#Of Tendencies Open the Creases of Grief

[duskholland]

Crash Into You || Tom Holland Smut

ice hockey!tom x figure skater!reader — smut.

summary ↠ you can’t stand the ice hockey team. they’re loud, brutish, and incredibly annoying. it’s just inconvenient that you can’t seem to stop running into their star player, an irritatingly suave man called tom, nor deny the way your pulse quickens every time he’s around...   word count ↠ 20.2k. warnings ↠ mild depictions of sport-related injury including blood and nose breakage, a lot of bad language, some jealousy, and nsfw smut material! extended smut warnings are beneath the cut, but this is 18+ !!! minors dni.   a/n ↠ it’s funny because I tell myself I don’t like sport aus, yet this is somehow one of my favourite things that I’ve ever written...? the au is kinda ~obscure~ I guess, but it checked so many of my boxes whilst writing it, and I had a great time. it’s also the longest thing I’ve ever posted?! ahh !! I hope you’ll like dutchy, and give this a go even if you’re not really into hockey <3   —↠ there are so many different people that helped me out with this!!! in addition to all the wonderful anons that sent in ideas last month, I want to extend a huge thank you to @geminiparkers @tetralea @hollandharrison @honeyspidey @stixnstripesworld and @uglypastels for each helping out in some way, whether that be through brainstorming ideas, making incredible art, or teaching me about hockey and/or skating! <3<3 also—the biggest thank you ever to the lovely sammy @t-holland2080 for not disowning me after editing this for me and seeing my basic spelling errors lmfao. ily <3 hope you all enjoy !!

extra !! @uglypastels made two beautiful pieces of fanart for tom aka dutchy — you can view these here + here !!! @softholand​ also made an absolutely incredible moodboard based off the fic, and you can view that here :’) thank you to both of them for using their amazing artistic talents on this fic + making me literally like. the happiest writer on the planet :’) 

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extended smut warnings ↠ two sections of smut. this is a certified Horny Warmy™️ (thanks chlo for that category) so it’s very gentle, very wholesome. includes oral and fingering (fem-receiving) and protected MxF sex :’)

✧ *:･ﾟCrash Into You ･ﾟ:*✧

“Why are they always so noisy? How hard can it be to hit a bit of plastic?”

You laugh quietly, glancing at your friend, Yelena. She’s staring out across the rink, hands resting on the plastic barrier that lines the perimeter with irritation in her icy blue eyes. A warming blush tickles the apples of her cheeks, and it softens the expression of frustration that she wears so well.

“Seriously,” she adds. “Listen to them… It’s so… unpleasant.”

Your teeth catch your lower lip as you bring your gaze away from Yelena and instead onto the object of her anger: the hockey team.

Your eyes zip around the rink, watching as the players run through yet another drill. The team—Kingston Kites—, 20 in full, 7 currently on the ice, crash around the arena like a cyclone of a thousand moving calamitous parts. For the last few months, the practice rink at your sports centre has been closed, which has led to the pre-existing rivalry between the hockey team and your own team of figure skaters deepening. There have been arguments between your managers and theirs about which team gets priority over the exhibition rink. What’s emerged has been a bitter taste in the air. Simply put: the figure skating team dislikes the ice hockey team, and the feeling is mutual.

“I dunno,” you mutter. “I guess it means they’re working hard.”

The noises are rather distracting. You watch as the blurry figures, shrouded in the team colours of white, green, and orange, line up and take shot after shot at the small net on the ice. After each attempted shot on goal, the players have a tendency to release loud grunts and exclamations of exertion, and they echo around the empty arena. Whilst you agree with Yelena that the noises are irritating, a small part of you also admires their commitment.

“Perhaps.” Yelena steps back from the side and starts to stretch her arms. You do the same. There’s a fifteen-minute overlap in the scheduled slots on ice when the figure skating team uses half the rink to warm up as the hockey team uses the other to cool down. After the fifteen minutes play out, the Zamboni skims out the cuts in the rink, and the hockey team finally leaves you alone. It’s not ideal to share the rink, but every second you can spend practising helps. “I can’t stand them.”

You smile softly, slowly rotating your right arm as you warm up the muscles. “I know,” you agree. “You always complain about them.”

She scowls, eyes glistening with fierce irritation. “Because they’re annoying. So dramatic and messy.”

“Mmm, well, I don’t think they’re very fond of us either,” you respond. You bend over, slowly rubbing your fingers over the bandage you have wrapped around your right ankle. “Did you hear about Jenna and Lou in the gym last week?”

“No. What happened?”

You sit down on the cool floor of the arena, thankful for the many layers you’re wearing. As you slowly start to massage your ankle, you glance up at your friend.

“They got interrupted by a couple of the guys. Uh, Osterfield and Barrett? They wanted to do a weights competition or something.”

Yelena scoffs. “Losers.”

You smirk. “They won, though. Lou and Jen. Apparently, the guys stormed out. Couldn’t take getting beaten by a couple of skaters.”

Your friend cackles then offers you a hand up. You grunt as you stand and steady yourself, glancing down at your skates and checking the laces. A loud buzzer goes off, and you hear a few yells of disgruntlement come off the ice as the players realise it’s the end of their solo practice and the start of your turn on the rink too.

“Can’t wait to get out there,” Yelena murmurs, eyes sparkling. You nod in agreement and crack your knuckles in anticipation.

Together, you walk over to the small gate in the side of the rink, joining the line with the rest of your team. Ten of you make up the competitive figure skating team, and all of you wear varying articles of black, thermal clothing. You’re in a pair of leggings, a long-sleeved thermal shirt, and a loose burgundy t-shirt, drifting over the top. The cold doesn’t bother you as much as it used to, but that’s only through the years you’ve spent gliding around at sub-zero temperatures.

You sigh happily as you inhale a breath of the frozen air that hangs crispy above the rink. You step onto the ice, closing your eyes as you skate forwards, your body supported effortlessly by the skates you wear so well.

There’s a line of bright red cones set out across the middle of the ice, sectioning off the hockey players from the rest of you. You smile to yourself as you risk a glance across the rink and take stock of a few of the players, huddled together, grunting and exchanging low words of irritation. They look very funny, wearing various layers of thick padding and helmets—less formal than they’d be at a match, but still dressed up enough to mean business. You feel them staring at you, glaring and bemoaning the fact they have to share the rink, but you let it brush off you like water.

“Y/N! Show me your cannonball. Weren’t you working on it?” Yelena’s back, skimming to rest beside you, plaited blonde hair hanging in two bunches either side of her face. You nod, pushing off and checking the ice is clear ahead of you before skating into a space.

Nothing beats the rush of adrenaline that comes with skating. You think that you’re addicted to it now. The charge of the nervous build-up, followed by the relief of the payoff never gets old. Your fears of failure get swept away the moment you sink into the ultra-focused headspace of an athlete, and the buzz of reward you get every time you land a move perfectly trumps the blood, sweat and tears that such an unforgiving sport has taken from you. You wouldn’t be able to quit skating, even if you wanted to.

A cannonball sit spin is one of the hardest spins in your repertoire, and the element that has been giving you the most grief in your show routine. This season, you’re competing in the national circuit for solo ice dance. It’s not your first time taking on the competition—in fact, consistently over the last few years, you’ve been ranking higher each time you compete. Last year you finished third, and so this year, your eyes are fixed very firmly on the prize. You know securing first place in the competition will attract the Olympic scouts’ attention, and that’s your greatest dream.

Moving quickly, you skate in a brief semi-circle to build momentum before getting low, resting on one leg as you stretch the other out in front of you. Your hands curve around the ankle of your extended leg, and you use the energy to carry you into a spin, the fresh air wafting off the ice and cooling your cheeks. It carries out for a few seconds, then you have to concentrate as you exit the manoeuvre, brows creasing as you continue to turn. You end in a standing spin, arms held out as you slowly bring them back into your sides and end elegantly with a little bow.

Yelena claps, cheering from across the ice. “Fuck, Y/N, that looks perfect now,” she calls out. “Wouldn’t ever be able to tell that it was causing you trouble— oh, look out!”

Your eyes are only just beginning to widen in response to her concern when you feel a very strong figure slam into you, hurtling at top speed and taking you both down onto the ice. You don’t need to see anything beyond a flash of white, orange and green to know that it’s a fucking hockey player, and the ache of getting thrown to the hard ground is quickly overcome by the anger that replaces everything else.

“Oh, shit,” you hear a gruff voice say.

