his smirk grow into a smile.

"Fufufu, things are looking up for the Mostro Lounge's empire! Then even more dough will roll in, far more than the upfront costs of the initial investment!!"

"Aaaah, Jade. Looks like he's lost it again."

"You're right, Floyd. I can practically see the thaumark signs in his eyes," Jade chuckles. "It's good to see that you haven't changed in all these years, Azul. You're still every bit as amusing as you were back then."

"Hmph!" He folds his arms. "What did you expect, that I'd collapse into a wobbling mess without you two at my beck and call? I'll have you know that I'm perfectly competent and capable of running a business without you."

The twins share a skeptical look with one another.

"That's his way of saying he misses having us around. He wants to hang out with us sooo bad."

"It most certainly is. He misses our companionship so much that he personally reached out to invite us to a meal to reconnect."

"And brag about his accomplishments."

"Yes, that as well."

"I-I did NOT!!"

"Tsk, tsk, Azul. You should be more honest with yourself," Jade tuts. "All this success, and you're still unable to afford an ounce of humility? I'm appalled."

"That's rich, coming from you," Azul shoots back. "I could have lunch with any number of wealthy and powerful clientele, but I've chosen to have it with you two! Is that alone not enough humility for you?!"

"Awww, so you did miss us!"

Azul's cheeks color. "I-I never said that!"

So much for not being embarrassed, not being teased. Some way or another, he always falls prey to the Leech brothers' antics.

"He's still being shy, Jade."

"He is, Floyd."

"Know what? This calls for a group hug. I bet that'll help him open up to us."

"You're absolutely right. A group hug will fix this matter in a matter of moments."

"Excuse me?! I-I do not consent to this in any way whatsoever! We must be on our way, our reservation will not hold forev..."

GLOMP!

Azul is embraced from both sides, Jade and Floyd's arms wrapping around him and squeezing him tight. He gasps for air, wriggling between them.

"... Fine, you win," Azul groans, melting into the hug. He tells himself that he has simply given up, not that he enjoys the closeness, the intimacy of friendship. "Are you satisfied?"

"Very~" Jade and Floyd chorus.

"If that's the case, then we'd better get going. That reservation really will expire if we overshoot the 15-minute grace period." Azul pauses, then frowns. "I certainly hope you weren't thinking of walking all the way to the restaurant clinging to me like this. I have a public image to maintain."

Neither brother budges.

"... Jade? Floyd? You did hear me just now, didn't you?"

"Hm, did you hear that, Floyd? It sounded like a mosquito buzzing in my ear."

"I didn't hear anything at all, Jade. Maybe it was just the wind!"

"You two...!!"

Their bickering floats down the hallway and meets a pair of pointed ears.

Ah, squabbling—the true sign of a happy reunion. The listener grins.

“Many blessings upon you, Ashengrotto and company.”

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just-my-latest-hyperfixation · 6 months

Text

Just another manic Monday

Written for the @steddieholidaydrabbles, day 17

Prompt: Platonic Stobin

Rated: G

CW: monsters

Tags: Urban fantasy AU; Magic AU; Creature AU; background Steddie; background Buckingham

Notes: Based on an idea and the gorgeous art by @house-of-the-moving-image - so happy I got to throw a little something together for it. 🥰

“I don't understand this,” Steve yells, jumping over another garbage bag like a hurdle sprinter. “That thing is fucking huge, where was it even hiding?”

“Gee, I dunno, Steve!” Robin skids to a halt beside him and impatiently hops from foot to foot while he pulls out their scooter from between two dumpsters. “I didn't ask, you think we should wait up?”

Somewhere behind them, something lets out a loud, gargling roar. A giant body scrapes against the walls of the alley.

Steve gulps.

“Nah, I'm good,” he says and tosses her the egg. It's larger than his own head, and Robin sags briefly under its weight. “Get in!”

Sometimes, Steve really, really wishes he was normal.

In a world where ninety-seven percent of the population are either magic users, non-human, or hybrids, people like Robin and him tend to get the short end of the stick. Take the job market, for example. What's a guy to do if most entry-level positions require basic flight skills, or rudimentary knowledge of summoning spells, or two years minimum of experience in applied runology?

The job at Fleetfoot Delivery is actually okay, all things considered. The pay is decent, the uniform isn't completely humiliating, and his coworker is his best friend and platonic soulmate who happens to be just as lamely human and completely unmagical as himself.

It's easy work. Customers trade items via the app, Steve and Robin deliver the goods from the pickup location right to the lucky new owner.

Basic stuff.

Simple.

Boring.

Except for the days you get chased by giant fucking monsters.

“Who even sells a phoenix egg online?” he asks while he waits for Robin to clamber into the side car. “I mean, shouldn't we be calling child protection services or something?”

“Phoenixes are extinct, Steve, everyone knows that!”

He hums vaguely. He does know that, of course, but the question has its desired effect - namely to send her off on a tangent and get her mind off things.

“The eggs that are left are infertile, but they're highly coveted in certain circles. Rumor has it that consuming one will boost your magic like nothing else. Chrissy says there's a sea witch living off the coast who's been looking for one for-”

“Chrissy, huh?” Steve grins and swings a leg over the saddle. The scooter stutters to life. “The cute little mermaid with the milkshake order from last week? You two on first-name terms now?”

“Oh, fuck off!” Robin jabs him in the ribs, but quickly clutches the egg again as he needs to swerve around a stack of old, soggy cardboard boxes. They're picking up speed, but not nearly enough in the crammed, narrow alley. Behind them, the roaring and scraping are getting louder. “You don't get to berate me for flirting with clients. If I see you do that ass-wiggle in your stupid shorts in front of that dragon dude one more time-”

“His name is Eddie,” Steve snaps, neck erupting in heat. “And I don't think he has any idea what my first name is. Or my last name.”

“Yes, Steve, of course,” Robin deadpans. “That is why he calls you big boy and honey and sweetheart. That is the actual reason.”

Steve lets this statement simmer for a few seconds.

“Shut up and tell me where to deliver this thing,” he then says.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Robin smirk while she fishes her phone from her pocket and tells him the address.

“Oh, freaking great,” Steve grouses. “That's only on the other side of town. Won't take forever at all at this-”

“Steve?” says Robin. Her hand is tugging at the sleeve of his uniform jacket, like she's been trying to get his attention for a while. “Steve, you may wanna go faster.”

“I know!” he groans. “Need to beat rush hour, or we won't be home until-”

“That's not what I meant!” Robin shouts. Her voice goes all shrill and grating towards the end, and he almost crashes them into the wall in his impulse to cover his ears.

“Well, what do you-” he starts to say, but doesn't get any further.

There's a loud crashing sound as the dumpsters are mowed over. He glances over his shoulder, just long enough to see a slimy, clawed something that's roughly the size of his house erupt from the alley behind them. It shrieks. The rush of hot, stinking breath sends garbage flying in all directions. A fist-sized glob of spit hits the back of Steve's head with a wet splotch.

“Ugh, what the fuck? I just washed my hair this mor-”

“Drive!” Robin slaps his arm. “Oh my God, drive, drive, drive!”

Steve does.

They shoot out of the alley and onto the main road, just narrowly avoiding a collision with a flock of banshees. As their scandalized shrieks and the roar of the monster fade behind them, Robin's wristwatch buzzes.

“Oh,” she says. “Today's your lucky day. A certain dragon just ordered an entire crate of aventurine, express delivery.”

Steve groans and takes a right, reaching up to disentangle half a banana skin from his drool-coated hair.

The day is shaping up to be a real Monday.

All my holiday drabbles

#platonic stobin #platonic soulmates stobin #Steve Harrington #Robin Buckley #steddie #steve harrington x eddie munson #steve x eddie #buckingham #robin buckley x chrissy cunningham #robin x chrissy #steddie holiday drabbles #steddieholidaydrabbles #hype's holiday drabbles

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clanwarrior-tumbly · 7 months

Note

could we get some more Steven? (pokepasta) just after the incident, after what happened with Mike? he's just a mess (in a more crazy way then sad) but his mood is constantly swinging from "he deserved it" to "im a monster" and (fem)reader helps him relax and gives some kisses and affection to calm him down? <3

(she's a gentle person compared to him being violent<33)

"It was only fair, right? He deserved it...he was jealous. He took my dreams..my happiness...my Miki."

"B...Blast..?"

"Your master was a horrible man, Blastoise. But you're free now."

"Blas..toise..."

"...you should be grateful."

With tense muscles and fear rushing through his veins like a current, Blastoise refused to look at the man scowling at him with glowing eyes. He couldn't even tear his own away from the body of his trainer.

Mike.

His owner, the one who had raised him since he was a little Squirtle....was dead.

All he did was come out of his pokeball as soon as he heard Steven's screams, only to be met by the sight of the ex-champion's older brother lying motionless on the bed. He didn't know what to make of the haunted expression still etched all over his face, nor the way his eyes remained opened and filled with tears...or the large bruises around his neck.

And the blood..

There was a lot of it coming from his mouth.

Over the past year, Blastoise knew Steven and Mike had a falling out ever since the accident with Miki. While he didn't fully understand all the details of that dreadful day, he was sad to learn he'd never get to see the Charizard ever again, with a visit to her grave being enough proof of that.

He knew how genuinely sorry his master was, regretting the trade every single day. Yet it wasn't enough for Steven.

He wanted revenge, and it turned him into something horrible.

Now Mike was dead, and he was standing there in the darkness, parts of his body glitching as he told Blastoise such awful things...as though he was in the wrong for mourning.

But...he didn't actually mean that, right?

Why would he say such things?

Why would he do this to his own brother?

Yet when the large turtle finally managed to look away and glare at Steven, he was surprised by what he saw: the trainer no longer looked menacing, but instead seemed rather...lost and remorseful.

"Blastoise..I....I'm sorry...I..." Looking down at his hands, he was mortified by the blood staining his fingertips. They began to shake the longer he stared, tears filling up his eyes. "What have I done..?"

"Blast?" Blastoise approached cautiously.

Then they both heard the front door open, and Steven panicked.

"Don't tell her..please." He rushed into the bathroom, locking the door behind him so he could wash his hands, desperate to get rid of the bloodstains.

Yet even as they disappeared physically, in his mind....they weren't washing off.

In his mind, his hands were completely tainted in red, and every passing second made him feel sick to his stomach.

He knew you were going to find out, and he silently cursed himself as he heard Blastoise calling out for you. Of course, he wasn't his trainer...so it's obvious he wasn't going to listen to him.

Turning off the sink, he just listened to your footsteps coming up the stairs, before they stopped upon entering his room. He could only imagine what your expression was upon seeing Mike's body, but he resisted the urge to sob and alert you to his presence.

Even so, however, Blastoise pointed you to the bathroom door, and you've been trying to convince him to come out....yet he refused.

No way should he be anywhere near you now.

He wasn't even expecting you to be home this early.

While you were working at a Pokémon Center overnight, you heard whispers from visitors about a long-haired trainer walking around with an eerie smile, apparently possessed by Missingno: a strange Pokémon that nobody was meant to find.

You didn't wanna believe it was your boyfriend, of all people, but he and Mike did learn about it while they were trying to finish their pokedexes.

Despite all the sources not being 100% verified by experts--Professor Oak included--Steven's obsession with this "myth" grew tenfold since Miki's passing. He wanted to find it and control it, and not because of a pokedex or fame or anything else.

He wanted it to change the very course of nature itself.

To bring her back.

There's been a circulating rumor that Missingno could corrupt the very soul of its trainer, driving them to do horrific and unspeakable things under its influence while amplifying their deepest and darkest internal thoughts...

And Steven, whether he found it or vice versa, unfortunately proved that to be true. It must have been feasting on his grief over Miki, leading to him making such irrational decisions he can't undo.

You believed that had to be it.

He was being controlled by this monster.

There's no way he'd do any of this otherwise....right?

It took a while for him to come out and face you, so you ended up waiting downstairs--although not before covering Mike's body with the sheet so it wasn't the first thing he saw. You had Blastoise go into his pokeball, keeping it safely tucked away in your bag.

You kept waiting on the couch for a few minutes, before hearing footsteps and turning your attention to the stairwell.

For a moment, your heart jumped into your throat upon seeing what looked like the shadow of a Charizard cast on the wall....but it was quick to disappear.

"[Y/n]? Wh-Why..are you still here?"

You blinked, only seeing Steven on the stairs now, clutching the railing and looking completely terrified. Dry tears stained his cheeks, and his eyes and nose were all red and raw from crying.

Not to mention his hair looked even worse than it did this morning...but then again, it's been that way for a year.

You helped him take care of it during his depression spells, although under no circumstance did he ever want it cut. He sometimes got angry if you tried to push him to visit the salon, so you left it be.

You'd never force him to go. Not when he's been through enough already.

It seems Missingno took a liking to his hair, as now it looked as though Zapdos struck him with lightning. It made him appear twice as big...which would have been frightening to anybody who didn't know him.

Not to you, though.

You knew him better than anyone.

"Steven.." You gently began, only to frown as he continued hiding in the shadows.

"No...I can't.." He whispered shakily. "I..I-I'm not...well, [y/n]. You should leave before I-"

"I'm not going anywhere, okay? We can talk about this.."

"......."

"Steven?"

"..what's there to talk about? You already know what I did."

Hearing his voice become distorted, you jumped as he suddenly appeared right in front of you, staring down at you with red eyes and a pearly-white grin. The rest of his face was overtaken by total darkness.

"I had no choice. I had to do it...for her. Mike ruined my life. He was a prick who deserved everything he had coming. I call it karma, wouldn't you?" He laughed.

"I know you don't mean that..that's not what the Steven I know would say." You shook your head, gently and cautiously taking his hands into yours. And he gazed at them, confused by your actions.

You weren't afraid to touch him?

Even though they were the same hands that killed someone?

"You and I both know that thing won't bring her back."

"Maybe not..but at least I tried to do something about it." He snarled, a certain bitterness to his tone. "You just kept telling me "things will get better" for a whole damn year. Well...did they, [y/n]?"

When you didn't answer, he kneeled down so you could get a better view of his face, hoping you'd finally see the monster he had become.

"Do I look "better" to you?"

"...no, and I'm sorry if I didn't do enough to help you." You tried your best to stay calm, lightly rubbing your thumb across his knuckles. "Maybe I could've stopped you from chasing down Missingno. I'm shocked it chose to go with you, but....it's not gonna scare me away, alright? You're not gonna scare me away."

"......."

"I'm horrified at what happened, but I still love you, Steven. And I can't see myself abandoning you when you're like this. I wanna keep helping you...if you'll let me, of course."

For a few long moments, he was silent as he observed your small affectionate gesture. You didn't know what he was thinking in this moment, since the bill of his hat was hiding his entire face.

Just as you stopped, however, you heard a small sniffle. His hands began trembling in your grasp.

"...please help me."

"Steven..." Pausing, you saw him look back up at you, his expression returning to normal. With panicked breaths, he crumbled into your lap, clutching your shirt desperately as his hat slipped off and fell to the ground.

You just held him closely, soothingly pet his hair in an effort to calm him down while his body wracked with light sobs...as though he were a Cubone crying out for its mother. He kept repeating "please" and how sorry he was.

This, alone, proves that he didn't mean to kill Mike at all. He wasn't himself.

At first, you weren't sure if the boy you knew and loved was still there...but he was, and he needed you by his side.

You were going to stay, for better or worse.

#clanask #anonymous #pokepasta x reader #strangled red #strangled red x reader #strangled red steven x reader #steven x reader #angst #hurt/comfort #female reader

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bentannin · 7 months

Text

I will say the one thing I did not expect when the vod released on Monday was for the Ashton takes to swing in the OPPOSITE direction.

And while I definitely agree that some of the initial reactions after ep 77 & 78 ranged from concerning to just plain bad (harsh but some of them were genuinely bonkers; sending hate to Tal, painting characters as straight up abusive and manipulative, referencing one of the player’s irl trauma), the new wave of “Ashton did nothing wrong” isn’t exactly much better.

By their own admission, they fucked up. BIG TIME. They disregarded all the warnings and made a big decision without the rest of the group’s knowledge. And not only that, but he actively hides it from them. They have every right to be upset. And when you’ve just experienced a minute of watching helplessly as your friend rapidly loses and regains consciousness, has his arm fall off, and literally bursts into a million pieces right in front of you, it makes sense that you’d react pretty negatively. And while many of the things the Hells told Ashton were harsh, they weren’t completely unfounded.

Has Ashton shown to care about FCG and their well-being multiple times over the course of the campaign? Yes, absolutely. So when you look at their conversation from Ashton’s perspective, of course FCG accusing him of caring about no one would hurt. Of course, because, when asked to name at least one person, there was no hesitation when he said “you [FCG]”.

But when you look at it from FCG’s perspective, it’s a different story:

He was there when they were all given the warnings about the shard. He was there when, over and over and over again, they were told putting two shards within the same body, especially Ashton’s body which already holds two beings (the empress and the half-beacon), would sunder that body. And he was also there when it was decided the shard would go to Fearne, not Ashton.

So, with only that information and having no way of knowing any conversations between Fearne and Ashton (where she says she doesn’t want it, where Ashton says he does, and they decide Ashton will receive it instead), when they walk up the steps of the ziggurat and see Ashton, their friend, glowing and falling apart in immense agony, of course the only things they would feel in the moment are horror and confusion.

And after a minute of desperately trying to keep them alive, of burning his hands on their sweltering skin just to pump in enough health points to keep them standing, because, if he doesn’t, if he fails, Ashton will die with no way of bringing them back, of course FCG would feel hurt.

And not just hurt, but betrayed, because who does that?!

Who puts everyone who cares about them through that? Who looks at every warning and completely disregards them, and then LAUGHS after they’ve just forced their friends to watch as they nearly killed themselves?

The answer, at least to FCG, is no one; no one who cares about their friends would do that to them, so the only conclusion he can come to in a moment wrought with such intense emotion and turmoil is that Ashton clearly doesn’t care.

Basically what I’m trying to say is, the Hells are allowed to be upset. They are allowed to express that they are upset. And Ashton, for as much as I love his character and understand the events that led to this major fuck up moment, is just gonna have to take it.

They shouldn’t be punished by any means because they are still a deeply hurt and sad person, but they shouldn’t be completely excused either. What they did was extremely stupid, and the ONLY thing that kept them alive and kept the Hells from losing him, was the love from their friends and probably the luckiest ring trade ever made (long live Aabria).

And yes, the Hells are being hypocrites, they’re all either on similar paths of self-destruction or enabling them, but almost losing Ashton has clearly started to open their eyes. Hopefully the retreat allows them all to process and decompress in order to address that hypocrisy with clearer heads! But for now, it’s just gonna be the initial anger.

#ashton greymoore #critical role #critical role spoilers #fcg #this was way longer than intended #but hopefully makes sense??#maybe??#i dont want to step on toes but MAN was i seeing some bad takes #love Ashton very dearly but hes a dummy #and thats okay!#love them regardless

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dftea · 7 months

Text

Under my own vine

Soft pastoral guilty Geralt (hurt/comfort, geraskier, family of destiny)

"Are you farming?"

The question isn’t mocking but incredulous, as if Yennefer of Vengerberg cannot possibly be associated with a farmer. Sorcerers and witchers and kings and bar–

But no. He isn’t thinking about that. About him.

"What are you doing?”

Geralt hesitates for only a moment before swinging the hoe into the soil again, breaking ground on a new patch of earth.

He can sense Yennefer’s scrutinising gaze on his shoulder, but he doesn’t turn, doesn’t speak.

“Are you farming?”

The question isn’t mocking but incredulous, as if Yennefer of Vengerberg cannot possibly be associated with a farmer. Sorcerers and witchers and kings and bar–

But no. He isn’t thinking about that. About him.

“Geralt, do you even know the first thing about farming?”

He knows enough. The rhythm of the land through the seasons, the growth of a tree over decades, the way a noonwraith blights a crop by its presence. The important things.

For the rest, there’s Alma, the shrewd alderman who gave him the seeds, pointing him towards the abandoned farmstead. They were keen to rebuild a community after the wars, she said, and this land was heavily saturated in blood and magic.

Good for the harvest and perfect for monsters, he thought.

Of course, he says none of this to Yennefer. He is not surprised that she has tracked him down, not after everything they’ve been through, but that doesn’t mean he knows what to say to her. How to explain why he left Oxenfurt at dawn and never looked back.

Except in his dreams, where the same bloody face haunts him.

“You know I could just…”

He imagines she’s waving her hand in some vague gesture of magic and he clenches his jaw, hearing the growl that escapes. “No.”

She sighs under her breath. “Come home, Geralt.”

He wants to tell her that this is his home now, that he has a rundown cottage and the beginnings of a vegetable patch and a place he belongs for the first time. But they both know he would be lying.

Instead, he continues with his task, and she eventually gives up on him, as everyone does in the end.

# # #

“Well, the witch hasn’t gone completely mad then.”

Geralt glares at Lambert from the corner of his eye and goes back to fixing his scarecrow. He thought his presence would be enough to deter the crows from theft but apparently not.

“Let me buy you a drink! Play some Gwent, and we’ll…talk. Or whatever.”

It’s an awkward offer, but Geralt appreciates it all the same, even if he doesn’t quite know how to accept it. He hasn’t gone to the local tavern except to trade for some small beer and to pick up rumours of monsters and contracts.

The villagers are strangely pleased to have him living there, rightly believing that they don’t have to worry about supernatural threats as long as he’s present and keeps his swords sharp.

They’ve even given him all sorts of gifts and offers of help, despite his sparse conversation and general glowering disposition. It’s unnerving.

Of course, he knows who to blame.

“Eskel was sorry he couldn’t join me. Something about drowners choking a river.”

“Not Vesemir?” Geralt asks, before he could think better of it.

The silence from Lambert is telling. Vesemir had visited him in Oxenfurt, reminded him of his duty to the Path, to humanity. It was a grand speech, but he has never been moved by words unless they were sung in a lush tenor with a lute at their back.

“You can come in, if you like,” Geralt says, finally, after he’s wrestled the scarecrow into place. “I have pie and beer. And potions.”

Lambert blinks at him. “Potions? What do you need potions for, out here?”

“Do witchers ever retire?”

“Yeah. When they get slow and get killed.”

Or when they're too slow to protect what matters.

“I still kill monsters,” he says, but it’s a half-hearted protest. “I have spare.”

Geralt gestures to his growing garden and the nearby wood. With time to think and plan, he has managed to cultivate a number of common potion ingredients locally. If he can help Lambert and others passing through, he might feel a little less shame for what he’s done.

And he knows they will pass through. No doubt Yennefer has told everyone what has happened to him. They will want to witness it for themselves, check he hasn't taken leave of his sanity like a Cat.

“Come inside,” he says. He can’t keep everyone out forever.

He knows the price of that all too well.

# # #

When Triss comes, she doesn't ask any awkward questions. She brings him an apple tree for the garden and a case of good Toussaint red, as if this is a housewarming, the likes of which he has only witnessed at a distance or in a storybook.

She shares a meal with him, savouring the early carrots and leeks alongside the roasted rabbit he caught that morning.

“Are you baking now too?” she asks, gesturing to the bread and creamy butter on the table.

He shakes his head. He has an arrangement with a local family where they bake an extra loaf and he keeps them in fresh game, and he can trade for butter with the herbs he forages in the wood.

“The village,” he says, with his usual economy.

Except it wasn’t all that usual, not before he decided to settle in this place. In the past few years, he learned to talk and laugh and breathe, to be silent in a way that didn’t shut anyone out.

With Triss, he feels those old muscles stretching, but it brings sorrow with it. Because she will leave, and he will be alone again.

As he deserves, he knows. But the solitude hurts more than he expected.

“You’re part of the community now,” Triss teases, and he tamps down on the part of him that leaps at the idea.

Witchers don’t have friends, after all.

# # #

Winter is the hardest season.

He is cold and alone. He has been cold and alone before, of course, but now that he’s known warmth and companionship, the contrast is harsh and bitter.

Game is scarce, and the harvest was not bountiful enough to provide well throughout the winter. He attended the village meeting where they discussed their supplies and who could offer what.

He gave what he could spare, and was surprised when his opinion was sought on the local wolves and roving bandits. He offered to help cut down trees to keep the draughts out of their houses, and ended up with a few spare planks himself.

He makes a chair for the fireplace and then he makes a second for no reason at all. He feels foolish seeing it there, knowing that no one will occupy it, but he cannot bring himself to break it up for firewood.

When Alma brings him a knitted blanket in soft pale wool, he sets it on the second chair. He pretends he doesn’t know why.

# # #

“It really does need to be seen to be believed, doesn’t it?”

Geralt drops his pitchfork and whirls round, sending his new chickens clucking and scurrying away in all directions.

Jaskier is dressed as inappropriately as ever, in grey and light blue silk, though he wears a dark blue shoulder cloak as a concession to the chill. The walking stick looks ornate, almost ornamental, but Geralt knows it isn’t.

Beside him is Ciri, clad simply in black that cannot disguise the tall regal woman who withers opposition with a single glance or word. But she is not queen or witcher or sorceress today - only a disappointed daughter. Geralt recognises the familiar clench of her jaw, the set of her shoulders, from where he’d caught his own expression reflected in fury.

Geralt dared not dream of seeing Jaskier again and now he's here, he cannot stop staring. He looks better than when Geralt was in Oxenfurt, but that is certainly not a difficult feat - the drunken, despairing wreck was barely human when he left. When he forced himself to leave before he watched Jaskier drink himself to death.

All because of him and his mistakes.

Jaskier has clearly regained strength and health, though Geralt notices how he leans heavily on the flimsy stick, how Ciri hovers near his elbow. Perhaps not as hearty as he wants people to believe.

“Will you be all right from here?” Ciri says to Jaskier, ignoring Geralt as she swings a pack from her shoulder and sets it on the ground.

It takes a moment for Geralt to register what’s happening, but then he’s not sure why he’s surprised. Of course Jaskier has turned up expecting to stay - it has never mattered before, after all, how they parted nor for how long.

“Quite fine, darling,” Jaskier says, kissing her cheek and embracing her. “Remember to write.”

“I’ll send a letter with Yennefer when she comes for Belleteyn.”

Which means Jaskier intends to stay for at least the spring, until Yennefer arrives for the festival and the celebration of her birth.

With barely a look at him, Ciri takes a step away from Jaskier to create a portal and then disappears from view. Perhaps she will forgive him in time, or perhaps not. He feels the pain of her dismissal regardless.

“Even for you, this is quite a silence.”

Geralt detects a hint of nervousness about the words and hurries forward, as if a spell has been broken. He stops only a few inches from Jaskier, close enough to catch him if he falls, and Jaskier’s expression softens into a tired smile.

He looks good for fifty, a few strands of grey decorating his temples, the lines of his face only making him more handsome, roguish. Kissable.

Gods, Geralt has missed him.

“I’m sorry,” he says, quickly, quietly, even though he doesn't quite know how to continue. He’s not going to waste this third, fourth, hundredth chance he's been given.

Jaskier snorts his amusement. “Please. We’re not doing this again. You’re terrible at apologies and, this time, it was mostly my fault. I drove you to it - no one could dispute that, not even our Ciri. Though she tried, bless her.”

Vividly, Geralt remembers that last conversation, the bitter disgusted tone worse than the words.

“Fuck off back to the Path, Witcher. You’ve done more than enough.”

“It wasn't that,” Geralt says, looking away in shame, in guilt. “You were right - it was because of me.”

His sword misses the griffin, a fraction too slow, the advantage of Aard lost as the great beast takes to the sky again.

Then it swoops down - but not towards Geralt.

Towards Jaskier.

A hand brushes his cheek, lute callouses rough against his skin. Jaskier has been playing again.

He looks up, to see his bard, with a soft warm expression, the familiar light in his eyes. Back with him, truly back with him.

“I would follow you anywhere,” he says, curling his palm against Geralt’s cheek. “Because I want to. Because I need you. Do…do you have need of me?”

“Yes,” he says, immediately, intensely. “I need you.”

And he knows it’s true for him - it has been since the moment they met, if he’s honest with himself. The village has need of him too, because it isn’t enough to survive. They need light and laughter and music, and a charming man in pale silks to tell stories of everyday human things and daring adventures and the heartache of love and hate and the exquisite agony of both together.

They need Jaskier as much as Geralt does.

Jaskier looks down then, because a chicken is trying to peck out the gold embroidery on the cuff of his trousers.

“I’m not sure I’m dressed for farming,” he says, amused.

“Since when has that stopped you peacocking?” Geralt grumbles, and it’s like it always was.

Except that when Jaskier smacks him, he loses his balance and tilts towards him, his laughs swiftly turning to coughs.

Geralt must look frantic with worry because Jaskier smacks him again.

“I’m not an invalid,” he gasps. “It’s just bloody cold out. Light me a fire, darling, and dig out a slice of this pie Lambert won’t stop crowing about.”

But Geralt can see that he’s tired, how even this short piece of exertion has affected him. He is better, yes, but he is not the eighteen year old who bounded up to a witcher in a tavern or even the forty year old who made the climb to Kaer Morhen.

They are both slower and older now. And so they are going to live on a farm in the middle of nowhere, apparently.

Geralt shoulders the pack and then lifts Jaskier up into his arms like a bride, despite his protests and his half-hearted efforts to hit him with the walking stick.

He carries him across the threshold of the one-room cottage and settles him in the chair by the fireplace, the one with the blanket, and moves to tend to the fire.

But Jaskier fists a hand into his shirt - a dark brown homespun he’d taken in trade for a butchered boar.

“Geralt,” he murmurs, “I won’t break if you kiss me.”

And Geralt kisses him, taking his face in both hands, swallowing the moan from Jaskier as he opens his mouth to him.

He breaks the connection before Jaskier loses his fragile breath, amused when his bard tries to follow his lips.

“It’s been more than a year since I last kissed you,” he complains. “And that's all I get?”

“For now,” Geralt says, knowing exactly how long it’s been. “I want to warm you up.”

Jaskier bats his eyelashes coquettishly. “Well, I have some ideas about that.”

“With tea,” Geralt tells him, because as much as he wants to take Jaskier to bed and relearn the map of his body, he sees the lines of pain on his face, the way he holds himself in the chair.

“I didn't come here to be cosseted, you know,” Jaskier says, without ire or shame. “I came here to take care of you.”

And Geralt believes him, because he is devastatingly sincere and Geralt knows he’s right. Nothing has been the same without him.

Now, finally, he is home.

#the witcher #the witcher fic #geraskier #family of destiny #retired witcher #hurt/comfort #it takes a village #this fic brought to you by too many hours of coral island #dftea writes

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dumbbitchenergy17 · 1 year

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Clan of Three - Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen: The Mines of Mandalore

Plot: A Mandalorian, an infant with a history of the jedi, and a teenager with similar powers and a heavy role to bear. Now reunited their journeys across the galaxy are just beginning to complete their final mission.

Word Count: 5.5K

Pairing: Father Figure!Din Djarin x Platonic!Teen!Reader

Warnings: some wholesome moments, light violence/blood, Din being such a father

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The Boonta Eve is in full swing the festivities fill the streets of Mos Eisley as you fly through your home planet. Reaching the familiar hangar both you and Din land and you see Peli watching a wide grin on her face as both of your canopies open. “Whoohoo! You hear that? She’s purring like a nuzzle shrew.” Peli says

“No complaints. Still faster than I know what to do with.” Din comments and Peli laughs, “Well, I’ll tune her up, just the same. So, uh, where’s my guy?” Grogu perks up from his small port before worming his way to Din’s seat.