You groan as you try to sit up, opening your eyes just to see that the player is crumpled on top of you. Your chest feels heavy from where he’s laying sprawled over you, and you glance down to look at his face, a scowl holding tight over your features.

Despite the helmet and the visor sticking over the top of his face, you’re able to make out a few details of the man. He seems to be around your age, his skin pale but flushed warm from the cold and such a vigorous practice. The brown depths of his eyes swell with concern and guilt, pairing nicely with the regretful smile that pangs across his thin pink lips. You get a peek at his brown hair sticking out from beneath his helmet, and can’t quite stop your eyes from catching on the hard line of his impressive jaw.

“You idiot,” you mutter, shaking off the daze that comes with admiring such a handsome stranger. “Did you even look where you were going before deciding you were going to try and kill me?”

The man’s eyebrows shoot up, his expression of concern burning into irritation as he scowls at you.

“Fucking hell,” he replies. His accent twangs prominently, cool and unyielding. “It was an accident, darling.”

You grunt, rapidly scooting back across the ice the moment he’s clambered off you. He sits across from you, brushing at the pads on his knees as he stares at you remorsefully. You can’t tell if he’s pouting at you or the shards of ice messing up his knees.

“An accident is brushing into someone, not slamming them onto the ice,” you mutter. Bitterness sweeps into your voice. “Twat.”

“Alright, alright.” He throws his hands into the air and leans closer. “I’m sorry. Okay?”

You draw your lips into a tight-lipped frown and look away, ignoring him as you try to stand, only to end up wincing as pain shoots up your bad ankle. “Fuck,” you whisper, your irritation growing stronger as you try to rotate your foot and feel the pain thicken.

Opposite you, the man clambers to his feet, getting his bearings on his skates before begrudgingly sliding up you. Your eyes take in his figure, running the lines of his stocky form. It’s always hard to tell what the guys look like beneath the padding and the helmets, but he doesn’t look as tall as you’d expected when he was laying on top of you. He’s smaller than the rest of them, but you have a suspicion he can probably move remarkably fast. How else would he have been able to take you out so easily?

He offers you a gloved hand, staring at you through cold eyes. “C’mon,” he urges, when you do nothing but stare at his palm. “Let me help you up. It’s the least I can do.”

You eye him suspiciously, but you know you won’t be able to get up without some assistance. A brief glance at your team around you suggests they’re all watching your exchange, intrigued. So, you swallow your pride, grit your teeth, and slip your hand into his glove, digging your skates into the ice as he helps you back to your feet. A short hiss of pain falls through your lips as your ankle throbs. When your leg threatens to buckle, the man moves in closer and grabs at your waist.

“Woah!” he exclaims, holding you up. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” you mutter, trying to steady yourself, “no thanks to you.”

You hear him release an exasperated sigh, and he lets you shake yourself free, but his hand drifts down to pull at your arm and hold you back when you try to skate off.

“What do you want?” you snap, tension in your voice. Beneath the visor, you can make out the guilt dusting his face, but you’re too focused on your recurring injury to pay it much mind.

“I’m sorry,” he tries. “I am.”

You pull your arm free again, and you hear a few hoots drift over from the other side of the rink. The word Dutchy rises louder, and you watch his expression twitch with irritation.

“Whatever,” you reply. You skate backwards, moving away from him, only relaxing when you feel one of your friends link her arm with yours. “Just forget about it.”

The hockey player looks as though he wants to argue with you, but when you harden your glare, he seems to let it go. He shoots you a very tight-lipped smile, mouth puffing a little with air, and then he picks up the discarded hockey stick and skates back to the other side of the rink. Your eyes briefly flutter over the bright text of Holland before he disappears, being enveloped back into the fold of raucous players as you sink into your friend’s side.

“Are you okay?” she whispers, touch far gentler than his had been.

You grimace, looking down at your ankle. “Yeah,” you reply, frowning sourly. Your eyes lift up across the rink, and you let yourself scowl. “Just pissed off.”

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Following the incident, and an incredibly bad skating practise, you find yourself reprimanded by your coach and put on bed rest for a few days so you can rest your ankle. It’s hard not to blame the distracted hockey player, but you know you probably had it coming. You’ve been walking the knife’s edge for several weeks with your injury, and as much as you hate to admit it, the time off is necessary.

The moment you’re allowed back on the ice, you’re there in a heartbeat. The training arena also operates as a commercial venue, and there are different slots available during the day for the general public to skate. After receiving the thumbs up from the team physiotherapist, you immediately turn up to one of the open slots available to the public, hoping to brush up on a few things before you rejoin your team in the morning.

For the first ten minutes of your practice, things go well. Your ankle is better for a few days off, and you’re able to sink back into your routine and get back to focusing on the gnarly parts that always throw you in a loop. It isn't too busy either, so there’s room to skate around and feel the air running over your face. It’s easy to get lost in it, your chest full of a lightness you’d spent the last few days bed-bound and dreaming of.

You take a break to drink some water after a while, leaning up against the barrier at the edge of the rink and bending over it to rummage through your bag. When you feel a presence behind you, you stand up, glancing back expecting to see a stranger, and feeling your eyes widen as instead, you recognise the man.

He looks very different without the shoulder pads and the rest of his ridiculous costume, but it’s him: Holland, the hockey player responsible for your skating ban. Still tall, and perched on hockey skates, but more relaxed. Like you, he’s wrapped up warmly, with a tight black thermal shirt curled around his arms, and another t-shirt resting over the top. His brown hair flies freely, bouncy and slightly curled, and his eyes are soft.

“Hi,” he says, biting at his thin lower lip. “Do you remember me?”

You frown as you skate to be in front of him, nodding slowly. “The guy that smashed me into the ice the other day?” you tease, voice cool. “Of course. How could I ever forget?”

You watch as his face darkens in shade, his eyes flickering down to your leg. “I’m, uh, Tom,” he leads with. “I saw you skating and I just wanted to see how you were doing… I haven’t seen you at practice in a few days, and I was, uh… sort of worried I’d seriously hurt you.”

Tom looks at you like he’s scared of you, and you have to bite back a smile as you wonder if you were too harsh on him the other day.

“Hmm.” You cross your arms over your chest and inspect him, gaze following how pronounced his biceps look, pushing up against his shirt. “Well, I was benched for a week.”

He curses softly, accented voice sounding out of place speaking such vulgarity.

“I’m sorry,” Tom says. He looks as though he means it, too. Shoulders sagged, eyes concerned, lower lip bitten red. “I promise, love, it wasn’t intentional. If I could go back in time and stop myself from behaving like such an inconsiderate twat, I would.”

You giggle slightly, unable to disguise the glee that comes with hearing him call himself a twat. You watch as his eyebrows arch up, confusion replacing his sincerity as he slowly crosses his arms over his chest. You’re still irritated by the situation, but you’re no longer incensed. It’s hard to harbour a grudge whilst he’s pouting so acutely.

“Well, Tom, I forgive you,” you say, voice lighter. He releases a deep breath, and you nod to affirm your point. “I’m Y/N, by the way.” Instinctively, you offer him a hand and find a shiver rolling down your back as his warm palm presses up against yours. Tom’s grip is firm and grounding, and his skin is a lot softer than you’d expected.

“Y/N is a nice name,” he says, voice perkier. His eyes seem more alive, and you don’t miss the way he takes in your form with an inquisitive gaze.

Your lips twist into a smirk. “I’ve already forgiven you, you can turn off the charm now.”

Tom shrugs, eyes glinting cheekily. “It’s not charm, darling,” he returns. “This is just who I am.” It seems to be true, too. He’s a lot bolder now the air between you has cleared, no longer looking like he wants to melt through the ice.

You snort loudly and feel your heart quicken when he smiles. “Well, Tom, what are you doing here?” You quirk an eyebrow. “Don’t you guys practice in the mornings?”

“Yeah,” Tom agrees. He breaks off as he looks over his shoulder and waves a hand at the near-deserted ice. “Coach said I need to work on my sprints, though, and it’s a lot easier to do that without the rest of the team hanging around.”

“Makes sense,” you say, deviously deciding you want to see how far you can push him. “You hockey guys are always so slow on the ice.”

Tom’s jaw drops, and you watch as he straightens up and stands a little taller. He meets the challenge directly, and you can’t deny it—it’s attractive. The way he squares his jaw, flares his nostrils and hardens his gaze is hot.

“Fuck you,” he says, voice light, “I’m definitely faster than you.”

You smirk. “As if,” you quip. You raise a hand, twirling a finger around in the lazy direction of the centre of the rink. “Show me what you’ve got. I might give you some pointers if I’m feeling nice.”

Tom releases a very loud laugh, the skin by his eyes crinkling into fine lines. “You’re hilarious, love,” he responds. “Like a figure skater is going to be able to teach me anything of importance.”

It’s your turn to laugh, and you cross your arms as you stand a little straighter. “That’s bold talk from someone who doesn’t look where he’s going,” you tease. You run a hand through your hair, eyeing him closely. “I could easily beat you in any skating-related activity, and I wouldn’t even break a sweat.”

Tom tilts his head to the side, seeming to feed into the idea of a challenge just as much as you. There’s something about him that fires you up the right way—a shared competitiveness that burns as brightly in you as it clearly does in him. It overpowers everything else, taking over, enticing you into letting go of any residual resentment and embracing the chance to beat him.

“How about we put your bragging to the test, darling?” he suggests, tongue tracing his lower lip. His eyes flutter around the curves of your mouth. “A few races, just to see who’s really better.”

You don’t hesitate to nod. “Sure, Tom,” you agree. “But don’t be too pissy when I beat you.”

There’s something endearingly irritating about how confident he is as he smirks at you and leans forward to briefly rest a hand on your shoulder. “Same to you, Y/N,” he responds. “I know it’s annoying to lose.”

You just shake your head, scoffing as you push away from him and move down to the end of the rink. He follows you, coming to a stop on his chunky skates beside you.

“First one to the other side wins,” you announce, reaching back to rest a hand on the barrier. You tilt your head and stare at him until he does the same. “Ready?”

“Mhmm.”

“3, 2, 1, go!”

It’s slightly ridiculous how badly you want to beat him, but there’s just something so infuriating about Tom. Your competitiveness burns in your chest, makes your blood boil and your hands clench into fists, and you find your eyes zeroing in on the opposite side of the rink as tunnel-vision encroaches. You block him and everything else out, your desire to win taking over as you swiftly launch across the ice, skates clipping the surface with metallic sounds as you sprint it. You don’t break—you don’t give up, slow down, or even turn back until you’re slamming into the barrier at the other side, turning around just in time to see Tom come in behind you, lagging about a second behind.

“Shit,” Tom mutters, grimacing.

You smirk. “Told you I’d beat you.”

Tom pulls a sour face, and it makes you giggle. “Best of three?” he offers. “C’mon, Y/N.” His elbow nudges against your side. “I’m still warming up.”

“Alright,” you agree. “But for the record, I still won.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Tom mutters, shooting you a sly smile. “Just you wait.”

You win best of three skating forwards, but Tom manages to snag a victory when it comes to speed skating backwards. You can’t take the smirk of triumph on his face, so you offer up a third competition, yearning to prove yourself.

“Can you do an axel?” you ask. Your eyes drift down to his heavy hockey skates. “Or are your boots too chunky and annoying?”

Tom’s face twitches with doubt, but he’s quick to smooth it away. “Fuck yeah,” he states boldly. “I can do anything you can do.” If he doubts the truth of his words, he doesn’t let it show. “Just, uh… Show me how you do it first.”

You have the suspicion he can’t remember what an axel is, so you decide to oblige him.

“Alright,” you agree, boosting away from him. His eyes follow you, and their presence on your figure brings a hidden smile to your face. “Watch this.”

You perform the trick easily. An axel is the simplest of all the jumps, and it gives you no bother to glide forwards, leap into the air, do a swift, neat turn, then land on your back foot gracefully. You could probably do it with your eyes closed.

“There!” you announce, smile on your face.

Tom gulps nervously.

“Easy,” he says, voice slightly quieter. You cross your arms and watch, incredibly amused, to see how far he’ll take his act before giving up. Tom skates forward, confident in his movements, eyes focused, eyebrows furrowed. He takes his time, failing to do anything beyond skating in a straight line before he suddenly, jerkily, attempts the trick.

Time moves in slow motion. It’s with a combination of glee and horror that you watch him fail spectacularly, doing a rotation of approximately 180 degrees before slipping on the return to the rink and landing flat on the ice, groaning loudly. The few of the people sharing the rink with you look around, concerned, and you’re quick to skate over to him, biting your lip guiltily.

“Well,” you say, stopping in front of him. Tom’s still on the ice, arms crossed, glaring angrily at his skates. “I admire you for trying.”

His attention shifts up to you, and his scowl intensifies. “Whatever,” he mumbles. There’s an element of amusement in his eyes, and he takes your hand when you extend it out towards him. Tom’s heavy, but he springs up easily, his fingers tangled in yours and jerking you a little closer. “That was way harder than it looked.”

You hum, and then gulp as he drops your hand. He’s near to you, breath crystallising into a cloud of icy fog in front of you. Your eyes glide over the spray of brown freckles on his face before skimming down the curved line of his nose until you can admire his mouth.

“Well, it is a sport,” you say, voice a little tight. You clear your throat, shaking yourself from your funk as you realise you’re just staring at his lips. “Just like… Like hockey is a sport. I know we make fun of it, but I doubt me or anyone else on the team could play like you guys do.”

Tom seems to enjoy the praise, standing with a little more confidence as you finish speaking. He nods, then brings two slender fingers up to nimbly scratch at his chin.

“Have you ever tried it?” he asks.

“Not properly.”

Tom smirks. “Well, we need to change that. Go down the end, I’ll grab a net.”

You don’t know how he manages to convince the supervisors of the free skate to let the two of you set up an attack zone in the end segment of the rink, but you don’t question it. The sight of Tom reappearing, haphazardly balancing a net, a hockey stick, and a puck in his arms makes you smile, and you briefly think about how easy it's been for your resentment to melt away. There’s something about him that’s incredibly warm, and you don’t dispute the realisation that he’d probably make a good friend.

“Right,” Tom announces. He’s set up the net and shown you how to hold the plastic stick. Now, both of you are staring at the puck, black and stark against the scratched white ice. “Just hit it.”

You glance up at him, sceptical. “Surely there’s more to it than that.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t know what I’m working with until I see you take a hit at it, darling.”

You nod. The stick feels unfamiliar between your hands, but you’re determined to make a better show of it than Tom when he tried to do the axel. After staring at the small open area of the net, you grit your teeth and hit it, watching with widening eyes as the puck soars wide out to the left.

Tom cackles.

“Well… That was an attempt,” he says. His grin doesn’t falter at all, even when you turn around to glare at him.

“Teach me, then,” you quip, scrunching up your nose playfully.

Tom hums, and you watch as he briefly skates away after the puck. You can’t stop yourself from staring at him as he bends over, the bottom of his shirt briefly riding up and exposing the printed band of his boxers. The words Calvin Klein burn into the back of your eyes, still lingering there as he turns and skates back to you. You blink rapidly, shame burning at your face as you try to look more like you’re focused, and less like you can’t stop your eyes from gravitating towards his figure.

He drops the puck back on the ice, just in front of your stick. “Your angle was wrong,” Tom says. “Show me your hands again.” When you do as instructed, he frowns and shakes his head. “No, it’s… It’s more like, your top hand higher, and the lower more angled… Uh… No, no, no. Can I just touch you?”

“Okay,” you squeak, standing a little straighter.

Tom skates forward, resting behind you. He doesn’t hesitate to carefully wrap his arms around you from behind, slender fingers curling over your hands and repositioning them on the stick. You feel like you’ve been electrified—eyes wide, skin responding to his touch. His breath, warm and minty, wafts across the side of your face, and you realise you’re holding your breath.

“Yeah...just like that,” he coos, voice a little softer. He squeezes your hands before letting them go. “Give it another go.”

You swallow back your nerves as you nod, waiting until Tom’s drifted back to hit the puck. You can’t stop yourself from smiling when it goes sailing into the back of the net, and Tom lets out a loud hoot.

“Fuck yeah!” he exclaims, laughing gleefully. “Look at that!”

You glance back at him, enjoying the expression of pride that finds his features. “Pretty good, right?” you say, playing it cool.

“Spectacular, darling.” Tom’s nodding, face alight. “Let’s step it up a notch.”

He brings you through a few drills, and you find yourself enjoying the game despite your early blunder. Before you know it, there’s the sound of a buzzer ringing, signalling that there are five minutes left of your session together. Tom rises to the challenge, announcing that he wants to end by watching you skate at the goal and shoot a point whilst moving. You fail at your first three attempts, unable to coordinate moving the stick, the puck and yourself without something going askew.