“Huh? There he is!” With a leap and flip in the air, he’s caught by the mechanic that exclaims in glee, “Now who taught you how to leap like a Lurmen, huh?” Both you and Din climb out of your ships as Grogu babbles at Peli.

“Was that his first word? I think he’s talking to me. Did you hear that? He said Peli.”

“We’re here on business.” Din says and Peli moves the child to her hip as she leads you further into the hangar, “Oh, are the Hutts back? Are you takin’ out Boba Fett?” She asks and Din shakes his head,

“I need a droid part.” Peli groans before turning to her pit droids, “Ugh. Boring! Hey, get the Jawas back in here before they hit the cantina. You know how Mos Eisley gets during Boonta week.” She makes a drunken impression and you smirk.

“Oh, I know my share of Boonta week.” You say, a holiday celebrated during your childhood your parents taking you to watch the pod-racing but during your time as an orphan using that time to get your latest coin and item to trade off with Jawas. Many aristocrats and wealthy figures would make appearances for the Tatooinian holiday.

“I’m looking for a replacement IG memory circuit.” Din says and Peli laughs as the Jawas are brought in, “Oh. Hey, Grandpa. They haven’t made those for a while,” She turns speaking Jawaese though much faster for you to translate you do pick up ‘memory circuit’ in the conversation. The Jawas speak amongst themselves before replying with the bad news,

“Sorry, pal, no chance cubes.” Peli says and Din looks at the Jawas, “They can’t find the part?”

The mechanic shakes her head, “Nope.” She says popping the ‘p’ in nope.

“I need my droid fixed now.” Din explains and Peli’s eyes light up as she returns the child to Din before standing beside an R5 droid, “Which is why I think you should buy this beauty here.” She pats the droid on its head as it clanks and gives frightened beeps.

“I can’t use an astromech. I need a droid that’s rated for spelunking.” Din explains and Peli gives him a look, “Spelunking? What are you spelunking?”

“I’m going to Mandalore. I need a droid that can explore ahead of me and test the atmosphere, make sure it’s safe to breathe.” Din explains and Peli nods but you see R5 start to retreat beeping nervously,

“Okay, well…Uhuhuhuh. Hey! Get right back here. Right back here, scaredy droid. Come on now, you gotta shine,” Forcing the droid to stand in front of you and Din as she laughs, “This R5 astromech is built for adventure.” The droid beeps completely disagreeing.

“What? Of course, you are. You’re supposed to be piloting starfighters across the galaxy and fighting tyranny.” She says and the droid continues giving worried beeps, “It’s falling apart, and besides, I got no room for it on the N1.” Din says.

“We have R4 remember Di-” You start but Peli cuts you off still in businesswoman mode trying to get a good deal,

“Nonsense. R5D4 is as good as the day it came back from serving in the Rebellion. And I’ll reinstall your droid port and this little baby here can even copilot,” She says and you see the droid trembling in fear, “Hey if you don’t settle your bolts, I’ll sell you back to the Jawas. And because it’s Boonta, what I’m gonna do is I’m gonna give you this for half the price and throw in a free oil bath.”

As night falls Peli reinstalls the droid port as R5 beeps fearfully to the side before it's being put in the ship “Oh, come on now, don’t be a coward. You’re an astromech, act like one,” The droid beeps fearfully and Peli looks at the two of you as you sit in your ships, “I wouldn’t rely too much on this one. Its circuitry is a little fragile.”

“I thought you said it was built for adventure.” Din says as Peli closes both of your canopies shaking her head, “What? Sorry, I can’t hear you!” She holds her hand to her eye as the engines of both of your ships startup. You begin your take-off as Peli waves off to you,

“May the Force be with you!”

The fireworks of the city fill the dark night sky in a multitude of colors reflecting off the glass and your face. Looking over at Din seeing the colors reflect off the beskar as Grogu looks at them in awe as they go off right beside you from your height. “All right. You ready for an adventure?” Din says as you leave the planet your mission begins to travel to Mandalore. Exiting hyperspace and reaching the Mandalore system you follow beside Din as he heads toward Mandalore you can see the planet and the storms that cover the planet. R4 beeps slightly grumpy still mad at Din for bringing a new droid when it was truly capable.

“I know R4, you are more than capable of this mission. Din just does things his own way.” You say and R4 grumbles in his beeps. Looking over the planet you couldn’t help the nerves seeing the planet.

“So this is Mandalore..” You say. “Yes…it looks scary but it was once green and beautiful, back when the songs were written. It’s Mandalore, the homeworld of our people. Every Mandalorian can trace their roots back to this planet, and the beskar mines deep within.” Din says as he speaks to the two of you.

“So you were raised there like Bo-Katan?” You ask and you see him shake his head from his ship. “No, I was not raised there. I’ve never been to Mandalore. I grew up on that moon. Concordia.” You see the moon beside the planet that was Concordia, that was Din’s home planet where he grew up and was raised.

“And that’s Kalevala where we visited Bo-Katan. It’s in the same system.” Din says and you see the other planet though further away but you could see it on your navigation map. You hear Grogu babble through your comms as you move closer to Mandalore, “A Mandalorian has to understand maps and know their way around. That way, you’ll never be lost.” Making your descent instantly entering a storm as the rain pellets down on your ship harshly, the thunder rumbling as your ship shakes. Looking at your maps seeing them jam and glitch.

“Din? Din, can you hear me?” You call through your comms getting and you get cuts of his voice though mainly static, “Ke-...ep G-Gooing…d-d-don’t tur-” It cuts off as the ship continues to rattle and you hear R4 beep worried as you try looking through the storm and the failing screens,

“I think the fusion bombs disrupted the magnetic field around the planet. We might not be able to communicate with anyone outside of the atmosphere. Keep your eyes peeled R4…down here, we’re completely cut off from the rest of the galaxy.” You say as the rattling of the ship through the storm finally breaks through and you reach the planet seeing the crystalized planet all of its shards of green glass just like the small piece you got from Jawas.

“K..kid?! Can you hear me?” You hear Din’s voice cut through your comms and you sigh in relief, “I can hear you where are you?” You respond by seeing a large dome but it’s destroyed. Everything here felt familiar though you’ve never been to Mandalore before, it still felt right being here.

“Sending coordinates now,” Din responds and you get through pretty easily, and soon you find a clearing surrounded by jagged pieces of glass landing happy to see the N-1. The child coos happily seeing you in one piece inside your ship, “I’m happy to see you too.” You say as Gorgu taps on the glass.

“R5, you ready? I’m gonna need you to scout ahead and analyze the atmosphere.” Din says to the droid apart of his ship and R5 beeps fearful and disagreeing to go, “That wasn’t a question. Go over to that split in the rock, and take an air sample of the ruins below.” R5 nervously but slowly leaves the droid port as it moves a bit further away before looking back and beeping.

“The droid will be fine. I just need him to take some readings to make sure it’s safe. Don’t be a baby. Just get the samples we need, and hurry up.” Din waves to the droid and it looks at the split in the rock nervously. You hear the droid port in yours open up as R4 quickly speeds past it grumbling in binary about needing to be the only droid. Reluctantly R5 joins the other droid glad to have a companion. You look over at Din as he watches the two droids leave around the corner.

“You got R4 jealous,” You comment and he gives you a look, “Jealous it’s a droid.” The child whimpers and Din points at the scope, “Here, look. You can watch him on the scope.” You can see on your own the two blinking dots of both droids as they head further out before they completely disappear.

“R4? Buddy, you hear me? R4?” You call out in your comms as you only get static, you would jump out there to go after your droid if you knew the air was safe, “R5, come in. Do you read me? It’s probably just interference.” Grogu babbles before Din sighs, “Fine. I’ll go get him. Normally, this is droid work. I was hoping to avoid going out there. I’ll pressurize my helmet, seal yourself in your pod. Be right back.” Din explains as Grogu climbs into his pod and once Din makes sure he’s secure he climbs out of the ship before heading to yours.

“I’m gonna look for the droids,” You go to move to join him your instincts running to be by his side but he shakes, “The air may be unsafe for you without a helmet. You stay here with the child.”

“Be safe..” You say and he nods, “Don’t worry, kid, I’ll be right back.” You’re forced to watch him walk away from your ship Grogu now letting himself out of his pram sitting in the N-1. You could hear the sad cooing and the fear in his babbles and you had your own concern but you didn’t try to panic the child more.

“Din’s gonna be already…he’s strong. Nothing stops him.” You say and you hear the child’s worried noises dialing down but you keep your gaze focused on the turn just waiting for Din and the droids to turn the corner. It felt like hours and you let out a sigh of relief seeing Din turn the corner followed by the droids. Gorgu babbles happily tapping on the glass to be let out but Din shakes his head,

“Hang on, kid. Not until I check the toxicity. You got an analysis on the atmosphere yet?” Din asks and R4 beeps revealing the readings as Din looks at them shocked, “The charts were wrong. The atmosphere is breathable. Bo-Katan was right. Mandalore is not cursed.” Hearing the news you quickly open your canopy taking in the fresh air happy it wasn’t poisoned and would kill you. You felt an energy deep in the planet as you step foot on the planet for the first time,

“So this is Mandalore…” You say in awe of just the surface of the planet as you join the group out in the open, “R4 you wait at the ship in case we need a quick exit.” You say and the droid beeps happy to help and enters the X-wing. Following Din, you enter a cave seeing the large green chunks of glass before you’re led to an opening off the end of the cliff and you take in the destroyed city.

“That’s the Civic Center. This is where Bo-Katan said to go.” Din points towards the middle of the large buried city. Looking down at the large fall as you take in everything, “Ready?” Din asks and you nod letting him scoop you up before walking off the cliff. His jetpack allows for a steady free fall as Grogu follows in his pram that hovers down beside you. Descending past the mangled metal skeletons of buildings that are long destroyed you stop on a metal platform as you look further down seeing the journey you still had down. “The mines should be further down. I guess we’re on our own from here.” Continuing down entering a large well, past ancient water pipes, this must be the system leading to the mines of Mandalore soon you reached the bottom. Brought to your feet stepping on the damp ground as you take in the area around you.

“These waters should flow down to the mines, and the Living Waters within.” Din points to where the water flows before you make your way through the caves, Din used the flashlight on his helmet to light the way, Grogu with his lights built into his pram, and your form of orange light coming from the beskar saber in your hand.

The large tunnel has more water pipes branching off though no large amounts of water flow through them just a steady drip, “Look, that passage heads down.” He says as you enter a smaller tunnel. “So how would we know what these Living Waters look like?” You ask as you continue down the tunnel. This all felt too familiar, remembering the candles and lanterns lighting your path a feeling in your chest pulling you towards the large cave of water.

“You will know,” Din explains and you continue behind him you come across a pile of rubble and a smooth piece of metal sticks out. Din kneels down pulling from the ground a Mandalorian helmet the visor broke. It looked years old, rusted, and encrusted in the dirt. You felt a sense of dread too late to get Din out of the way of the trap as it encloses him. Looking at the large creature that has Din in his clutches you dodge an attack before swinging your saber it cuts through not deep enough as one of its legs hits you throwing you back. Rolling to a stand something whips through the air connecting to your shoulder looking at your shoulder and seeing a needle sticking out of your skin. Ripping it out seeing it empty as a sudden wave of dizziness and nausea rushes through you. The saber falls from your hands shut off as you collapse into the dirt. From the shadows, Gorgu now out of his pram watches Din be in a tight metal cage, and a creature appears from the large mech suit tying a chain around your arms before retreating into the suit and disappearing dragging you along with the Mandalorian.

Your vision comes to feeling your arms encased above your head groaning from the pain in your skull. Trying to move your hands feeling the rattle of a chain that pulls you from the hazy as your vision clears. In a cave with a few lights, you see ahead of you this firepit with a cage on it, as this creature pulls things out of the cage with a large staff. You see the blaster and his other weapons hit the ground and your memory rushes back. Din, you hear him groan in pain as you tug at your restraints feeling no give. Looking at your person seeing your weapons gone as well in a pile beside Din’s stuff. The creature jabs the Mandalorian before disappearing elsewhere. Hearing shuffling and you spot the small child sneaking his way in to rescue the both of you. Grogu approaches Din looking at the cage that is on a spit, you see him raise his hand attempting to free him with the Force. You see the cage shake and groan though quietly to not alert the being. It beings to lift up when a piece of machinery holding the cage snaps off a large clang alerting the creature.

“Get to Bo-Katan,” Din says weakly as the creature grabs a staff to electrocute Grogu but he jumps dodging the attack. It attempts to chase after him as Grogu raises to his pram but you kick your free foot against its metal knee as it trips slightly. It glares at you raising the staff and digging it into you as it electrocutes you. A scream rips through your body as you seize before your head falls down your body twitching from the pain. It hurt like hell, your body drained and overloaded at the same time. But the child was able to escape so the pain was worth it. You just hope he gets to Bo-Katan and gains her help. You smirk up at the creature,

“That’s all you got?” It makes a snarling sound and raises the staff jamming it back onto your body as your screams fill the air before the pain becomes too much and you fall unconscious.

The small child escapes the ruins of the civic center reaching the N-1 and closing the canopy before a reptilian creature could attack it smashing into the glass. The R5 unit looks at the small child sitting in the pilot’s seat pointing at the viewscreen at the planet that resides a Mandalorian R5 quickly understands transferring the information to R4 who beeps confused not seeing his owner return with the child. Soon both N-1 and X-Wing rise and leave Mandalore.

A tired princess of a destroyed planet rests on her throne waiting for her life to wilt away. However, a droid interrupts her moping, “Your Majesty. Unscheduled visitors.” Bo-Katan sighs seeing both the N-1 and X-Wing fly past the castle’s large open windows. Sitting up grabbing her blasters and heading towards the ship the foot droid following behind,

“Let’s get rid of him once and for all.” She says as she reaches the landing pad sees the two ships and calls out to them.

“Maybe I didn’t make myself clear the last time. I want to be left alone.” The canopy for the N-1 opens revealing the lone child as it babbles and Bo-Katan looks over at the empty X-Wing only its droid in command, “What happened to them? Download the astromechs. Find out where they were.” She orders her droid as it takes the information from both astromechs. Once receiving the location she brings the two droids and the child onto her own personal ship.

“We’re going to find them little one,” Bo-Katan promises, though she felt some sympathy towards the child’s father her concern was more aimed at her own flesh and blood.

You were sure how long you were unconscious but you woke up to sharp pain. A hiss pulls from your lips as your eyes wearily open seeing a needle coming out of your arm. You hear a groan of pain and you look over to the cage Din is in seeing tubing coming from there. “Din..” You croak your voice hoarse from the pain of being electrocuted.

You see the creature return coming over to a droid and starting it up seeing it being to pump, a hiss comes from your mouth and you hear a groan come from Din. Looking at the needle your eyes widen seeing your blood being drained by it and you can assume it’s not going to stop. Pulling at your chains trying to force the needle to be ripped out only for the blood to be drained faster. You can feel your body grow weaker from the energy being put in and the quickly draining blood. A blaster bolt hits the pump droid stopping the extraction and you let your head fall trying to stop the black spots from filling your vision. You hear footsteps and gentle hands cupping your face, “Y/n?! Can you hear me?” You’re surprised to see the bright orange hair and the woman’s face. You spot the creature sneaking up behind her with the electric staff,

“Be..behind.” You mumble and Bo-Katan realizes and was able to dodge the attack but is hit multiple times stunning her as she groans in pain. Rolling on the ground grab the Darksaber igniting it as your head falls back down. You hear the struggles of fighting before a large sound of metal being cut and it grows silent. Bo-Katan comes over to you pulls the needle out of your arm and starts working on the chains but you weakly shake your head, “Din…” Your grand-aunt sighs before going to help the Mandalorian as you rest your head back trying to get rid of the waves of dizziness but soon fail falling back unconscious.

“Din, are you okay? Can you hear me?” Bo-Katan asks looking around at the cage and seeing him lying on his stomach she couldn’t even tell if he was breathing, “It’s Bo-Katan. I’m gonna get you out of here, all right? Can you move at all?” The Mandalorian mumbles something but she shakes her head,

“Din, I can’t hear you. Are you trying to say something?” The Mandalorian weakly speaks two words, “Behind you.”