“Show me again,” you whine, growing conscious of the timer ticking down.

Tom skates closer, gliding easily with his hands behind his back. His thin lips wear his smirk well.

“Just visualise it, darling,” he says. “Believe in yourself, and you’ll do it.” He pauses, eyes skimming over you. “I believe in you.”

You nod. “Okay.”

“Follow my line in.”

Tom skates backwards, beckoning you forwards with outstretched hands and a smile like you’re a toddler he’s teaching to walk. He leads your attack, mapping out your path before shifting out of the way just in time for you to successfully skate and hit the puck into the back of the net. His expression clears into relief, but as you start to celebrate, it’s quick to fall flat. You watch, eyes widening, as Tom gets distracted by you and drifts backwards into the goal, skates getting tangled in the netting. You lunge forward to try and catch him, only to make the situation a thousand times worse as you crash into him, grabbing at his shirt just as he manages to steady himself.

It feels like a cruel trick of fate. A repetition of the past, just, instead of Tom tackling you to the ground, it’s you that manages to slam him back onto the ice. It’s more comfortable this time around, though. For you. Tom’s chest is a lot warmer and softer than the ice.

“Fuck,” Tom groans. His face twists into an aching expression, then his eyes slowly blink open. As you make contact with his brown orbs, you’re surprised to see amusement shift across them. “Oh, how the tables have turned.”

You snort, taking stock of how muscly his front feels. You’re sprawled out completely over him, face suspended above his, Tom’s palms holding your waist. It’s intimate, especially when he reaches up with one hand and pushes your hair from your face so he can peer at you better. You can’t stop your eyes from going straight to his lips.

“S-sorry,” you stammer, voice breathless. You admire the way his hair is spread out around his head, bold against the ice like a halo. “I don’t know what happened.”

“‘S okay.” Tom’s quieter too. His gaze circles quickly between your eyes and your mouth. There’s something cockier about him, and you know the way you’re clinging to the front of his shirt has something to do with it. “I think you fell for me. Again.”

He’s leaning in. You start to do it, too, even go as far as to let your eyes drift close. He gets so close that you can almost feel the warm outline of his lips, brushing against yours, but then there’s the loud noise of a buzzer vibrating through the air. As the sound dies, it serves to signal the end of such a tender moment, as well as the end of the session.

You startle and push off him as you shoot him an apologetic grin.

“Sorry,” you say. You’re shaking a little, but you hope he puts it down to shock. You manage to clamber up and offer him your hands.

Tom accepts your help, and he groans as you help him up.

“It’s fine, Y/N,” he says, pausing to shake out his legs and slide forward. He swings your palms through the air, squeezing at your fingers as he very gently twirls you beneath his arm, then moves in nearer. “Accidents happen. I’m not surprised you wanted to be on top of me.”

All you can do is laugh and hope Tom can’t tell how he makes the base thrumming of your heart pick up.

“As if,” you return. You glance down at your intertwined fingers and feel your heart pang. “A hockey player? I could never.”

Tom just smiles, then squeezes your hands before letting them slip from his grasp. “Yeah, yeah,” he murmurs. He nudges your shoulder then shifts away, off in the direction of the net. “You know there’s no one that could give you as good a time as me.” He’s joking—it’s obvious in the cadence of his voice, the smile on his face. But why does it feel so layered?

“Ha ha,” you respond, skating over to him. When you notice him struggling, you dart forward and grab the net, slinging it over a shoulder. You glance back, arching an eyebrow as you decide to test the water. “I have had fun, though,” you add. “With you.”

Tom tilts his head to the side, ruffling up his hair with a hand. His smile lights up his entire face.

“Me too.”

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

Almost a week passes, and though you don’t see Tom again, he’s certainly on your mind. You find yourself thinking about him all too much, considering he’s a hockey player, and it goes against the team ethos you’ve been surrounded by.

One day, after practice, you end up sitting on a bench outside the rink, waiting on Yelena as she finishes talking with one of your coaches. Bored and curious, you pull out your phone and decide to open Instagram. All around the arena are banners advertising the hockey team’s social media, and you find yourself drawn to the official account with a few easy taps. You start to scroll through the feed, eager eyes skimming over every face until you find the one you’re looking for.

It’s Tom, from last season, clutching the victory trophy in his hands as he’s held on his team’s shoulders. His face is animated, pulled wide in a large grin as he stares at the camera, the skin by his eyes pulled into smile lines. He’s tagged in it, so, curious, you click through and look at his profile. Unsurprisingly, it’s set to public, and you’re careful as you scroll down.

His photos are exactly what you’d expect—a collection of team photos, action shots, and gym selfies. Typical hockey player, but the longer you spend staring at one of his selfies, the cuter he seems to get. Trying to shake yourself out of the daze, you scroll back up, thumb absently wandering over to his Following list. Your eyes widen as you see your profile, at the very top of the accounts.

Tom follows you…?

Brows furrowing, you flip onto your own account, double-checking this new fact by typing out his username in your followers tab. He pops up, at the top, and you sit back, blinking.

Interesting.

After taking a brief moment to compose yourself, you go back to his profile and follow him. You start to flick through his story from the day. You get about halfway through when a shadow casts over your figure. You glance up, expecting to see Yelena, only to startle when it’s Tom.

“Hi,” he offers, raising a hand in greeting. You blink a few times in quick succession, glancing between your phone which shows a mirror selfie from him shirtless in the gym to where he’s now standing in front of you, burgundy hoodie on, flask in hand. You immediately turn your phone off.

“Oh, u-uh, hi,” you say, voice suddenly thick. He tilts his head to the side, an amused smile finding his lips as he sees you flustered. “What… What are you doing here?”

“I was in the gym,” he says, telling you information you already know. “Saw you down here on my way out, thought I’d say hi.” He rocks back on his feet, looking a little nervous. “I, uh… Keep thinking about last week. On the ice.”

“Oh?” Tom nods. He hesitates, and you realise he’s just awkwardly standing in front of you. “Wait,” you say, shuffling up the bench. “Sit.”

He perches on the wooden slats beside you, offering you his flask. “It’s hot chocolate,” he says, cheeks blushing slightly.

“After the gym?” you return, arching a brow.

Tom smiles. “Fuck yeah,” he says, pressing the flask into your hand. “It’s good, trust me. And, uh, I don’t have any germs or anything. I think.”

You snort, clicking the top open as you look at him over the brim. “Well, I wouldn’t mind catching anything from you,” you say, speaking before you have time to process the words.

Tom’s eyebrows soar up his forehead, a short chuckle leaving his lips as you hide your embarrassment behind the metal flask. The burn of revealing such a humiliating thought is quickly soothed away as you taste the deliciously sweet liquid.

“Well?” Tom coaxes, stretching an arm up as he scratches the back of his neck. His hoodie smells of fresh fabric conditioner. “Good, eh?”

Begrudgingly, you nod. “Yeah,” you say, shooting him a soft smile. Trying to move on the conversation, you return to what he’d said before sitting down. “Uh, what was that you said? About last week?”

Tom nods, seeming a little less apprehensive now to speak to you after your enthusiastic praise. “I was just thinking about how fun it was to skate around with you. It sort of made me regret not getting your number, darling.”

Your lips twitch slightly. “You can have my number if you want, Tom,” you say, speaking softly. His eyes are so pretty up close. “And I’d be down doing it again. I’m free every Wednesday afternoon.”

He nods his head, curls bouncing from the enthusiasm. You pass him back the flask, carefully angling your phone away from him as you unlock it, quickly exit from Instagram, then open up contacts. You watch him input his number, tongue between his lips as his brows furrow. He curses softly as he messes up the numbers and has to backspace a few times, and you have to focus hard on not letting your face betray how cute you find the whole interaction.

He’s cute.

“There you go,” Tom says, passing your phone back. He stands from the bench, tilting the flask towards you. “I’ve gotta go,” he adds. “Carpool. But, uh… See you tomorrow?”

You nod, biting back your smile. “Yeah,” you agree. “Sounds good.”

Before he leaves, Tom darts down to gently kiss your cheek, his lips lingering there for a moment before he springs back and walks away, waving as he goes. As his broad smile fades from sight, you find your hand drifting up, going to your cheek and touching the spot which tingles with the remnants of his kiss.

Swallowing back your nerves, you return your attention to your phone. You open your contact, clicking on Tom and opening up a text message. After a brief moment of contemplation, you decide to play it safe.

Y/N: hey x

A moment later, the notification changes from delivered to read, and the typing bubbles pop up. You shift on the bench, holding your breath.