Bo-Katan barely dodges the attack of the creature in the large mech suit it was not dead the first time. The large suit stomps trying to crush Bo-Katan as she rolls out of the way cutting off one of the limbs. It brings a leg dodge but she brings up her shield deflecting the attack. With much more grace than Din has even wielded the blade she has ease chopping off the limbs before chopping the head of the machine. Before the cyborg creature could try to escape again Bo-Katan stabs the creature straight through its mechanical/organic head.

A fire crackles far away from the caves as the once-trapped Mandalorian begins to stir away. Din wakes up groaning in pain holding his head and taking in the new location as he sees the female Mandalorian tend to the fire, “What happened?” He asks looking seeing the small child beside him babbling happily and seeing his father awake.

“I saved your life.” Bo-Katan says and Din notices one person missing trying to sit up faster but groans in pain, “Relax she’s alright just still asleep.” Bo-Katan gestures over to your sleeping body Din sighs in relief seeing you alright. He had heard your cries of pain that was inflicted on you but he was useless in helping you. Bo-Katan with the help of the small child had to take two trips to first bring you to safety and set up camp while the child stayed with his father before Bo-Katan returned to bring them both to the set camp.

“How did you find me?” Din asks getting himself into a sitting position, “Your kid. He’s tougher than he looks.” She points to the small child who sputters entranced by the small fire, the flames though much larger than him, “And he’s quite the navigator.” She adds and Din nods,

“Thank you for rescuing me. You were right. Mandalore is not cursed.”

“Was I? Look around. There’s nothing left. A great society is now a memory. I once ruled here for a brief time,” Bo-Katan says reminiscing old and dead memories, “Now, it’s destroyed. Nothing to cling to but ashes.” She sighs getting up holding a small cup filled with a mystery liquid Din looks at it curiously,

“What is this?”

“You’ve never eaten pog soup?” She says shocked and Din shakes his head, “No.”

Bo-Katan chuckles at the irony, “Can you appreciate the irony? Any Mandalorian worth their armor was raised on this since they were his size. You should rest. I’ll get you back to my ship soon enough.” She explains as Din drinks part of the soup lifting his helmet slightly though not revealing his face before giving the rest of the soup to Grogu. He rises with a groan shaking his head,

“I’m not going with you.” He says and Bo-Katan watches him behind to put his weapons and jetpack back on him, “What are you talking about?”

“I must continue to the Mines of Mandalore so that I may be redeemed.” He says finishing by grabbing the darksaber to return to you.

“I honestly think that it’s adorable that you actually believe these children’s stories. But there is nothing magic about the waters.” She says trying to convince him to but he was already on a mission he was not going to drift from.

“Without the Creed, what are we?” He asks her moving to the fire grabbing the last cup of the pog soup and moving towards the sleeping girl, “What do we stand for? Our people are scattered like stars in the galaxy. The Creed is how we survived. You rescued me and I’ll always be in your debt. But I can’t go with you until I fulfill my obligation.” He kneels down and slowly shakes the girl awake.

You feel a gentle caress on your head as you stir from a dreamless sleep, “Come on kid,” You hear Din’s voice as you slowly blink your eyes open a groan coming deep in your chest as you see him kneel down beside you.

“Din..” You whisper as he helps you to sit before he holds out a cup, “Drink. Regain your strength.” He says as you accept the cup drinking what is soup as he looks over you taking any injuries you might have sustained but you just look tired. Bo-Katan watches the gentleness that the Mandalorian gives to you. How the fierce warrior that fought against the Imperials and many bounty hunters and lived act so soft around a small green infant and her own grand-niece.

“I will take you.” She says and you both look over at Bo-Katan, unsure what the context was of their conversation.

“To the Living Waters?” You ask and Bo-Katan nods, “Yes. You’d never find them on your own. Not in all this wreckage.” She says and Din nods,

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me until you see them.” She says and soon you begin your journey once more through the ruins of the old city. The place seemed trapped in time the ruins holding the history of this planet or the few Mandalorians that escaped the purge. Everything felt familiar and welcoming about this place, never once have you stepped foot on Mandalore but it feels like you were returning after years of being apart. An unknown force connects you to this place as Bo-Katan leads you through the city ruins.

“It’s hard to believe that this all was once filled with our kind,” Din says as he takes in the ruins of the once glorious city. It was rare to see a Mandalorian in the same system or planet but having them all together cultivating a planet, growing up, and raising foundlings here, Din couldn’t believe it. He wishes the planet was in its state of prosperity, he would raise you and the child here as foundlings, and you would be back on the planet of your ancestors.

“It wasn’t that long ago. You’d never know it looking at all this destruction.” Bo-Katan says taking in the ruins.

“It looks like it’s been centuries.” You say spinning around while walking and looking at the buildings that are high above you, you imagine Mandalorians traveling by jetpacks or trains and speeders. The people in their armor with pride. You try to imagine your father, being born here. You wonder what he would say if he knew you return to his homeworld, did he wear Mandalorian armor? Did he speak the Creed and Walk the Way?

“The Empire set out to punish us. To wipe away our memory.” Bo-Katan says and Din glances over at the woman, “It must pain you to see it like this after witnessing its beauty.”

Bo-Katan is silent before speaking up, “What pains me is seeing our own kind fight one another time and time again. Killing each other for reasons too confusing to explain. It made us weak. We had no hope to resist being smashed by the fist of the Empire. There. The entrance to the Mines of Mandalore.” She points ahead and you see a tall entrance before you that still remains intact.

“olaror adiik…at te oya'la pirun” (come child…to the living water) A chorus of whispers calls out to you, and the harmony of voices graces your skin. An electric feeling dances along your body the hair on your skin standing feeling the presence. It was the same feeling as you felt that energy from your dream as Din spoke but it felt drowned under your thoughts

“This area looks much older.” He says and the feeling of eyes watching you fade as his voice becomes clear,

“The mines have been here for thousands of years. The Living Waters are in the chambers below.” Bo-Katan explains and you look over at her, “Have you been there?” You ask and she nods,

“Yes, when I was a child.” She says before glancing at you briefly, “So was your father.” You perk up hearing the mention of your father.

“Really?” You ask wanting to know more about your family and their past. The history that connected them so deeply to this planet and its people.

“I was part of the royal family. I took the Creed and was showered with gifts. But the rituals were all just theater for our subjects. They loved watching the princess recite the Mandalorian tenets as her father looked on proudly. Such a heartwarming spectacle. Your father was the same reciting the Creed though he wanted to grow and be the right ruler to Mandalore. One that Mandalorians could fight for and alongside.” Bo-Katan says glancing at you with a nostalgic expression seeing the familiar features of her nephew on your face, “Our family thought it taboo what he believed in at such a young age. He wanted Mandalorians to know that wherever they were in the galaxy they had a home on Mandalore…” She grows quiet glancing at Din slightly, “No matter what Creed they follow.”

Your wide eyes turn to Din and you can sense the surprise coming off him, from your father’s ideals at such a young age. “He would be happy,” Bo-Katan says looking at you, “That you are home.” She says before looking away and you can tell this was a very emotion-filled conversation she hadn’t expected to have in a long time or ever. You grab her hand and she looks at you surprised,

“Thank you for telling me about my father…Your father sounds like an interesting man as well. I would’ve liked to have known him.” You say, you felt like so much of your history was hidden, with only one living relative and the planet that would hold all its secrets in ruins. You could only grasp pieces of your fragmented family legacy. Bo-Katan nods squeezing your hand in return,

“They were great men. They died defending Mandalore.” She says and you knew that even though your father didn’t die defending your planet like your great-grandfather but your father had protected you all those years ago. Keeping a piece of the Kryze Clan alive, protecting his last piece of Mandalore.

“This is the Way.” You speak the words of both Mandalorians' Creed surprising them both. Bo-Katan felt like a piece of her lost family restored with your words, the last living members of a dying clan. Din felt pride and complete shock as well as hearing you speak the words of his Creed with every intent behind it.

“This is the Way…” The two whisper back as they look at the young girl. You were of two dying worlds; the Jedi with its people massacred many years ago being the grandchild of a great Jedi Master and the Mandalorians their planet destroyed their people scattered across the galaxy grandchild of their late Duchess one of the last survivors of a clan.

“ibic cuyir te ara” The chorus echoes through the caves but you’re the only one that turns to the sound. Your hand drifts from Bo-Katan’s as you take the lead. Returning to a familiar tunnel the holders for the torches and lanterns are now destroyed you don’t even use the light from your saber letting that energy guide you. Din, Bo-Katan, and Gorgu quickly follow behind you as you are pulled into a daze turning down a complex system of tunnels as they catch glimpses of you as you move ahead.

“Kid! Wait for us!” Din yells seeing you quickly disappear around a corner of darkness the three of them having light while you travel in darkness, “She doesn’t even know where she’s going.” Din grumbles but Bo-Katan shakes her head with a surprised expression.

“She’s going the right way…” She says as the three quickly follow after the two adults confused about how you knew the way.

“ibic cuyir te ara…olaror adiik” The voices whisper again as turn down another path the darkness surrounds you but it guides you the whispering of Mando’a becoming louder and overlapping as it echoes through the tunnels until you reach an opening. A vast pool of water is accessible by a wide stone staircase. Pillars of stone though roughed by erosion, a greenish glow fills the cave from the green glass that surrounds the planet. It was just like your dream, remnants of broken lanterns make a path toward the murky waters. It’s completely silent as you look out into the water and it ripples and you sense something in there.

Lo te pirun

The voices whisper as you slowly move forward and you pull off your holster holding your blaster and vibro-knife as they fall to the ground.

To mhi

It echoes around as you pull your saber letting it clatter to the floor, the voices whisper into your ears pulling you to the water as you take a step down the water licking at your boot. You pull the Darksaber from your belt the weight heavy in your palm as you ignite the blade the light draining from the room as your gaze follows the sword-like energy coming from the blade. Whispers and haunted memories flow from the blade. Presences fill the room as a hand reaches from behind you grabbing your wrist that holds the saber you look to your side seeing a human man wearing grey Mandalorian armor with blue accents his head is shaved and his eyes a storm blue, another hand grabs your other wrist and you see a man feeling his presence in the force his black robes with red skin and black markings, his head covered in spikes and his eyes a mixture of red and yellow.

“Blood for the Mand’alor.” The Mandalorian says his hand guiding the weapon to your other hand. “Blood for the Jedi.” The red-skinned man hisses. You feel numb as the Darksaber slices across your palm feeling a muffled heat before the blade is pulled back and palm pours from your palm. The force-sensitive man holds your wrist out as the blood pours into the water a ripple of red mixing with the murky water. Your grasp on the Darksaber disappears as the men’s grasp leaves you and the weapon clatters to the ground.

“I swear on my name. And the names of the Ancestors..” The voices echo and you repeat the words as you draw deeper into the water at your hip

Ad be Kryze…kemir te ara be Manda'yaim

“That I shall walk the way of the Mand’alor… and the words of the Creed shall be forever forged in my heart.” The chorus of voices some familiar you pick but they speak in harmony as you repeat what they whisper to you.

t'adyc ad be jetiise Kenobi. t'adyc ad be Mando Kryze.

“Ibic cuyir te ara” You call out the water reaching your chest, “This is the Way.” The chorus echoes as you feel that presence in the water grows stronger.

Mand'alor be cuun adate

“It ends here Mand’alor.” “Kid!” Moff Gideon’s and Din’s voice fills your head the haze that covered you clears right as you walk off the shallow shelf and Bo-Katan and Din see you abruptly disappear in the water.

Tal kelir galar par gar

Both Din and Bo-Katan dive into the water without hesitation using their jetpacks to speed up the quickly sinking girl. Their lights look around frantically for the girl before Din notices the seemingly lifeless body of his daughter resting at the bottom of the trench. Swimming down wrapping an arm under her armpits quickly using his jetpack to assist him to get to the surface with Bo-Katan following behind as cover. Din is so focused on getting his daughter to safety as Bo-Katan watches out into the dark water when they suddenly pass a giant reptilian creature with white horns. Bo-Katan’s eyes widen when her light hits the creature seeing its eye open and staring back at the woman. A creature only told in myths said to be long dead but the symbol of its people. The mines according to folklore said to be the lair of this creature. She lets out a gasp as they speed away as she watches the large creature swim off into the darkness. The three reach the surface crashing onto the steps as Bo-Katan gasp for air while Din who also struggles to catch his breath hovers over the young girl trying to get her to wake up. Sudden coughs fill the air water expelling out of her mouth as she wheezes trying to get air back in her lungs but she was alive.

The small clan of three comforts each other from the event as the female Mandalorian stares out into the waters taking great, heaving breaths. She wasn’t sure what she saw down there or if she even saw something down there at all. They were meant to be extinct the last one seen during the age of the first Mandalore…then why did she see a mythosaur in those waters.

#star wars #star wars fanfiction #the mandalorian #clan of three #clan of three series #din djarin #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin x reader #din djarin x teen!reader #din djarin x jedi!reader #din x reader #din djarin x y/n #mando x reader

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haee-elia · 8 months

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spence-tober: day 15 - fisherman

pairing: fishermen!spencer reid x fem!reader

summary: in which your husband finally gets to teach your daughter his trade

word count: 1307

warnings: very kid-centric, mentions of pregnancy, commercial fishing, hobby fishing, and scaling fish

spence-tober masterlist

Despite being on a generations old, rickety boat that has seen better days, you considered the scene in front of you one of your favorites.

Being married to a fisherman was interesting to say the least. You had to get used to your husband, Spencer, smelling like fish all the time. You quickly realized that most food you eat was going to be seafood. And you had to fight your initial fears and get on the boat owned by your husband that he used to go out every day and fish.

And it wasn’t like fishing was a hobby that your husband did often, no, it was his occupation. So yes, finding a laundry detergent that would cleanse clothes of the fishy smell was a necessary venture.

You’re probably luckier than most. You grew up with your father who was an avid fisherman and you were actually just beginning as an assistant dockmaster at a marina when you had first met Spencer who docks his boat at the marina when not in use.

The way you met Spencer was always a great story that did well with other fishermen or anyone hanging around the docks. It was your first day at this specific marina and hadn’t realized they had just powerwashed the dock when you slipped on the wet metal and had almost fallen, while heading towards the office at the marina.

Spencer, almost like a fairytale prince, had caught you by your waist, keeping you from falling and hitting your head. He was dressed in overalls and dirty fishing boots, having just finished gutting some fish.

You didn’t start dating right after you met, but with you working as the assistant dockmaster and with him departing and arriving at the dock every day, you had slowly gotten to know each other and then started dating after a few months.

Now, six years later, Spencer was still commercial fishing for the area and now employed a small crew to help. You had been promoted to dockmaster and managed the marina and the comings and goings. You both had also moved in together, got engaged, got married, and had your daughter in the last six years.

Your daughter, the perfect combination of you and Spencer and all of four years old, was standing with her father near an open end of the boat so she could see over in the water. She had a life jacket on, of course, and a small kid sized fishing pole in her hand. It was red, at her insistence.

“Alright,” Spencer said, talking to her on her level. He’s crouched down with a life jacket on as well, afterall, your daughter had argued that if she had to wear one then he had to as well. “I’ll place a little piece of bait on your hook and then you’ll cast it out. Remember what we practiced.” He reminded her.

She eagerly nodded her head and watched her father with a smile as he snuggly put a small piece of bait on the hook of her pole.

It wasn’t her first time ever on the boat, in fact, you had carried her on when she was just six months old, cradled small to your chest as you and Spencer relaxed in the breeze from the ocean. However, this was her first time fishing on the boat and Spencer had determined it was finally time to teach her.

“Now what do we do?” Spencer asks her with a look of complete and utter adoration towards the small girl. Ever since she had stepped on the boat and you all had sailed towards a small inlet, Spencer has had one of the brightest smiles you had ever seen on his face.