Tom: hi xx

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

A few weeks pass, and it becomes a habit.

Despite already spending most of your days on the ice, you carve out another hour every Wednesday afternoon and dedicate it to Tom. Over time, he teaches you hockey, and you continue to give him pointers on his skating. After a while, you even manage to coach him through a jump. It’s easy with him. There are no expectations, no routines you need to nail. All you have to focus on when you’re with Tom is having fun—and also trying not to fall too deeply into the reserves of his deep brown eyes. Tom feels like a breath of fresh air—if the air also happens to be loaded full of charm, cheek, and wear an irresistible smile.

Halfway through the hockey league, you end up at the arena on a Saturday night, staying late with the rest of the figure skating team. Your competitive season begins in two weeks, so the team is in for outfit fittings, everyone split across the changing rooms at the arena. You’re competing solo this year, which grants you the rare position of having the freedom to design your dress—a privilege you’ve had a lot of fun with.

“It’s beautiful,” you gasp. “I can’t believe how nice it looks.”

You’re staring at a clothes mannequin, wearing the costume you’d spent hours conceptualising with the team’s designers. It’s a shade of red that perfectly compliments your skin, accented with silver and gold detailing in a beautiful pattern over the front. Gems glimmer and sparkle, and you can’t stop your eyes from tearing up as you look at an object of such beauty.

“Do you like it?” Standing beside the masterpiece, eyes nervous, is Jazzy, the lead costume designer. When you clasp your hands together and nod, she releases a deep sigh of relief. “Thank goodness,” she murmurs. “Let’s get you in it and start marking out the alterations.”

You feel a little bit like a doll, standing on a raised platform as you pull on your costume, but it’s worth the reward of seeing yourself in the dress. After slipping into it, you pull your hair back and pin it sloppily, so you’re able to admire the ensemble fully. You’re in tights, matched to your skin tone, and the tops of your thighs are covered by the red material. It floats down, and you run your fingertips over the hem of the velvety skirt as a smile finds your lips.

“Stunning,” Jazzy compliments. She passes you a tube of lipstick. “Try that one.”

You carefully smooth the shade over your lips, noting with enjoyment how the hue matches the bodice of the dress. As you stare at your reflection in the mirror, you release a breath. When you have your face painted and your hair done properly, you’ll look the part, and clinging to the image of what you’ll look like on competition days is enough to steady some of the nerves. Even if you mess up your routine, you’ll do it looking like you deserve to be there.

“I love it,” you say, releasing a breath. You reach up and pull your hair free, running a hand through it and ruffling it, so it sits normally. You do a small spin, smiling as the material drifts around the top of your legs. “You did an incredible job. Thank you so much.”

“Thank you for wearing it so well,” she returns, winking. “Let’s get a few more opinions.”

It isn’t long before the changing room is swarmed with the rest of your team, each one of them wearing garments in various stages of completion. The men are here too—four of them, combining with the five other women and yourself, bringing your team up to an even ten. Each season, your team puts forward various combinations of skaters for the duet, team, and solo events. You’re one of the only skaters competing solo this year—a decision your coach had made as she decided she wants no distractions for you as you try to reach Olympic level. The only other member of your team in a similar position is Tai, your lean, incredibly friendly male counterpart.

Tai saunters across the room, running a hand through his thick black hair. His outfit is deep purple and shimmery, and you wiggle your eyebrows as he does a little spin.

“Pretty sick, right?” he says, shaking a sleeve at you. “I look like Dionysus.”

“So cool,” you compliment. You do a small spin too, smiling widely. “What do you think?”

“Stunning,” Tai returns. He nods to affirm his point. “You’re going to kill it, Y/N. This is your year.”

You smile nervously. “I hope so,” you reply. You take a tight breath. “I really hope so.”

Before the conversation can continue, there’s the slamming of a door opening, followed by an approaching wall of noise—men, talking loudly, a few of them hollering. You raise an eyebrow towards Tai, who scowls.

“Saturday night,” he says. “The team are in the playoffs.”

“Wait, is it a home game?”

Tai nods. “Starts in twenty,” he says. His frown intensifies. “They’re so loud. Idiots.”

You watch from your position on the dressing podium as flashes of white, green and orange pass by the open door. It’s the hockey team, alongside their coaches and their managers. They walk determinedly in the direction of the hockey changing room where you presume they’re going for a pre-game pep talk. You can’t stop yourself from scanning the crowds, looking for Tom. When you fail to seek him out, you feel your heart pang sadly in your chest.

“Y/N?” Tai’s looking at you, amused. “Are you okay?”

You swallow, then nod. “Yeah,” you mutter. “Just tired.”

He hums, eyes wide and sympathetic. “Me too. It’s been a busy week, hasn’t it?”

It’s easy to agree. At this point in the season, with so few weeks to go before the competition begins, you’re at the rink every day.

“Absolutely.”

You stifle a yawn. Your eyes flutter back across the changing room, and you see your tired sentiments seem to be shared by the rest of the team. As they slowly start to leave the room, it grows quieter. Tai drifts away, lingering in the corner and talking with Jazzy and Yelena. It isn’t long until you’re the only four people remaining. You spend a few moments taking photos of your fit in the mirror, trying to get in all the angles so you can send them to your family and fuel their excitement about the season. Your actions are interrupted only when there’s a tender knock on the door, and you glance up towards the entrance to see a bulky, padded figure. Tom.

“Uh, hello? The hockey room is across the corridor,” Yelena says, crossing her arms over her chest.

Tom isn’t in his helmet, but he is perched tall on his skates. You’re able to watch as his face twitches with annoyance. He offers a tight smile to Yelena before glancing straight at you, raising a teasing brow.

Chest feeling tight, you step forward, padding quietly towards the door. Your friends are all looking at you, but you’re more preoccupied with Tom and the way his eyes seem to glint as they take you in your form. There’s a small swagger to your step as you watch him shift from leg to leg, his cheeks warm and red, eyes full of appreciation as they stick on the curves of your hips, chest, and then your lips. Your suit is tight, and it brings you enjoyment to watch him admire you. He clears his throat as you fall to a stop in front of him.

“Hey,” you say, voice quiet, perplexed. “What are you doing here? Don’t you have a game?”

Tom nods. “Yeah,” he says. His tone is darker, and it catches slightly. “I, uh… I wanted to see you.”

You bite your lip, standing a little straighter. “Oh.” You can’t stop yourself from smiling. “Well… Do you like it?” You toy with the hem of your skirt. “It’s my outfit for the competition circuit.”

“Give me a spin, darling.”

You oblige him, feeling slightly giddy as you do yet another rotation. You hear him hum, and when you fall to a stop in front of him again, you’re closer.

“Beautiful.” Tom rubs together his hands, slender fingers gloveless and unaffected by the imminent game. He rocks back on his skates, clicking his tongue as he looks a little apprehensive. “I, uh… I was thinking about what you said last week about never going to a hockey game before.” He pauses to dig through one of his deep pockets, pulling out a few pieces of paper. He offers them to you tentatively. “If you want, I have some spare tickets for tonight’s game. Pretty good seats. My family normally use them, but they’re busy tonight, so…?”

It’s with a mix of shock and gratitude that you nod your head immediately, reaching out to take the tickets. “I’d love to, Tom,” you murmur. “Thank you.”

He grins, face lighting up. “Perfect,” he returns. “Maybe you’ll be my lucky charm.”

Your teeth graze your lower lip, and you smile. “I hope so.”

Tom opens his mouth as if to say more, but then there’s a holler from further down the corridor.

“Dutchy! Five minutes! Hurry up!”

He grimaces, rolling his eyes. “Well, that’s me.”

“Dutchy?” you question.

Tom shrugs, then turns around and extends his thumb over his back to gesture at his jersey. “Holland,” he says. He turns back to look at you, grinning. “Just a nickname.”

You coo. “That’s cute.”

Tom licks his lip. “‘S not the only thing that’s cute.” You barely have time to respond before he’s leaning forward to quickly kiss your cheek. “Have fun!” he says, already on his way down the corridor.

“Good luck!” you return. You can almost feel the ghost of his touch, resting on your face so perfectly.

Tom turns, right at the end of the corridor, and he winks. You don’t realise how tightly you’re holding yourself until he disappears, and your lovestruck muscles unravel.

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

It’s hard to explain to Tai and Yelena the relationship you have with Tom, so you just give up after a while. They accompany you to the arena. You manage to change your dress for something more casual, deciding to keep the red lipstick on. Tom’s seats are at the end of the rink, positioned mid-way up the stands. They give you a clear view across the ice.