“Fish!” Your daughter exclaimed, nearly swinging the fishing pole right at your husband.

He didn’t mind, just moved his head out of the way as he laughed and nodded.

“That’s right.” Spencer replied. He switched his position to be right behind her and helped her small little form cast her fishing pole perhaps three feet right in front of her in the water.

Still, they both cheered.

Your daughter looked back at you, in a comfortable chair with sunglasses on, a life jacket (it would be unfair otherwise), and your kindle.

“Mommy look!” She said in her adorable squeaky high, excited voice.

“I see, babygirl!” You say to her, “You did such a good job. Now you have to wait for a fishy.”

“Fishy!” She repeated after you with a loud giggle. Her grip on the pole was light and probably would have fallen right out of her hands if not for Spencer’s hands on it as well.

You knew Spencer had been dreaming about this moment ever since you both found out you were expecting. Since then, he’s always been planning on when and how he would teach his own daughter to fish. After all, Spencer always tells you of his three loves. His daughter, you as his wife, and the art of fishing.

“Daddy where’s fishy?” Your daughter asked, quickly turning her attention to her tall father.

Spencer uses one of his hands to carefully grip her hands around the pole and the other to point into the water, “Fishy is in there, sweet bean.”

Bean, a nickname coming from what you both called your daughter when you were pregnant and before you had known the gender. It was fitting as well, since your daughter was on the smaller size when born.

“I catch fishy.” Your daughter says, confidently, in a matter of fact tone.

Spencer smiles widely and you sneakily bring your phone out to film the sweet moment between father and daughter.

“Yes, you do, sweet bean.” He confirms, pressing a kiss onto her unruly brown hair.

She giggles wildly at the action, “And you catch fishy.”

Spencer nods, “I do catch fishy, lots of fishies.”

“We eat fishy.” She also says.

Fishy was her first word, much to Spencer’s delight. However, she did say mama before dada so that was a win in your book.

Spencer nods again, “We do.”

Even so young, you and Spencer had done a good job about teaching her about how fish are caught and eaten. It became imperative to teach her this when her daycare read her The Rainbow Fish and she had exclaimed loudly to the rest of her small class that they ate fish. That and how before she was in daycare, she often joined you at the marina where you worked and would quite commonly see large buckets of fish on ice or men and women scaling them right on the dock.

Her cute doe eyes turn to her dad, “We eat my fishy?” She asks, her bottom lip wobbling.

Spencer shakes his head hesitantly, “We don’t have to eat your fishy, sweet bean.” He confirms.

While Spencer went out and fished every day to bring back and sell, when he would hobby fish on the boat he often let go what he caught.

Her face lit back up again, “Yay!” She cheered.

She kept her attention on her dad, “But no keeps.” She affirmed.

Spencer nodded and she cheered again for remembering her father’s teachings. “No keeps.” Spencer repeated.

Another thing the two of you had taught her was the different between pet fish and fish you caught in the ocean. It was a confusing pet shop trip, but Spencer has always been incredibly patient with her and eager to teach her all about fish.

As you settled into your chair and kept your phone camera on your small family, you’re reminded of the years spent with your husband and with your daughter.

“Fishy’s pulling!”

“Come on, sweet bean. Reel it in!”

“Fishy! Mommy look!”

“I see, sweetheart, you got a fishy!”

Yes, these were definitely your favorite days.

a/n: i was feeling a little burnt out writing so many of the same scenario of meet cutes so i mixed it up a bit. i know kids aren't for everyone, but this really refreshed my creativity for the rest of this October so enjoy!

#criminal minds #criminalminds #spencer reid #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds fluff #dr. spencer reid #criminal minds fic #dr. spencer reid x reader #dr. spencer reid x fem!reader #dr. spencer reid #dr. spencer reid x you #spencer reid au #spencer reid fanfic

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meganwritesfanfics · 6 months

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Clandestine Meetings (Joel Miller x Reader) Chapter 5

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Joel Miller x Reader

Joel has tried his best to stay away from Y/N, but it seems the universe has other plans. When he runs into her on the street, the two confront their feelings and everything gets a lot more complicated.

Word Count: 1735

Rating M: For later chapters, angst, discussion of DV. Talk of injuries.

It was a good week or so before Joel saw Y/N again. Soon after the bomb incident, he and Tess had gone out to get supplies to trade. They usually didn’t stay away for more than a couple days, however even when they got back, Joel made it a point to only pick jobs at times when he didn’t think Y/N would show up. He felt guilty about the way he had treated her, however he knew Tess and Tommy were right. The feelings he had for Y/N, whatever they may have been were dangerous, not only for himself and the people around him but also for Y/N. He knew that her shit husband hurt her, and he didn’t want to be the cause of making it even worse. And so Joel’s world had fallen back into the colorless routine it had been before.

That was why when he had accidentally ran into her on the street, it had taken him by surprise. But what took him even more by surprise and what caused his entire body to vibrate with rage were the bruises that littered her face and neck. She had a black eye, a busted lip, and what looked like finger bruises from where someone had gripped her neck tightly.

The minute he laid eyes on this, he roughly grabbed her by her shoulders, turning her so she was looking at him, taking her completely by surprise.

“Who the fuck did this to you.” He snarled his eyes darting between each bruise.

“Joel?” Y/N asked shocked.

“Was it that fucking husband of yours,” Joel continued. “I’ll fucking kill him.”

Suddenly Y/N pushed Joel back hard snapping him out of his rage.

“Why the fuck do you care.” Y/N snapped. “A few days ago you wanted nothing to fucking do with me, and now you are going to commit murder for me?”

“Y/N,” Joel sighed as he looked around to make sure that no one was watching them.��

“No, Joel, when I had come back I was going to ask you… I thought you…” Y/N groaned, “Ugh forget it, listen I get it, I’m a pain in your ass right, I cause problems right, I waste your precious fucking time right!” She screamed and her screams were starting to grab peoples attention.

Quickly Joel grabbed her hand and dragged her into a near by ally. As much as she protested and fought him.

“Y/N,” He said calmly but still she fought him. “Y/N!” He shouted as he gently took her face in his hands and she instantly went quite. “Listen to me, I had meant what I said before, if anyone hurts you, especially your husband, I want you, no I need you to come to me, I will take care of it.”

Y/N reached up and wrapped her hands around Joel’s wrists as she sighed.

“I can’t keep up with your mood swings Joel.” She said quietly all the anger fading into sadness. “One moment you are nice and boarderline sweet and the next you are an absolute dick.”

Joel dropped his hands and took a step back as he looked at the ground.

“I’m sorry about before I… things are complicated.”

“Of course things are complicated, the world is fucked Joel. But I thought maybe I had found someone who made things just a little less complicated, someone who made things make some sort of sense. But I guess I was wrong.” Joel could see tears welling up in her eyes. “I better go, and don’t worry I will stay out of your life Joel.”

“Wait,” Joel reached out and grabbed her wrist and when he did she let out a loud cry. He instantly let go.

“I’m sorry, it’s… I fell the other day and…”

“You know you can cut the bullshit with me.” Joel instantly replied and Y/N just looked up at him her eyes filled with an awful sadness and yearning. “Can I see it?”

Y/N hesitated for a moment before she walked forward and lifted her long sleeves so he could see her swollen and bruises wrist.

He seethed as he gingerly took her hand in his.

“It’s fine, I think it is only fractured.” She said and Joel’s head snapped up his eyes filled with rage.

“It is sure as shit not fine.”

“Well unfortunately it just is what it is.” She sighed as she took her hand out of his and pulled down her sleeve again.

“It doesn’t have to me.” Joel took a step closer towards her.

“I don’t really have another choice, if I leave, either he will kill me or he will send F.E.D.R.A. to do it.”

“I could kill him.”

“And then F.E.D.R.A. would kill you, not going to happen.” She snapped as she leaned up against the brick wall.

“Why are you with him?” Joel asked surprised at himself for the asking such a question.

Y/N couldn’t help but smirk sadly. “That is a story for another time cowboy.”

Joel made his way towards her putting one hand on the wall and leaned in closer to her.

“I’m sorry about what I said, I didn’t mean it. It’s just, I don’t think it is a good idea for you and I to hang around each other.”

“You afraid I’m going to get you roped into trouble Miller,” Y/N smirked a smile finally creeping its way back onto her face.

“It’s not just myself I’m worried about its Tess and…”

“Tommy?” She interrupted. Joel gave her an inquisitive look. “One upside to having a husband who works for F.E.D.R.A, I can get access to everyones files. How do you think I know so much about everyone.”

“You looked me up darlin’’?” Joel smirked inching even closer to Y/N.

“Oh I had to, with the dark and stormy aura you give off, I had to see what you were all about.”

They were silent for a moment, the space between them was growing smaller with each passing second.

“But you are right, it might be better if we just keep our separate ways. I don’t want to get you in trouble. And Tommy’s in enough shit as it is.”

Joel’s blood ran cold. And Y/N watched as Joel’s face fell and his eyes went wide with fear.

“Don’t worry F.E.D.R.A doesn’t know. But hell that boy does not do a good job hiding it, I could spot him from a mile away. You need to tell him to watch his back.”

Joel just nodded, his thoughts wandering off to nightmare he had about Tommy getting caught or killed. He could feel his chest start to tighten up and his vision start to blur.

“Joel,” Y/N called as she saw his demenor change. But to him her voice sounded far off, it echoed like she was in a tunnel. “Joel?” She called again as she placed her hand gently on his cheek. With her touch he steadied his vision righted itself and the tightness in his chest lessened. “Where did you go?”

In that moment, standing so close to her, her hand on his cheek, he wanted nothing more than to kiss her, to pull her in close to him and never let her go. His rational mind kept telling him what a bad idea that was, how many things could go wrong. But he didn’t care he just kept pushing those thoughts away. That was until he thought about Sarah, and the ever familiar constant pain he felt flared up again. He couldn’t feel that pain again, not in any capacity. And it was too risky to open his heart up again. Especially since Y/N didn’t seem like she had any plans to leave her abusive huband.

Clearing his throat, Joel backed up crossing his arms in front of his chest.

“So what are we going to do?” He asked.

“About what?” She said hurt at his distance.

“About us?”

“Is there an us?”

“I mean… I don’t want to not help you when you need it. But I also got to think about keeping Tess and Tommy safe.”

“Yeah,” She looked down at her feet sadly.

“And I like being around you.”

“I like being around you too.”

“Is there anyway I can get you to just keep your head down and try not to cause problems?”

“Not a chance.” Y/N snapped her head up to look back at him.

Joel sighed sadly. “That’s what I thought.”

They stood silent for a few moments, and Y/N could feel herself starting to get choked up.

“So I guess that’s it.” Y/N said.

“Y/N…”

“Well, it was nice knowing you Joel Miller. I hope you have a good life, I mean, as good as any of us can hope for in this shit storm.” Y/N started to walk away and Joel stayed behind watching her.

She hadn’t even made it out of the ally before she stopped. “Oh fuck it.” She mumbled under her breath as she turned and marched back to Joel.

“Y/N?” Joel asked confused.

“Kiss me.” She snapped and Joel froze.

“Wha…”

“There is this feeling between us, and I hope to God you feel it to, but it feels so different than anything I have felt in a while. I can’t explain it but when I am with you, things feel better. It’s almost like you bring color…” She started when Joel quickly pulled her into him and kissed her.

The spark that he felt in his stomach when their lips met, sent goosebumps all over his skin. This kiss wasn’t just a normal run of the mill kiss, this was something more. It made his chest tighten but not in a bad way. And when he felt her open her mouth slightly and he deepend the kiss, he thought his heart was going to explode.

They broke away only to breath, and when they look at each other they both smiled, Joel’s hands on her face, his thumb rubbing her cheeks.

“Not bad cowboy.” She smirked.

“Oh I’m just getting started darlin’ “ Joel growled seductively as he kissed her again, pushing her back into the brick wall.

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#joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x you #fanfic #tlou

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comphy-and-cozy · 2 years

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Third Time’s the Charm - Tyson Jost

Pairing: Tyson Jost x plus sized!Reader (f)

Summary: Tyson Jost has been your best friend since you were kids. After a drunken hookup, you thought you’d lost him forever - that is, until he gets traded to the Minnesota Wild, conveniently the city in which you now reside. Will the former flame return when you reunite, or has the time changed everything forever?

Word Count: 11.1K

Author’s Note: I wrote this for @jostystyles for @antoineroussel's Summer Fic Exchange! I had an absolute blast writing this, and I tried to factor in as many of Emmie’s requests as I could (including several appropriately-placed Harry mentions, of course). Hope you enjoy, and happy belated birthday, sweetness! Also huge s/o to Demi for beta reading and daydreaming over Tys with me. ☺️🖤

Warnings: Smut (18+ ONLY) and angst (but a happy ending I promise). Alcohol use/mention and drunk hookup reference, language, plus sized body insecurity/themes, mutual pining, mentions of The Trade, oral sex (m + f receiving), protected sex, (1) overused trope, and multiple Harry Styles references.

Masterlist

Part 1: The Reunion

It was like any other Tuesday when you got the news, scrolling Twitter on your lunch break when a headline caught your eye.

BREAKING: TYSON JOST TRADED TO WILD BY AVALANCHE FOR NICO STURM

The name struck you, familiar and foreign all at once. You hadn’t seen him in years, and outside of the occasional birthday text or Instagram message, you hardly spoke to him, either. But here he was, apparently moving to Minnesota all the same.

When you were kids, you were inseparable. On your first day of kindergarten, you had burst into tears immediately upon walking into the school. A small, dark haired boy with curly hair walked right up to you, gave you a hug, and took your hand, leading you to your classroom with a smile. That boy was Tyson Jost. You hadn’t known it yet, but he would soon become your first — and best — friend.

He was your first kiss on the playground in the 3rd grade, blushing in the alcove of the slide on the jungle gym. A girl in your class dared you to do it, and you were determined, marching right up to him and kissing him on the mouth, before sticking your tongue out at him and sliding down the spiral slide.

In middle school, you went to your first dance with another boy, but ended the night in tears and outside on the swings with Tyson when you caught your date kissing someone else. The next dance, you went with Tyson platonically, awkwardly swaying while his hands rested firmly on your upper hip, looking anywhere but in your eyes.

When he moved away to British Columbia to go to the hockey academy, you’d cried for a week, the loss insurmountable to your teenage self. Despite being hours away from your best friend, you’d talked every night on the phone, trying to act like nothing had changed, keeping each other abreast of the updates in your day.

But, over time, those phone calls became less frequent, and the updates became more vague. Tyson got busier with travel and was being seriously scouted, and you were involved with your own studies and extracurriculars. Tyson was never gone completely, though – you worked part time at the concession stand of the local hockey rink, and every dark haired boy that ordered chicken fingers had him dancing across your mind, wondering what he was doing, fingers twitching to send him a text.

Things changed even more once he got drafted to the Avalanche. Despite the distance that had grown between you through the years, disappointing but understood by both of you as part of life, you still made the invite list for his first NHL game, sitting with his mom and sister in the stands. In celebration of the thrilling shootout win, you later ended the night tangled with Tyson in the sheets, a drunken and awkwardly not-that-awkward hook up that transformed your relationship forever.

Since that night, you hadn’t spoken. You’d slipped out of the bed and disappeared too early for him to wake up and put the pieces together, and the lack of phone call, text, pigeon carrier confirmed your beliefs that it was a stupid, terrible mistake that cost the both of you a best friend.

You hadn’t seen him since that night either, only the occasional update on his Facebook or Instagram, but you knew he was looking good – better than you ever remember him looking, the professional training certainly doing excellent things for his physique. You’d never really processed that night with him, having never really looked at him like that, because he was just… Tyson. Not NHL player Tyson Jost, not playboy extraordinaire, just Tyson, your friend.

And that’s what he was when you sent him a text, the ‘would love to catch up over lunch!’ masking the apprehension in the thumb that hovered over the send button for longer than you’d care to admit. Was he still just Tyson? Had his years in the NHL, making millionaire money, traveling all across the globe changed him from that curly-headed little boy you’d met all those years ago? Did the night between the sheets, whispers of his name falling from your lips while his hands danced over your body, change who he was to you?

Tyson got the text as he was scrolling through Instagram, searching his recent following for some new Minnesota prospects, replacing the slew of Denver girls he could hit up when he needed a night horizontal. Blonde, brunette, redhead, curvy, thin, busty — he didn’t discriminate.

He was 3 months deep in a girl’s feed, a blonde with the middle name ‘Rose’, when his eyes flicked up to the top of his screen, blinking a moment to register the name he was no longer accustomed to seeing texts from. Immediately, he abandoned whatshername to read the message you’d sent him, eyebrows raised in pleasant surprise at the lunch invitation.

Truthfully, he’d completely forgotten that you were in Minnesota — working in Minneapolis, if he remembered correctly from a Facebook post months ago. He was delighted to hear from you, pushing away the pang of guilt he always felt whenever you crossed his mind; he regretted the way that he’d let you slip away and out of his life. He hadn’t meant to; you were never meant to be the kind of friend that turned into a childhood best friend, but life had happened and before he knew it, that’s what you had become.

He’d be lying if he said that night didn’t still cross his mind, never speaking of it aloud. He remembered waking up alone, the faded smell of your perfume still lingering on the pillow beside him. No note, no text, no nothing — just gone, vanished from your life like it never happened. He assumed you’d left with regret in your heart, the forbidden act between two friends an invisible line crossed in thousands of ways, so he never reached out. Never called, never said anything, just letting the memory fade.

Setting up lunch was easy, a few friendly texts exchanged before deciding on a time and place. New to the city, he followed your suggestion and said he’d show up wherever you told him to. When the day came, you were almost embarrassed at the anxiety that bubbled inside of you, the kind of anticipation that made you change your shirt three separate times to make sure you exuded the right amount of not-trying-too-hard-but-still-cute-enough-that-you-know-I’ve-got-my-shit-together. Fortunately, Tyson’s easygoing nature made the initial greeting more natural than if you had led it, not knowing if a hug was inappropriate after all of the years of half-assed birthday texts and the unspoken elephant in the room. He’d scooped you up into his arms before you’d barely managed to get a “hey” out, and you immediately took comfort in his proximity.

The warm up was a bit uncomfortable, despite the all-too-easy softball questions that came with a reunion like this, the how have you been?s, how’s your mom?s, what are you doing for work now?s. Deep down, you both knew that you shouldn’t have to be answering these questions, that it felt counterintuitive with someone who once knew you inside and out. Still, you answered them in stride, giving him the updates he needed and easily making the transition to his very recent move to Minnesota and, simultaneously, his farewell to Denver.

When he told you about JT, you were surprised that there was no inkling of jealousy, rather, comfort knowing that he’d found someone else to take your place, to be that anchor for him in the new phase of his life — and certainly, you thought, someone that would never cross the physical line you had, betraying the friendship you’d built over many years in the course of one drunken night. It was not, and would never be, a competition, and you harbored no resentment at how things had turned out. You couldn’t help but wonder what JT was like — did he have the same sense of humor as you? What was their favorite thing to do together? Were you friends with the same Tyson?

With each laugh, each new quality revealed, you felt the invisible barrier between you breaking down slowly, still seeing flashes of the same Tyson you once confided in for everything, comforted to know that not everything had changed. All of it was surface conversation, though, and you both knew it. It was a strange feeling, to be sitting in front of someone so familiar, yet so foreign at the same time, like riding a bike and remembering how to steer, pedal, and balance all at once, before the muscle memory kicks in.

“D’you remember that time that you fell in the frozen pond by your house?” he asked, out of the blue, as you were taking a sip of your water.

Boom. There went the barrier, the remaining fragments tumbling down into a heap on the table, shattered in an instant.

“Oh my god, that was so terrifying!” you exclaimed, shaking your head at the memory. “I thought I was going to drown right then and there. It was so cold, and I freaked out. And then when we got back to my house and I was shivering and soaked, you told my mom —“

“—it’s all in the past, Miss Lynn!” he finished, causing you to double over, nodding as you laughed.

“To this day, whenever that comes up, my mom still says that you saved my life. You were the one who told me not to panic and to swim slowly,” you said once the giggles had subsided.

“Yeah, I never got a Boy Scout badge for that one,” he grinned.

The memories came out naturally, laughing jovially as you recalled each one with fondness and the fair share of giggles, the nostalgia what you needed to solidify the reconnection. Before you knew it, you realized you’d been there for three hours — five years of silence vanished just like that in the course of one afternoon.

“I’m really glad you called. It’s so good to see you, Kiwi,” he said as you stood in the parking lot beside your car, squeezing you tightly in his arms.

Kiwi. That silly little nickname he’d given you in elementary school because you’d worn a green shirt with brown pants. Somehow, it stuck, and you became Kiwi.

The flashes of the Tyson you knew were there, peeking through the private jets and flashing lights of his career that made him feel so distant, separating your lifestyles with an extra comma and several additional 0’s. As you drove home, his voice echoing in your mind, you asked yourself, were things similar enough? Even if he was the same Tyson, were you still the same Kiwi?

Part 2: The Rekindling

From the moment he got that text from you, Tyson swore all of his problems dissipated. It was cheesy and he hated it, but he had a literal pep in his step ever since he got back from lunch. He was playing more confidently, producing more than he had in Colorado, and while he knew that realistically, it was probably due in part to the change of scenery and the subconscious desire to prove himself, he couldn’t help but attribute it to you.

After that day at the cafe, he’d solidified a spot in your life, at the front of the table, almost like he’d never left, like he’d just been away at summer camp for a few weeks. You found yourself spending much of your free time with him, at his place or yours, or out showing him the Twin Cities like a proper tour guide. Despite the drastic changes in your lives, it was all too easy to fall back into your old routine, muscle memory kicking in after shaking the rust off and doing a few practice loops.

Things were different, though, slight shifts in the dynamic from all those years ago; it was only natural, given the growth you’d both gone through, physically, mentally, emotionally. You were older, more stable, and more mature. You noticed that he’d begun to fill the gaps in your life that would normally be filled by a romantic partner, if you’d had one — the go-to person to invite to the new restaurant you wanted to try, binge-watching your new favorite Netflix show, sending regular text updates about your day. Sure, you had other friends, and so did he, but it was clear from day 1 that you were each other’s first choice, maybe in more ways than one.

As the weeks turned into months, the regular season waning into the playoff preparations, you found yourself longing to be with him more, dreading the away games and extended time apart as he spent more time training, practicing, working out. You told yourself it was just that you’d spent so much time drifting apart and that it was refreshing, rejuvenating to have your closest friend back, a different kind of happy with him back in your life, not willing to even consider the other explanation.

The way he looked at you was different, too, though you did your best to ignore it. He was more affectionate, even cuddly, brushing your arm when he walked past, thigh bumping against yours when he sat next to you on the couch, arms squeezing you tighter when he hugged you goodbye — which was apparently something you did now, despite never having done it before. There was a light in his eye that you hadn’t noticed before, assuming it was a detail you’d forgotten about him in the years you’d grown apart, but it quickly became one of your favorite parts of him, the warmth in his smile and the affection in his eyes a place of comfort you’d missed out on.

And, you’d be lying if you said you didn’t notice the benefit of his profession and his extra time in the gym — praising the warm weather, you looked forward to spending time outside with him, eyes running appreciatively over the cut of his arms and the stretch of fabric over his muscled chest. If he noticed, he didn’t say anything, though you did your best to hide behind the shade of your sunglasses — except for the one time you’d walked into his apartment when he was in just a towel, and you’d both stuttered uncomfortably before he ran back into his room to change. (You’d dreamt about his toned six-pack and the drip of the water down his hardened chest for days after.)

He’d introduced you to some of his teammates, vaguely, never really giving you a label — just Y/N — but then, what was the label even supposed to be? Childhood best friend who I reconnected with and is now my best friend again? Former best friend who I drunkenly fucked one night and never spoke to again, but am now speaking to again?

Yeah, you thought, maybe it was best to avoid the labels for now. And maybe there was something more going on than just friendship. But that was another conversation for another time.

When the Wild were disappointingly eliminated from the playoffs, Tyson’s summer break began earlier than expected, and he was quick to invite you on a trip to Denver. He still had his brand deal with Coors Light, and they’d asked him to attend an Avs watch party at Coors Field. It worked out well, since he was already planning on going to cheer on the boys, his connection with the team never fading despite the disappointing departure a few months prior.

It was natural, just like old times; you’d brought the other to dances, proms, parties, when there was no romantic partner of the month. This was really no different, except for the fact that he was now a professional athlete paid millions to schmooze with the fans and stakeholders, the events much more lavish than a homecoming in your middle school gym. In the past, there had never been any question that it was never a date, but now, you weren’t so sure.

When you got to the hotel to check in, the front desk agent had blushed profusely when he gave his name, eyes looking a little too wide and lips a little too pouty for your liking. He’d smiled warmly while you bristled beside him, absolutely no reason to be feeling this contempt toward the kind woman who was simply doing her job.

She didn’t have to put her hand on his, though, when she’d paused her typing to say in a far-from-professional seductive tone, “You were my favorite Av.”

So maybe you felt a little surge of pride at the way her face fell, glossed lips breaking her smile, when she looked at the reservation. Her eyes flicked to you, having already dismissed you in favor of speaking only to Tyson, then turned her attention back to him.

“Mr. Jost, I’m sorry, but it looks like you only have one room on your reservation.”

“Yes, that’s correct,” he replied, and you felt the sinful pride welling up in your gut as she nodded curtly.

“I see,” she said curtly, eyes glancing back to you yet again, not doing much of anything to hide her own contempt. “Unfortunately, it looks like the double rooms are all booked up because of the Finals. All I have left is the king suite.”

You saw the flush on Tyson’s cheeks before feeling the heat rise oin your own, eyes snapping to his.

“Oh, uh —”

“Are you — ?”

“I mean, yeah, it’s fine —”

“I can take the couch,” you said, trying your hardest not to notice the way his cheeks had grown a really delightful shade of pink.

“I’d be happy to have the pullout couch arranged for you,” she offered, voice back to warm, clearly pleased that you were at least having some sort of conflict about sharing a bed, the glaring red alarm light above you signaling that you were not, as she had assumed, a girlfriend or romantic partner.

“No, Kiwi, I’m not letting you do that,” he said firmly, much to Front Desk Girl’s visible disappointment. “The King is fine. It’ll be just like our old sleepovers, yeah?”

You nodded in agreement, and Tyson turned back to the girl to complete the check in, her face back to a mild scowl. Glancing down to hide the smirk on your face, you bit back a comment that her makeup would be ruined at the rate her facial expressions switched from one to the other so rapidly.

Once she handed Tyson the keys, you offered a sweet smile before turning to follow him to the elevator, unable to prevent the satisfaction that settled over you. The room, of course, was wonderful, offering a beautiful view of the city and the snow-covered mountains in the distance, though the awkwardness had seeped in as soon as he’d unlocked the door, the large bed sitting very loudly in the center of the ornate room, a glaring beacon to your past.

You cleared your throat and brushed past it, shoving the discomfort to the side and ignoring it. If you didn’t think about it, it would go away, right?

Tyson’s eyes fell to your wrist as you accepted the extra room key from him, slipping it in the pocket of your purse. “What’s that?”

Smiling, you turned and offered your wrist, showing off your new — old — hardware: a braided bracelet, several shades of blue thread woven together in a simple pattern and tied neatly.

“Is that — ?”

“Yup,” you nodded, touching the bracelet unconsciously. “I meant to tell you that I found it in my closet the other day.”

“I can’t believe you still have it,” he laughed, shaking his head. “I made that for you… God, how long ago was that? It was at that one camp, and I think I was like, nine? Ten?”

“That was the worst summer of my life,” you sighed dramatically. “You were gone for so long and I had nothing to do except hang out with Lizzie Sherman.”

His eyebrows raised in understanding, placing his hand over his heart. “I’m sorry for putting you through that, Kiwi, truly. I solemnly swear that I will never do it again.”

Rolling your eyes, you shook your head before setting your bag on the luggage rack in the closet.

“You wanna get dinner? My favorite diner is just a few blocks down the street. They have the world’s best pancakes.”

“Tyson, it’s like, 8pm Minnesota time.”

“So? There is literally never a bad time for breakfast food.”

So, a few minutes later, you found yourself seated in an old school diner, straight out of any New York City movie. It was relatively quiet, only a few tables occupied when you arrived, and he’d told you it was Denver’s best kept secret.

“Whoa, now, look who the cat dragged in,” the waitress said as she approached the table. “Tyson Jost, in the flesh.”

“Hey, Carol, good to see you,” he greeted with a grin. She was older, old enough to be his mother, voice raspy no doubt from years of cigarette smoke, with a warm, welcoming smile, laugh lines etched into her face.

“What brings you back? Can’t be a coincidence that you’re here the day before Game 1.”

“Showing Y/N here around the old stomping grounds,” he explained with a gesture to you. “But you know I can’t miss the boys’ first game.”

“Knew you couldn’t stay away for too long,” she tutted, then turned to you. “This boy single handedly kept us in business during the pandemic.”

You laughed, “That doesn’t surprise me one bit. He’s been raving about this place for weeks.”

“Y’know I’ve got a soft spot for ya, Josty,” she winked.

“You’re always my favorite girl,” he replied flirtatiously, nudging your foot under the table as if to say, Nah, you know you are.

“I’m flattered, but I don’t think your girlfriend here appreciates that too much,” she said, and you felt that familiarly uncomfortable heat flood your cheeks at her comment. It was playful, harmless, but your eyes snapped to Tyson’s as he smiled and made the joke, “You always knew you weren’t the only girl for me.”

You tried to hide the way your eyes wanted to bulge out of your head at his words, innocent enough, but shocking nonetheless. Maybe it wasn’t worth correcting, an honest and casual mistake given the circumstances — but how could you just ignore the smile on his face as he said it? There was an ease of his voice, the pride in his body language, like he’d been saying it all his life.

Carol winked at you, lucky girl uttered in that matronly way, before pulling out her notepad and pen, the moment floating away in an instant. “What can I get for you guys?”

“Coffee, please,” he ordered. “We’ll split the pancakes. And, Carol, you’re the only one I trust to get this exactly right. We’ll also have a plate of hashbrowns, with one sunny side up egg on them.”

Carol nodded and you smiled at the gleam in his eye as he flashed you a grin. It had been a tradition when you were kids — to share a plate of pancakes, doused in maple syrup, along with hashbrown and egg yolks, after every sleepover. At one point, when Tyson hit puberty and began demolishing plates of food to keep up with his growing body, your dad and his mom began buying bags of frozen hashbrowns in bulk to keep up.

“Are you even allowed to eat pancakes and potatoes?” you asked, eyebrow raised, once Carol had turned to put your order in.

“We’ll count it as my cheat meal,” he shrugged. “This is more than worth it.”

Your heart warmed at the implication, and before you could comment, he was off, launched into a story about JT and the time their coach made them skate laps when he found out they’d competed — and won — in a pancake challenge at this very restaurant.

It wasn’t long before Carol was delivering your food to your table, balancing several plates expertly on her arms. The smell of freshly cooked pancakes and fried potatoes filled your nose, and Tyson thanked her before sending you a grin. “Smells like heaven, doesn’t it?”

“I never doubted your taste buds for a second.”

As you watched him ceremoniously crack the yellow yolk on the crisp hashbrowns, the liquid oozing over the potatoes, you thought to yourself how natural it all felt. Sitting here, with him, like no time had passed, like nothing had ever happened between you, just sitting and enjoying a plate of pancakes with your friend. It was so simple, so seamless, so easy with him, even amidst the road bumps.