The atmosphere is electric. You’re surrounded by the home crowd, decked out in replica jerseys, printed scarves, and hats that have Kingston Kites printed all over them. It’s a sea of white, green, and orange, and you can’t stop yourself from slipping out during the first break to buy yourself a scarf—just to support the team, and Tom. The teasing you receive from your friends when you reappear is hard to ignore but mellows out when you procure a bag of Maltesers you’d also bought from the stand.

And Tom… Tom.

Tom’s incredible. You can’t keep your eyes off him. The silhouette of his padded figure feels like it’s burnt to your memory. When he’s on the ice, he’s magnificent, commanding the space well, grunting and spinning as he plays. When he’s waiting for his turn on the bench with his team, he’s focused and calm. His eyes are sharp and intense, glinting almost black beneath the harsh rink lighting as they follow the puck across the ice. You find yourself admiring everything about him—watching the way his cheeks are flushed a rosy red, his jawline sharp and fierce. He’s on fire, passion rolling off every part of him, and, quite honestly, it’s incredibly attractive.

Tom’s explained the basic rules of hockey to you a few times, but there’s a stark difference between him telling you, quietly, how line rotations work and actually seeing them in action on a scale like this. The players swap out every minute, only staying on the ice for a short burst of energy as they chase the puck around. Tom, holding the loose position of centre forward, goes wherever needed, carving up the ice like it’s his one task in life. You’re high in the stands, but even from so far, you’re able to see the determination and the passion burning in his eyes.

The game is brutal. By the time it reaches the third and final twenty-minute segment, the score is tied 2-2. You watch, on tenterhooks, as Tom jumps the barrier on the side of the rink, swapping in for one of the players and taking his spot on the ice.

He’s antsy, as are the rest of the team. You know it’s an important match, and if they want a chance at continuing to the next stage of the competition, they need the result to swing in their favour. Your eyes are wide, fingers curled into fists as you watch Tom cut up the ice. The helmet on his head protects his skull, but you can make out a few strands of dark brown hair sticking out, and you find yourself struck with the very prominent and aching thought that you’d quite like to play with it.

The puck ends up at your end of the rink, and the Kingston Kites take on a defensive strategy as their opponents try to put pressure on the goalie and get in another shot. You find your eyes trained directly on Tom and startle as you catch him looking up at you. Through panting breaths, his lips quirk into a brief, tight smile of recognition, but then it sours as his eyes slip beside you and look at Tai. Your friend is sitting to your right, his arm loosely wrapped around your shoulders, and you’re casually leaning into his side. It’s entirely platonic, but you don’t miss the way Tom’s eyebrows shoot up as his gaze hardens and his jaw sets with determination.

The whole interaction lasts less than a second, but as Tom refocuses on the game and hurtles after the puck, he seems more aggravated. You sit forward, gaining a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach as you shrug off Tai and stare at Tom. Your eyes follow him as he goes in hard, trying to wrestle the puck out from beneath his opponent’s stick. It looks to be a bit of a mess, and you hear everyone in your section gasp as Tom roughly elbows the other guy. He goes spinning with a yelp, and the referee blows on the whistle, pausing the game. There are a few yells of ‘Dutchy’, coupled with disgruntled hollering from the people around you as they question the referee’s decision to pause.

“Fucking hell,” Yelena murmurs, leaning forward on her elbows and staring across the ice. “Your guy is crazy.”

You suck in a breath, watching as the referee points at the penalty box and Tom stomps towards it. You can almost see the frustrated steam pouring from his ears.

“He’s… passionate.” You bite your lip. Somehow, you feel responsible for his outburst.

“Shit,” Tai mutters. He too leans forward, until all three of you are sitting there, elbows on your knees, staring at the penalty box. “That’s kind of hot.”

Your throat feels dry as you watch Tom throw his stick on the ground of the penalty box. Given all the walls are made of plastic, you have an unobstructed view as he pulls off his helmet and tosses it on a seat too. He marches a few paces up and down, speaking angrily to himself, his expression one of pure irritation. When he finally sits down, he runs a gloved hand through his hair, pushing away the sweaty strands that stick so deliciously to the top of his flushed forehead. You watch, your breath light and shallow, as Tom jerks off the glove and shoves his fingers into his mouth, pulling out his mouthguard before picking up a bottle and squirting a long stream of water into his open mouth.

“Fuck,” you murmur, eyes transfixed. There’s a heat in the pit of your stomach, building as you take in the way Tom’s glowing with a mix of exertion and anger. The match is continuing back on the ice, but you can’t stop looking at the hot flush of his cheeks and the angry lines of his flexed brows and curved jaw. “It is.”

A minute passes, and Tom slowly seems to chill out. It’s only as the seconds fall down into the 30s that he finally seems to release his tension, fixing his mouthguard, and his glove before glancing up at the stands. You’re surprised when, again, he looks directly at you, his entire demeanour shifting when he sees the concern in your eyes. His features soften, lips losing their angry frown and mellowing into a warmer smile, and you watch as his gaze grows fonder.

Yelena hits at your knee immediately. “He’s in love with you,” she announces, certainty in her voice.

You can’t stop looking at Tom, not even when he breaks contact with a wink and shoves his helmet back on.

“Shut up,” you murmur. “He’s not. We’re just friends.”

Tai cackles. “Fuck off,” he says. “Yelena’s right. Friends don’t look at each other like that.”

You sit up, glaring at him. “Like what?”

He smirks. “Like you want to jump each other.”

It’s hard to dispute that one, so instead, you just cross your arms over your chest and stare back at the ice. “You’re wrong, but okay.”

Yelena nudges your side. “There’s only one way to find out.”

“Hmm?”

“Stay behind after the match and ask him.”

You swallow nervously, briefly looking at her. “But what if you’re wrong?”

“I’m not,” she promises. “But… If I am, I’ll let you style my hair for the rest of the season.”

Your eyes light up, and the way that Yelena smirks, you can tell she knows the offer is too good to refuse.

“Fine,” you agree. Your eyes shift back to Tom, watching as he vaults back over the barrier and joins his team. Apparently they’ve forgiven him for the penalty, as he’s welcomed back with firm pats on the back, and you can see his blinding smile from across the rink. “I’ll do it.”

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

The Kingston Kites win the match, and the arena is quick to empty. You part ways with your friends as they head home and you end up wandering the changing rooms as you try to hype yourself up. There’s a text from Tom waiting on your phone, simply asking how you’d liked the game, so you respond and tell him that you’d much rather go over it in person. After agreeing to meet him outside his locker room, it’s just a waiting game.

You reapply your lipstick and mess around with your hair to kill the time. It’s a little eerie being alone in the skating changing rooms, and as time passes, you hear fewer people hovering around the arena as the players slowly leave the building. It’s hard not to get stuck in your head as you think about your plan to confess your feelings, so you end up pacing in the long corridor that winds between the skating changing rooms and the hockey locker room.

The corridor is bright white and decorated with various sporting memorabilia. Autographed jerseys, shining medals, and printed photographs hang framed on the walls. On your side of the corridor, you catch glimpses of yourself, wearing a tracksuit and hugging your friends, showing off your medals, mid-action on the ice… It makes you proud to see that your team has placed you so frequently in the collage, and you feel a swell of bittersweet gratitude in your chest as you look at snapshots of competitions gone by.

On the other side of the corridor is a similar spread for the hockey team. You stroke at your chin as you examine this season’s photos, skimming your eyes over the group shot and trying to spot the people that you know. When you see Tom, dead centre, grinning widely, it makes you smile.

“—I’m just saying, Dutch, something was going on with you tonight. It can’t happen again. We can’t have you losing focus at this stage in the competition.”

The sound of a gruff voice drifting up the corridor makes you startle, and you glance down to see two figures emerging from the locker room—Tom, and one of his coaches. Tom has traded his gear for a pair of blue jeans and a loose black hoodie, and you watch as he nods and looks at his coach with wide-eyed respect.

“Of course, Spike,” he responds, voice clear, open. “It won’t.”

You watch as Spike sighs, then gives Tom a hearty pat on the shoulder. “Good lad.” He walks back, then makes the okay sign with his fingers. “Your final goal was phenomenal, though. More of that next game, and less time in the penalty box. Got it?”

“Yes, coach.”

“Good. See you tomorrow.”

Tom grunts and the two separate. You watch as he tugs on the front strings of his backpack before turning, his face lighting up as he spots you, leaning against the wall. He quickly strides towards you, footsteps echoing against the cold passage.

“Hey,” Tom calls out, voice bouncing down the hall.

There’s an uncontrollable smile on your face as you stand up and walk to meet him halfway. Tom instinctively wraps you in a hug, lips catching on your cheek when he pulls away.

“Hi,” you reply, voice shy. Tom smells of shower gel and mint, his curls a little damp and darker than usual. “Congrats on the win.”

Tom smirks, nodding as he crosses his arms over his chest. “Thanks, love. Did you enjoy it?”

You release a short laugh. If enjoyment equates to found it incredibly erotic, then, of course, the answer is,

“Yes. Loved it.” You tilt your head to the side, eyes narrowing. “Did you get in trouble for the penalty box?”

He winces, grimacing at you with his teeth glinting. “A bit,” he admits. “Doesn’t matter though, ‘cos I scored a goal after. I just need to, um… Not do it again.”

The air between you is thicker, and you find yourself swallowing as you note the way Tom’s looking at you, eyes hungry.

“What happened?” You say, testing the waters tentatively. “You seemed fine, and then you got… Fired up.”

Tom swallows. “I… Just got tetchy.” He clears his throat. “Who, uh… Who were you at the match with?”

You smirk, realising that your hypothesis was right. “My friends. Yelena and Tai. They’re on the team with me.”

“Friends?” Tom confirms, expression perking up.

“Yeah. Friends.”

He steps closer. “Did they like the game?” he asks.

“Yeah. They thought you were hot.”

Tom chuckles, briefly glancing at the floor before drawing his eyes back to you. They linger on your lips, and your breath hitches as he tentatively, testingly reaches out and places his hands on your hips. When you sink into it, he grows bolder, pulling you closer until your faces are near. You love the way his hands feel as they rest on your waist.

“Did you?”

“Hmm?”

“Did you think I was hot?”

It’s hard to concentrate when Tom’s standing so close to you, looking at you with his eyes so intense, but somehow you manage to wrap your arms around his neck and nod. “Yeah,” you admit. You toy with his curls, giving them a short tug when he groans enjoyably. “I always think you’re hot.”

Tom wears his smirk so well that it’s almost infuriating.

“Do you want to know a secret?” he asks, fingers softly caressing your sides. When you squeak out a noise of affirmation, Tom lets his nose brush up against yours. He swallows deeply, nervousness mixing with his teasing. “I think you’re stunning, too. All the time, but especially tonight, when you were sitting up there, wearing a team scarf and watching me play.”

“Oh,” you murmur. It’s hard to maintain eye contact with him when there’s so much going on in the depths of his gaze that it dizzies you. “Thank you.” Growing a little bolder, you let your fingers glide up, tangling in the ends of his hair. “It was fun watching you play. You’re really talented, Tom.”

His nose is still cold against yours, and you let your eyes fall shut as he slowly traces patterns over your sides.

“Thanks, darling.”

Instinctively, and embarrassingly, you feel a shiver roll down your spine as the pet name falls from his lips. Usually, you’d be able to play it off from the cold, or like you’re stretching a muscle, but he’s holding you so close that you’re sure he felt it.

“Tom,” you say, voice hushed. You feel safe in his arms, you feel loved in his arms, but your skin is still crawling with built-up desire. There’s an ache in your chest that burns brighter with each second he lingers so close, but yet remains so far. “Do you want to…”

“What, sweetheart?”

Again, your breath catches. You hear Tom release a small chuckle, and then, after a final moment, his lips fill in the small gap between you both. You sink into it immediately, heart rejoicing as his lips, warm and slightly chapped, explore your own.

It’s a little fumbly, and it takes a few moments for you to learn the slopes of his face so intimately, but once you’ve both readjusted and altered your positions, it’s quick to heat up. Tom’s fingers grip your waist tighter, mouth pressing to yours with more hunger as you wind your fingers into his hair and sigh. Between gasped breaths and soft sounds of enjoyment, you feel him slip his tongue along your lower lip, and so you open your mouth a little wider.

You end up against the cool brick wall, making out like you’re both teenagers again. The exhilarating butterflies twirling in your stomach match the memories, too. You moan softly as Tom pulls away from your mouth, his attention shifting to your neck. As you tilt your head to the side and open up your throat to him, you whimper as you feel his lips drag over your exposed skin. He nibbles and suckles until he finds the sensitive part that makes you cry out.

“Fuck,” you whimper. You tug on his air-dried curls, coaxing him back up to your lips so you can enjoy the feeling of his mouth on yours. Tom sighs, and you can feel him smiling into it.

There are noises, coming from further down the hall, and when they increase in volume, Tom reluctantly pulls back from your mouth. He links your hands together and swings them through the air, looking up to meet your eyes. His face is cute, lips puffy and red, eyes dancing with hope.

“D’you want to—”

“Oi, Dutchy!”

You jump as a holler comes from down the hall, echoing off the vast brick walls. Tom’s expression shifts, his lips pursing as he glances down the corridor. He turns away from you to yell back.

“What?”

You think it’s Osterfield, one of Tom’s friends. He too is dressed casually, standing tall with his arms crossed and a smirk on his face.

“We’re going out! Don’s got us the VIP section down at the Grove. C’mon!”

Tom looks torn, a ripe line carved out between his brows. He glances back at you, biting his lower lip.

“Go,” you urge, smiling softly. “Celebrate with your team.”

He frowns slightly. “Come with us?” he asks.

You shake your head. “No, it should just be you guys.” As much as you like Tom, you can’t think of anything worse than going on a night out with the entire loud, boisterous hockey team. You smile encouragingly when you see the turmoil in his eyes. “You deserve it.”

“Are you sure? Because I can stay here, and we can—”

You lean up, moving your hands back down to his shoulders as you kiss him very softly. “Go,” you urge, whispering against his thin lips.

Tom leans into you, keeping your lips pressed until you can feel him smiling into it. He begrudgingly steps back. “Thank you,” he says, “for coming to the game. And being so lovely.” His lips quirk a little taller. “And for letting me kiss you.”

“Well, it didn’t take much convincing.” You cross your arms over your chest and lean back against the wall, your figure feeling colder without Tom’s touch. His eyes run the lines of your face, gaze warm and comforting.

“Have a nice night,” he says. There’s still hesitation on his face, so you step forward and kiss his cheek before gently pushing his shoulder.

“You too” you respond. Tom finally walks away, but only after shooting you a wink.

You lean back against the wall, pulling out your phone and staring at the blank screen as you discreetly keep your focus on Tom. When he reaches the end of the corridor, Osterfield thumps him on the back and murmurs something unintelligible which earns him a shove into the doorway as the two friends leave together. Tom glances back just before disappearing, and you smile at him as he waves his hand playfully.

Once alone, you release a tight sigh of contentment. You deflate, sagging against the wall as you feel your heart beating faster in your chest. Absently, one of your hands drifts up, fingertips resting on the outline of your lips. Your mouth is still warm from Tom’s kisses, and your heart feels a little softer, too.

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

You don’t see him for a while, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t constantly on your mind. At some point, Tom adds you to his private Instagram story, and it feels like a gentle confirmation that he feels the same way as you. You stay in constant contact, and he starts to send you more memes and silly texts each evening. The smile on your lips barely fades, and every time your phone lights up with a new text from him, you get excited.

Unfortunately, the high doesn’t last forever. All too soon, it’s a week before your first competition, and the good feeling finally goes away. As extended practices cut into your life, you’re left frazzled and stressed, trying to balance your team’s expectations against your own personal competitiveness. It doesn’t help that your ankle is giving you grief again.

“No, no, no. You’re better than this, Y/N! Stop cutting the spin too early. You have to extend it into the end of the beat!”

It’s a Thursday morning, and you’re exhausted. The bags beneath your eyes hang heavy, and every manoeuvre you try to execute just seems to leave you worse than before. You’re cold on the ice, and your bones are chilled from fatigue and stress. Everything aches, and try as you might, you can’t land the final ten seconds of your routine. Your coach has forced you to go over it again and again, minutes blurring to hours as your frustration festers.

“It’s not working,” you call back, reaching up to tug on your hair. Your coach is leaning against the rink barrier, resting on her elbows as she watches you, pursed lips.

“Do it again,” she encourages. “Faster!”

You grit your teeth, skating back into the centre of the ice. The music starts again, and you run through the entire final section, nailing the parts that you know. Yet, as you reach the big finish, you falter. You end up flat on the ice, frustrated tears burning your eyes as your ankle throbs. As the track cuts out again, you hear your coach’s loud sigh, carrying across the ice.