If this was a movie, you thought, this would be the exact moment where the main character realizes she’s in love with him.

It had never really been a thought before, all of the comments from your families growing up about how you’d end up marrying one another shrugged off, laughed away with a teasing gross and a grin. But losing him, and having him come back to you, when both of you had least expected it — you couldn’t deny it certainly had fate written all over it, the serendipity of it all almost too strong to ignore.

And then there was the question — were you in love with him?

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

When you got back to the hotel after dinner — breakfast? — you both slipped into more comfortable clothes, and, when you couldn’t stop yawning, you knew it was time for bed. Tyson followed you into the spacious bathroom as you began to get ready for bed; he set his small travel bag for toiletries on the counter beside you while you were brushing your teeth.

“Hyaluronic acid? Seriously, Tys?” you asked, holding up the dropper bottle he’d set down.

“What? My skin is really dry, okay?” He snatched the bottle back, unscrewing it to drop some of the liquid on his hands before rubbing it into his skin. “The girl at Ulta told me I should buy it.” “Girls do like a man who has a skincare routine,” you mused.

“Thank you,” he said, puffing his chest out proudly. “I’ll have you know that I have excellent personal hygiene.”

Your eyebrows raised, biting back any snarky reply, choosing instead to nod sarcastically. “Uh huh.”

Soon enough, you were crawling into bed, the crisp white sheets rustling beneath your body. It wasn’t until you laid your head against the pillow that you realized Tyson would be joining you soon, right next to you, in the bed. The silent implications, unspoken words from years ago swirled in your head, and you did your best to push them away.

When he settled in under the sheets, you were grateful for the large bed, allowing you the extra space between your bodies, not even able to feel his body heat. The timidness had returned, plopping itself in the gap between you, and you swore you could feel a physical, but invisible barrier sharing the covers with you. It was fine, you told yourself, totally normal, not weird at all. Plenty of people shared beds with their friends on trips.

But not everyone had slept with that friend 5 years ago and never talked about it since.

“I’m not gonna bite, you know.”

Called out.

“I know,” you replied, doing your best to hide the nerves in your voice. “I just… don’t usually sleep in a bed with other people.”

“It’s just me. Just like old times, except now I have bulging muscles that you have to watch out for.”

You snorted, grateful for the way he was able to seamlessly ease the tension with his corny jokes, and you smiled when he nudged your leg with his knee.

“Goodnight, Tyson.”

“Goodnight, Kiwi.”

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

Fortunately, the awkwardness of waking up beside him was staved, for he’d woken up early to run in the hotel gym, allowing you time to shower and get ready for the day, thankful for the privacy. His ‘getting ready’ routine was short, and soon enough, you were taking coffees to go to the park after a quick breakfast. It was a beautiful day, and conversation was easy and casual as you strolled together, excitement buzzing in the air of the city in anticipation for game 1 of the Finals.

Lunch was one of his favorite sandwich shops, followed by some sightseeing — he was pleased to have swapped roles, being in the position of tour guide and leading you through the city that he knew like the back of his hand.

You returned back to the hotel to get ready for the event, and then the game. Tyson had already texted with JT and made arrangements to stop by after the game to say hello to the boys, and while you weren’t nervous, you did want to make a good first impression. It was a summer event, so you opted to wear your old Avalanche Jost jersey — bought in advance of the one game you’d attended five years ago — paired with shorts to help keep you cool in the warm Denver air.

Tyson, while he couldn’t directly wear an Avs logo, ensured that his flannel had navy and burgundy woven into the fabric as his subtle nod to his former team. You couldn’t help but let your eyes trail appreciatively over him, his gray t-shirt fitting him in all the right places, wild curls tamed neatly with some gel. He cleaned up nice, even when going to an event hosted by a beer company.

You slipped on your shoes, before smoothing out your jersey and grabbing your purse.

“Ready?”

“Ready.”

Tyson opened the door for you, then trailed behind you as you walked down the hall to the elevators. You could feel the heat of his eyes on you, almost enough to make you uncomfortable had it been anyone else.

“You look really… good,” he said. “That jersey looks really good on you.”

“You sound surprised.”

His eyes went wide, cheeks tinging pink as he stuttered, “No, I’m not – you just – I just – ah, shit –”

“Just fucking with you,” you grinned. “You look nice, too, Tys.”

His glare was adorably bashful, leading you to the elevator in order to meet your Uber driver in the lobby.

The event went smoothly, easy enough to stand beside Tyson while he cracked jokes and shared stories with the fans. It was fun to see him interacting with them, always so jovial and friendly despite being traded several months prior. That had always been something you’d loved about him; being able to strike up a conversation with anyone and end it as if he’d known them his whole life. Really, when you thought about it, it shouldn’t have been a surprise as to why you’d reconnected with him so easily.

Watching the game surrounded by fans was an equally thrilling experience, the cheers erupting with each hit, each save, each goal. Tyson was elated, and honestly, so were you, despite the fact that the only reason you’d had any loyalty to the team was the man standing beside you.

After the game, Tyson was buzzing, eager to meet up with the guys. He took you through a “secret” route to get into the arena while avoiding the mass hoards of cheering, hollering fans, elated by the overtime victory. He walked with familiarity through the doors, leading you through the halls outside of the locker rooms, waiting for his friends to emerge.

He’d begun to show you some of the pieces on the wall, explaining some of the history of the team as you saw the murals of Joe Sakic and Peter Forsberg lifting the Cup over their heads.

“God, you need a fuckin’ haircut, bud,” said a voice from behind you.

Your heart warmed as you saw Tyson’s eyes light up, grinning like a fool as he turned at the sound of the voice, as familiar to him as his own name.

“Looks like you lost your trimmers too, ya mountain man. Your playoff beard looks like shit,” he shot back with a smile, approaching his best friend, large arms engulfing the other in a hug. When he pulled away, he turned to you expectantly and set his hand on the back of your arm.

“JT, this is Y/N. Y/N, JT.”

You offered a smile, sticking out your hand and shrieking in surprise when the redhead pushed your hand away and moved in for a bear hug.

“It’s so nice to meet you, Y/N. Thanks for putting up with this shithead,” he said, grinning.

“Someone’s got to, am I right?” you were quick to crack back, earning a laugh from JT. Tyson held his hands up, as if he was only then beginning to realize the consequences of having his two best friends here to roast him at the same time.

“Jost, you didn’t tell me you had pretty friends at home,” JT said smoothly, and your cheeks felt hot, not used to the public compliment. “Maybe I would’ve come visit sooner if I knew.”

Tyson gave him a shove. “She’s off limits, pal. Don’t even think about it.”

The redhead’s eyebrow raised, sending you a glance like he knew the internal conflict that was brewing inside you, could see the tension mounting between the two of you despite your best efforts to keep it under wraps. It was a bit unsettling, and you wanted to tell him that just because he was Tyson’s best friend didn’t mean that he could read your mind, too.

If he could, he didn’t say anything, smoothly changing the subject to ask about the flight and your activities in the city thus far. The conversation was easy, and you could certainly see how Tyson had fallen into him in your absence.

More and more of the guys began to pile out of the room, greeting Tyson with enthusiasm. Some of them greeted you cordially, and others followed JT’s path and simply scooped you up for a hug. Soon enough, the wives, girlfriends, and others flooded the hall until it was full of people, celebrating Avs getting one win closer to the Stanley Cup.

You found yourself chatting with two girls, one of whom was Mel Landeskog, and the other you hadn’t quite caught the name of or who she was with. Mel was warm, a greeting you like an old friend that she’d known for years.

“I’m so glad you were able to come out,” she said. “I know how much it means to the guys to have Tyson here.”

“It’s been so great to see the way the city’s welcomed him back,” you replied. “You can tell this really is home for him.”

Mel smiled, nodding with agreement, but was quickly called away by EJ asking her to wrangle in her husband. The dynamic shifted as you tried to make small talk with the other girl, offering a friendly smile that was half-assedly returned.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”

“I’m Susie.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Susie. I’m Y/N.”

“Are you Josty’s girlfriend?” she asked, the words so blunt you blinked in surprise.

Cheeks warming, you stuttered, “Oh, uh, no. Just a friend.”

Susie hummed, her eyes scanning over Tyson’s figure a few feet away. Part of you wanted to smack her to stop her from ogling him, but considering you were just a friend, you resisted the urge to start a fight.

“You just don’t look like his type, is all,” she said, glancing back. You felt your heart sink at her words, the silent implication all but screaming in your ears. She didn’t say it, didn’t have to, but you knew exactly what she meant: Not pretty enough to be his type, not skinny enough to be his type.

Offering another smile, you excused yourself to find a restroom. You walked away quickly, seeking either the bathroom or just privacy, whichever you could find first. Ducking behind a wall, you closed your eyes, tears hot as they brimmed above your lashes, blinking quickly to avoid letting them spill onto your face.

It was nothing new, nothing you hadn’t heard before, and you knew better than to put any stock in it, especially being around the crowd of pretty, but stereotypical, athlete girlfriends. But that didn’t make it any easier to hear, especially not when comparing you to Tyson — your Tyson. They didn’t understand, no one understood, the history and strength of your relationship, both before and after the unintentional hiatus. Everyone just assumed that Tyson — handsome, fit, rich — could never associate with a fat girl.

With a forlorn sigh, you heaved yourself up and began an actual search for a bathroom to pop into. A few winding corners later, you found one, locking the door behind you. You gathered a wad of toilet paper to dab at your eyes, careful to avoid smudging your mascara. As you exited the stall, your eyes dragged up to see themselves in the reflection of the mirror, unable to avoid the way they inevitably slid over your figure. The jersey, while covering your body, couldn’t hide the size of your arms, the width of your torso, the shape of your belly.

It had taken a long time, with many tears and countless hours of therapy, but you’d finally reached a point where you were happy, or at least content, with your body, no longer hating what you saw in the mirror. But the thoughts echoing in your head were far from kind, unable to prevent the comparisons and harmful words.

Summoning your therapist’s voice in your head, you allowed yourself a few moments to hype yourself back up, if only to gather the energy to return to the crowd of people outside. The weight in your throat dissipated, and you took another deep breath before stepping back out and finding the group again, Susie and everyone else clueless to your brief detour.

“Hey, you,” Tyson greeted, walking up to you and bumping your hips with his. “Was just looking for you. I think the guys are gonna go out for a celebratory drink — you wanna go?”

Hoping he couldn’t see the glassiness of your eyes, you glanced around before saying, “I think I’m just going to head in early.”

Tyson’s face fell. “Is everything okay?”

“I’m fine, just tired from the travel. I’ll see you back at the hotel later.”

“I can come with you —“

“No, Tys, you should go celebrate with them. You deserve to,” you urged, smiling to show him you were okay.

He frowned, but nodded, quickly taking out his phone to order you an Uber back and ignoring your protests that you could, in fact, afford a ride back to the hotel.

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

Instead of going to your room, though, you found your feet walking toward the hotel bar, taking a seat on the plush barstool. Maybe it felt a little cliche, a little too ‘main character’ for your liking, but you thought you could use the liquid blanket to help you forget the way those words stung just a little too much.

“Give me something old,” you said when the bartender approached, setting a napkin in front of you. “And red.”

He nodded, and soon you were presented with a glass of Pinot Noir, a 1982 something-or-other. With a wry smile, you lifted the glass in a mock toast to him, pushing away the voice in your head that told you to savor the nice wine and taking a much larger than necessary gulp.

One glass turned into three, time blurred as the wine got sweeter with each sip. You didn’t know how much time had passed, but you found yourself hurtling back to the present, conscious, with brown curls tickling your forehead. As reality trickled back into your hazy brain, you realized you were on your back in bed, having the life kissed out of you by your best friend. You didn’t remember how you’d gotten there, only focused on the way his hand felt against your breast, kneading it through the cotton of the t-shirt you were wearing — when did you change?

Tyson tasted like beer, his tongue pressed against yours in a familiar moment. His hands felt sinful, hot, dragging along your skin, drawing soft sighs from your throat.

“Tys,” you breathed, mouth hot against his, words unable to form past the sigh of his name. “Tys.”

He hummed, hearing you but not hearing you, mouth trailing back to your jaw. The work of his lips on your skin had your brain in a haze far more powerful than the wine, all coherent thoughts leading back to one thing: Tyson.

The smallest sober sliver of yourself that was left was screaming at you, fighting desperately against the drunk desire that was all too easy to give in to, to keep kissing him and feeling his heat against yours.

“Tys, stop,” you said again, sobriety flitting into your consciousness. “We can’t.”

Whether it was your words or your tone that reached his brain, you weren’t sure, but he ceased his mouth’s onslaught in an instant. You watched him blink, as if he, too, was flying back to reality, the lustful, drunken haze bursting above you. He pulled away, sitting back on his legs as he ran a hand over his face. “Fuck.”

The absence of his body caused you to shiver despite the heat of your skin. Your legs were still spread, wide, accompanying his form still sat between your thighs, and your cheeks burned from feeling so exposed. Dread filled your heart as you watched him slide off the bed, muttering an apology, head hung in shame while he shuffled to the couch.

Part of you wanted to call out to him, to apologize — for what exactly, you weren’t sure — but your brain finally spoke louder as you bit your tongue, letting it wait until morning, knowing the situation needed a sober mind. You listened to him shifting on the couch, tugging a spare blanket over him with a sigh.

It was thoughts of Tyson’s lips that filled your mind as you drifted off to sleep, finally succumbing to the haze the wine was calling you to.

Part 3: The Romance

The brightness of the sun stirred you from your sleep. Head pounding, you blinked a few times, the processing time it took to get your bearings extremely delayed, soaked with too much Pinot Noir and the subtle taste of Coors Light. Blurs of the night before flitted through your mind like a slideshow, flashing images of the hotel bar, of brown curls and stolen sighs.

Your legs stretched, and all at once you registered the large bed, the space beside you, and in an instant the feeling of Tyson’s lips on yours came rushing back to you. With a groan, you scrubbed your hand over your face, rolling to your side to heave yourself up.

Tyson sat on the loveseat, not looking much better than you felt, a disposable cup in his hand. He offered a solemn smile, then nodded to the coffee table in front of him, an additional cup waiting for you.

“Morning,” he greeted.

“Hi,” you replied, feeling extremely exposed in your t-shirt and sleep shorts. Your feet slid along the marble floor, cold against your skin, as you shuffled to your bag to tug on a sweatshirt. Though you blamed your slow movements on the ache of your head, you’d be lying if you weren’t doing everything you could to delay the impending conversation that lied ahead, daunting, intimidating, staring back at you on the other side of the room.

You made your way back to the couch, the space beside Tyson burning your skin as you sat down, maximizing the distance between you two as much as possible on the small sofa.

“Thanks for the coffee,” you broke the silence, shifting uncomfortably as you took a sip. “God, I feel like shit.”

Tyson let out a snort in agreement, handing you the small bottle of Advil from his bag.

“Yeah. I pay for it more now than I did back then,” he said, taking a slurp of his own. His eyes flicked to yours, the elephant in the room glaring, screeching loud, unavoidable no matter how much you’d rather curl back up in the king bed and bury your head under the duvet.

You met his eyes, painstaking, and you could see it in them, dying to come out into the world.

“Y/N, I —“

“Tyson, please don’t.”

“No, Y/N, we need to talk about this,” he started, slowly, firm but not cross.

Your eyes broke from his, unable to hold his gaze anymore, looking down at your lap. He was quiet, waiting for you to speak, to give him permission to continue.

“We were drunk, Tyson. Shit happens. We’ll shake it off,” you dismissed it, a weak attempt to make the discomfort vanish.

“That’s what I said five years ago, too,” he said, and your heart leapt into your throat at his words, eyes shooting to meet his. It was the first time either of you had acknowledged It out loud, to each other or to anyone else.

You swallowed thickly, taking a beat before responding. “It was a mistake, Tyson. You regret it, I regret it. It happened, and we moved on —”

“I don’t regret it.”

His words interrupted you, your eyes shooting up to him at his statement. settled in the silence, your eyes shooting up to him at his statement. He what?

Tyson paused for another moment. “Well, I didn’t.”

Oh. The words struck your heart, shattering it instantly, as if confirming what you both feared and knew to be true.

“No, wait, let me rephrase that,” he said quickly, realizing his mistake. “I don’t regret sleeping with you. I regret what happened after, and letting you walk away without talking to you about it.”

The words it’s too late, it doesn’t matter rang through your head, heavy on your tongue in a way that made you want to spit them out.

“I don’t regret it,” he repeated again, as if to solidify his feelings and make sure you understood. Then he asked in a timid voice, as if he was afraid to hear the answer, “Why do you regret it?”

“It’s not that easy of an answer.”

“It can’t be that complicated,” he shot back, unable to keep the sarcasm out of his tone.

“Tyson, I’m not –”

“You’re not what, Y/N?” he cut you off, eyes blazing with concern despite the frustration in his voice.

“I don’t belong here, Tyson.”

“What does that mean?”

“This,” you gestured to your surroundings, the expensive suite a contrast to your apartment and old sweatshirt that had brought you comfort since high school. “Here. With you. I don’t belong here. Not when I look like this.”

Tyson’s eyes fell, softening as each of your words struck him like broken glass. The words that his brain managed to conjure — none of them were enough, could ever be enough, to tell you how laughably and incredibly wrong you were.

“I regret it because guys like you don’t end up with girls like me.”

“That’s not true,” he finally said softly, kicking himself for not being able to come up with anything more eloquent.

“It is,” you replied. “You’re a professional athlete now, Tyson. You should be dating models, blonde size zero’s. Not me. Look at every single one of your teammates’ wives and girlfriends. None of them look like me.”

Tyson’s mouth opened, like he was ready to blurt out his next sentence, but paused, closing it.

‘It was fun, but really all sleeping with you did was show me a sliver of a life that I can’t have.”

“Y/N.” His voice was soft, trying to connect with you, to bring you back to the moment. Something about the way your name sounded coming out of his mouth made the burn in your throat even stronger, tears welling in your eyes as you blinked, looking away to avoid his sight.

“I liked you then, before any of that — any of this — mattered,” he began, hand running through his messy, untamed curls. “I know that doesn’t take away from any of the feelings that you’ve felt and the experiences that you’ve had, and I know that I will never be able to fully understand, but fuck, Y/N, I care about you so much, and I…”

His voice trailed off, eyes off in the distance like he was searching for the words. You watched him, waiting patiently for him to finish, trying your best to not prepare your response before he had even completed his thought.

“I know that I’m on the TV sometimes, and I make a lot of money, but that doesn’t mean that I’m different. Deep down, inside, away from the cameras and the crowd, I’m the same Tyson I always was, always have been. The same one who made you this bracelet at camp,” he said softly, reaching out to pull at the braided strings on your wrist. The touch tingled your skin, and you did your best to ignore it. “I’m still the guy who played with your Barbies and made them fall in love with Batman.”

Your lips curled into a small smile at the memory, and he matched it before continuing. “I just want – need you to know that I’ve never, ever been bothered by your size. I look at you and see you. My best friend. The girl who was there by my side for everything. No matter what number is on the scale, or what size jeans you wear, or what you decided to eat that day. Not then, not now.”

Your heart swelled in your chest, and you almost didn’t want to believe him, but for the deep sincerity in his voice and the honesty in his pleading eyes.

“You said that guys like me don’t end up with girls like you,” he said, reaching forward to tentatively take your hand in his. When you didn’t pull away, he gave you a squeeze that encouraged your eyes to flick up to his. “But there’s never been someone who’s so perfect for me.”

“Tyson…”

“Please let me finish,” was his response, and it wasn’t harsh, but gentle, more of a plea, like he would die if he couldn’t get the words out.

“I’ve felt this way forever, about you. I felt it that night, and the morning after, and every morning since. But I didn’t realize what it was until you came back into my life. And now that you’re here, I can’t let you leave again.”

Your heart thumped in your chest, barely processing the words coming out of his mouth before he was speaking again.

“I love you, Y/N.”

The air in your throat felt tight, like you were suddenly engulfed in a tidal wave of emotion. Though you knew what he said, the weight of his words were still light, not sinking in, the true force of them waiting to crash onto you at any moment. He knew, understood without words, and took his hand back and sipped his coffee to allow you some space.

“Tyson, I —“ you began, then stopped, words once again failing you, only this time it was because of something else his lips were doing.

“You don’t have to say it back, now, or ever,” he said quickly. “I just… Needed you to know. I’ve always loved you.”

Hot tears trickled down your cheeks when you blinked, sniffling as you looked up at him. It was, with no contest, the sweetest thing anyone had ever said to you. You supposed you shouldn’t be surprised; you’d never felt as seen or as heard as you did with Tyson, even when you were doing your best to hide beneath the smile you offered to the world outside.

“The last few months with you have been… wonderful, and confusing,” you continued, throat constricted as you tried your best to quell the tears, tried to put your feelings into somewhat coherent words. “I’ve been spending this entire time trying to figure out what it is I’m feeling.”

He nodded, letting you know that he was following, his body completely engaged with you and your words.

“I think —I think that I might… feel… the same,” you picked your words carefully, that big, terrifying L-word far too heavy to throw out like that. “I’m still working that out for sure.”

Tyson smiled, pleased with even the possibility that you might love him too. His expression shifted as he swallowed, suddenly looking nervous.

“Could I kiss you?”

Your heart did a triple-axel backflip at the question, and you realized you were nodding as if he might never ask again, uncertain about the future but knowing in the moment that you desperately wanted his lips on yours.

They were warm, soft, just enough weight behind the kiss that you could feel his yearning without feeling forceful or aggressive. It was sweet, years of pining built up into one moment.

“I’ve always liked doing that.”

“Yeah? Is that why it’s happened twice now when you’re drunk?”

“You wanna see what happens when I’m not?”

With one sentence, the dynamic of the room shifted, suddenly feeling like it was at least ten degrees hotter. The implication of his words had warmth spreading through your body, the sweatshirt you had on quickly too much.

He was hesitant, though, waiting for your approval. Tyson felt your pause, and added, “It’s okay if you don’t. I’m not going anywhere, not unless you tell me to fuck off. But, you know what they say, third time’s the charm.”

You smiled, appreciative of his humor as he grinned, clearly impressed with himself. In the back of your head, you heard a quiet voice mutter, Fuck around and find out.

“And for what it’s worth, I think you’re incredibly fucking sexy.”

Before you could think twice, you were lunging forward to throw your arms around him and kiss him. If he was taken aback, he recovered quickly, moving to wrap his arms around you as he kissed you back with enthusiasm. Your back hit the soft velvet of the sofa, giving him more leverage to kiss you harder, his tongue finding the seam of your mouth.

The irony of making out with him again, mere hours after your recent run-in, was not lost on you, but you couldn’t quite bring yourself to care. This time was different, sober consent all too clear, and you could feel everything.

The pile of clothes on the floor grew, cotton flung without a second thought as you undressed each other, slowly, carefully. Instinctively, you were tempted to cover your body with your arms, but Tyson had other plans, pulling your hands away from your stomach as he delivered kisses against your skin. You shivered at the feeling, his lips tracing constellations along your chest, over your belly, onto your hips.

“Fuckin’ love your hips,” he murmured, voice muffled by your skin, and you giggled at the way his low tone vibrated against you. His hands followed suit, slow and careful, like they were handling a priceless piece of art — and to him, they were.

Tyson’s mouth trailed over your waist, kissing and sucking marks on his journey between your thighs. His breath was hot against the cotton of your underwear, damp with anticipation as he glanced up at you, searching for any sign of protest. When he was met with none, he allowed his finger to drag up the seam, thumb rubbing gently over your clit through the material.

A moan escaped your lips, encouraging him to continue. He moved forward to kiss the fabric, inhaling your scent and letting out a groan.

“Please, Kiwi,” he murmured against your core. “Please let me eat you out. God, I’m begging you.”

His earnest desire had you nodding so fast you thought your head might fall off, butterflies erupting in your belly when his fingers dug into the waistband of your panties, tugging them over your hips and down your thighs. He didn’t give you any time to be shy, quickly pulling apart your legs to reveal your aching center, wet with need.

Licking his lips, Tyson hummed before pressing kisses against each of your inner thighs, tickling you slightly with the action, poor excuse for a playoff beard scratching the sensitive skin. He licked his way toward your lower lips, kissing them the way he’d kissed your mouth last night. Another deep groan left his throat when he tasted you, quick to delve his tongue inside of you.

Your hands flew to tangle themselves in his curls, his tongue working magic along your sodden slit, teasing you artfully. When his fingers joined his tongue, parting your folds and slipping into your heat, you let out a sigh of his name, pleasure hazing your vision and sending warm fuzzies to your belly.

“Jesus, you taste like fuckin’ heaven,” he moaned against you, pumping his fingers slowly when he realized that doing so produced more of your juices, lapping it up like the syrup from the pancakes you’d eaten the day before.

You couldn’t even reply, words a distant memory with the way he worked his digits inside of you, finding the spot to make you see stars. He grinned against you when he hit it, feeling the way you tightened around his fingers, and set off on his mission to show you just how bad he wanted you. His tongue continued its assault on your clit, flicking and circling in perfect harmony with the movement of his fingers, steady and consistent.

“Tys —“

Your climax hit you suddenly, a long cry of his name called out into the room while your back arched, fingers tugging tightly onto his hair. Tyson was careful to continue his movements exactly the same to draw out your pleasure as long as possible, only stopping when your hand gently pushed his head away. Short puffs of breath left you, panting, and he was smug as he pulled away to grin at you.

“Was that good, or —?”

Resisting the urge to smack him upside the head, you pulled him up toward you to kiss him. He quickly forgot his snark, distracted by your lips and the way your hand was crawling its way between your bodies, palming the hardening bulge in his boxers.

“Fuck,” he choked out, twitching against your hand.

“Take me to bed, Tyson,” you instructed him, words breathed against his mouth softly, a prayer rather than a command.

He moved so quickly that you almost laughed, if not for the shriek that left you as he picked you up, bridal style, crossing the short distance back to the large bed.

“Shall we continue last night’s activities?” he teased, waggling his eyebrows as he laid you back onto the mattress, settling himself between your legs to kiss you again.

“Tys,” you said between kisses. “I wanted to —“

“I know, baby, but look at you. Fuck, I’ve gotta have you,” he interrupted. You could practically feel the desperation in his voice, and you certainly could feel his desperation between your thighs.

A shiver ran up your spine at his words, and you were rendered speechless when he reached his arms behind his head to tug his shirt off his shoulders, in that hot way that boys do. It was your turn to groan at the sight, his toned core muscles flexing in the morning light.

“You like what y’see?” he smirked. “Know you liked that preview that day at my apartment, huh?”

“Shut up,” you shot back, silencing him by reaching for his erection again, this time allowing your hand to slip beneath the waistband of his boxers, wrapping your fist around him. “You gonna take these off so you can use it, or what?”

Tyson couldn’t remove the offending garment fast enough, fumbling over himself to shove the boxers down his legs, tossing them behind him hurriedly. It was your turn to smirk, admiring the sight of him completely nude in front of you as you leaned forward to stroke him. You watched goosebumps rise on his arms as you pressed your lips to the head of his dick, breath hot on the sensitive flesh.

“Kiwi —”

“Just a taste,” you pleaded, looking up at him with wide eyes, lips puckered against his leaking tip.

He let out a strangled groan, along with a string of curse words, which was all you needed as permission to take him into your mouth. You let your tongue swirl along his length, tasting him, savoring the weight of him and the saltiness of his precum.

Head bobbing, your mouth moved up and down, lips wrapped around the girth of him. With a glance up, you saw his eyes squeezed shut, lip tugged between his teeth as he indulged in the feeling of your hot mouth.

You made it a competition with yourself, see how many delicious moans and groans you could pull from his lips with the work of your own, as you let your mouth learn each inch of him, skin soft on your tongue. Bringing your hand up to the base, you gripped tightly and stroked him, working conjointly with your mouth.

“Baby, baby, you gotta — fuck, Kiwi, you gotta stop,” he panted, hand moving to your jaw to pull you off of him. “M’not gonna last if you keep — fuck.”

You smiled, pleased with your ability to render him a stuttering fool, though it quickly faltered when he gently pressed you onto your back. He kissed you again, stealing the breath from your lungs, as his hand cupped your jaw, slowing the moment down again. His cock bobbed between your thighs, wet with your saliva and bumping against the slickness of your folds, and you whined at the feeling.

When he tore himself away from you, running to retrieve a condom from his bag, you raised an eyebrow at him as he climbed back onto the bed. “You came prepared, huh?”

“What? No! No — I mean, I hoped, maybe… I thought, just in case—“ he stuttered, bashfully looking at you as his cheeks flushed.

You rolled your eyes with a giggle, letting him know you weren’t upset with a nudge against his thigh with your knee. He looked relieved, then remembered he was supposed to be doing something with the foil packet in his hand, ripping it open and working the latex over his aching cock.

He shifted, positioning himself at your opening, then paused to look at you, eyes connecting with yours in a glance, wordless yet saying everything he needed to say. You nodded, a soft please dying on your lips when he let the tip bump against your clit.

Slowly, Tyson pushed into you, taking his time and savoring the way you gripped him, pulling him in in more ways than one. His arms landed on either side of your head, and he pressed his forehead against you as he allowed you both a moment to adjust to the sensation, simply content to just be connected.

Tyson’s hand moved to yours, entwining your fingers together as he began to move, your legs finding their place wrapped around his hips as he pushed into you. He pressed kisses against your lips and on your cheeks, showering you with affection as he took his time to find his rhythm.

He remained slow and steady, keeping his thrusts firm and forceful, allowing you to feel each inch of him as he moved inside you. You could feel his hot breath against your face, whispering declarations of love against your skin.

Tyson poured every emotion from the last five years into you, kissing away all of the unspoken words and forgotten memories, vanished with each pump of his hips. This wasn’t a mistake, though, if you thought about it, neither of the past times had been a mistake, either.

It didn’t take long for your high to build, cresting with a cry of his name. He wasn’t far behind you, eyes holding with yours as he, too, reached his peak with a Kiwi whispered against your lips. When his hips stilled against you, he stayed for a moment, enjoying the feeling of being so connected with you, body and soul.

You couldn’t help the smile on your face, even when he pulled out with a sigh, tying off the condom and tossing it in the direction of the bathroom. He couldn’t bother to stand up, not willing to be parted with you for a second, instead pulling you into his arms as he caught his breath.

“You’re telling me that’s what we’ve been missing out on this whole time?”

With a snort, you said, “You kind of lived across the country until just now, Tys.”

“Still,” he wrapped an arm over your shoulders, “I’m kinda pissed it took us this long.”

You hummed, silently agreeing with him. Now that you’d taken the plunge, you couldn’t remember what you were so hesitant for in the first place, life before today a distant memory.

“Will you go on a date with me? A real one, with dinner and flowers, when we get home?”

“It’s a little late for that,” you laughed, gesturing to the flimsy sheet covering your naked body.

“I guess we’ve done everything out of order,” he chuckled, “but first dates are important.”

“Okay,” you smiled and nodded. “A date. Pick me up at 6. And you better hold the door open for me.”

“Yes ma’am.”

A comfortable silence fell over you as you enjoyed the peace of the moment, cuddled into his body and in the warmth of his strong arms. You listened to the steady beat of his heart while his fingers drew lazy circles into your shoulder blade, content to never leave the bed for the rest of your life.

“Tyson?”

“Hm?”

“I love you, too.”

He broke into a grin, looking down at you to see it in your eyes before he leaned forward to kiss you. You kissed back, pouring all of the love that had been bottled up in your heart for him over the last two decades into him, hoping he knew.

By the look on his face when he pulled away, he did.

“So I guess the third time is the charm, then, huh?”

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