“Pack it in. We’ll continue tomorrow.”

You grimace as you climb back to your feet, wincing slightly.

“I can do it again,” you call back, swallowing down the lump in your throat. You want to. You have to.

Your coach shakes her head, lips set in a firm line. “You can’t,” she responds. “You’re worn out and making mistakes. Your injury won’t sustain you.” She pauses to shake her head. “This isn’t what any of us want, Y/N, but you need to rest.”

Your fingernails dig into your palms as you grit your teeth. “But—”

“No. Go home.” Your coach pushes off from the barrier, shaking her head. When you fail to move, she turns back, arching a brow. “Go.”

A string of irritated cuss words falls quietly from your lips as you reluctantly skate from the centre of the rink. Your fingers go to your cheeks, wiping away the cool tears that fall from frustration. It’s a private session, but a few of your team are hanging around. Their sympathetic smiles and gentle arm pats make you bristle, and you’re silently seething as you stomp over to one of the benches and throw yourself onto it, groaning.

You lie down and stare at the ceiling for a while, trying to focus on your breathing. It’s just one bad training session. You’ve landed the end section of your routine plenty of times before. It’s just a bad day.

…But it’s also a bad day, one week before the first rounds of competitions, where a performance like the one you just gave would have you finishing in last place, your Olympic dreams crumbling to pieces.

You close your eyes, clenching your hands into fists as you stretch out over the bench. Your teammates know to give you space, so you aren’t sure why you feel a shadow falling across your face. You ignore it for a few moments, putting it down to someone unknown peering at you fleetingly, but when it persists, you pry an angry eye open.

“What— Tom?”

For the second time, you find yourself surprised by his presence. Tom is standing beside your bench, swallowed by a deep green hoodie with a blue denim jacket pulled over the top of it. In his hands are a stack of papers and his eyes are full of concern.

“Hi,” Tom says quietly, looking a little embarrassed. His cheeks are dusted light pink. You wonder how long he’s been staring at you for. “Are you okay? I, uh… I saw the end of your training.”

You feel rigid and breakable as his eyes pool with warmth, his gaze like tender sunbeams. When he steps closer and presses a gentle hand to your shoulder, your stress bubbles over. As you bring your knees to your chest, you press the side of your face into them, blinking up at him as a few tears skate down your cheeks.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he murmurs, cooing softly. “Don’t cry, darling.”

Tom gently coaxes you up the bench and sits behind you, throwing a leg either side of the wood to straddle it. You let him pull you back into him, his arms feeling warm and strong as he hugs you tightly from behind. He burrows his face into your neck, warm hands going up to cup your cheeks as his fingertips carefully flick your tears away.

“I’m not sad,” you murmur, swallowing back another wave of tears. “I’m just annoyed.”

“I know.” Tom pauses, and you take a moment to breathe in the scent of fresh laundry. “It’s the most frustrating thing in the world when you can’t get something right. But if you work yourself into the ground, you won’t ever be able to do it.”

“But- but what if I want to work myself into the ground,” you mutter, causing him to chuckle.

“Then you’d be silly.” Tom kisses your cheek, his lips warm and light. “And you’re not silly. You’re the strongest athlete that I know, Y/N. You just need to let other people look after you. Let… Let me look after you.”

Your breath hitches and slowly, you pull your face away from your knees. You stretch your legs out in front of you and turn to look at Tom, curiosity in your gaze as you think about how close he’s holding you, and how passionately he’s speaking to you.

“Thank you,” you say, voice quiet. A shy smile curls across your lips.

Tom hums. His hands fall down to your shoulders, and he gently squeezes your arms. “Go have a shower,” he says. “You’ll feel better, and then I’ll look after you some more.”

You reach out, fingers twirling around the strings of his hoodie. “You’re too nice to me,” you murmur, shyly ducking away from his gaze. “How are you so perfect?”

He laughs, the sound so ripe and joyful that it brings warmth back to your chest.

“I’m not,” Tom disputes. “I just care about you.”

You hum, and before you can lose your cool, you lean in and softly kiss him. Tom’s still for a moment, but then he pushes closer, gently and delicately kissing you back. His hands swoop down to hold your waist, lightly stroking over your sides. When you pull away a few moments later, you feel steadier.

“Hmm,” you say, mind running slow, ensnared by the glimmers of warmth in his eyes. “I like kissing you.”

Tom chuckles, nose brushing yours. “I like kissing you too.”

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

It turns out that Tom’s right—you do feel better after having a shower. As you find yourself in the deserted skating changing rooms, the sight of your troubles being swirled away down the plughole releases a large part of your stress. The hot water coaxes your good mood back, and it continues, even when you have to wrap up your ankle again.

By the time Tom reappears, knocking gently on the changing room door before entering, you feel better. You’ve changed clothes, washed your hair, cleansed yourself of all the bad energy that had clogged you up. You feel like you again.

“I got this for you,” Tom announces. He holds a disposable cup in his hand and presents it to you with a grin. “Hot chocolate, for m’lady.”

You roll your eyes as you accept it, looking up at him with gratitude warming your chest. “Thanks, Tom.”

He glances down, eyes taking in your form. You’re again stretched out on a bench, one of your legs bent at the knee, the other laying out in front of you. A few bandages hang around, and Tom looks at them curiously.

“How’s your ankle?” he asks, chewing on his lower lip as he stares at your fluffy sock.

“It’s okay,” you reply. “I braced it. Should be alright as long as I take it easy.”

Tom nods, then very slowly walks to the end of the bench. He runs his index finger down the bottom of your leg, his touch light but warm. You’re in a skirt, your legs bare and exposed, and as you take in the mischievous glint in his eye, you wonder what he has in mind.

“Y/N,” Tom starts, voice gentle. His fingertips play around with the top of your sock as he looks up at you from beneath his lashes. “Can I kiss it better?”

You’re breathing a little lighter as you look at him. “Yeah,” you agree. “Go ahead.”

Tom kneels on the floor, settling beside the bench with ease. With gentle fingers, he rolls down the top of your sock, just far enough so he’s able to leave a very soft kiss to your tender skin. He doesn’t linger there too long, his eyes fixed to your face, but his lips don’t leave you, either. Very carefully, taking his time, Tom starts to drop kisses to your skin. He gradually works his way further up your leg, dusting warm, open-mouthed kisses from your ankle to your shin, then your knee.

You shift on the bench as Tom starts to come higher, one of your hands drifting down to rest in his curls. You put the disposable cup on the floor as you watch him. There’s a heat slowly building in the pit of your stomach, and with each meeting of your flesh and Tom’s mouth, it grows more pronounced. It isn’t long before you’re parting your legs, his lips pausing at the bottom of your thigh as he changes from light kisses to deeper, needier sucks. A short whimper travels from your mouth, wobbling into the air as his lips draw the blood to the surface of your skin.

“You’re so pretty,” Tom murmurs, looking up at you from the ground. His eyes are wide, darkened with lust. He splays his hand along your neglected thigh, rubbing gentle circles to the skin. You whimper when he drops his tongue to lap over one of the marks he’s pulled to the surface of your skin. “Do you want me to go any higher?” His voice is raspy.

The space between your legs is throbbing, and immediately you nod. “The, uh, the door,” you murmur, voice shaking. Tom presses a final kiss to your inner thigh before standing up. He winks at you before jogging to the changing room door, easily flicking the lock, then coming back towards you. “Are you, um… Are you sure you don’t mind?”

Tom grins. He sinks down to his knees beside your head, his hands tugging the bottom of your legs. You sit up on the edge of the bench and turn as your thighs open over his shoulders. Tom kneels between them, his bed of brown curls complementing your skin tone nicely. He presses a kiss to your neglected leg before his hands carefully skim up to play with the hem of your skirt.

“I wouldn’t mind one bit,” he replies, his voice a little darker. He tilts his head as he meets your gaze, smirking softly. “I’d really like to. Do you want to know a secret, darling?” Tom’s fingers slide up, his index and his middle making contact with the front of your panties. As he traces delicately over the front of your core, small arcs of pleasure roll out from your centre. The way his lips twitch taller makes you wonder if he can feel the way your cunt seems to throb.

“Yeah,” you respond, voice light. A whimper passes through your lips as Tom applies a little more pressure to your covered clit, your hips gyrating down to meet his fingertips in response.

He pulls back, only to push your skirt out of the way, tutting quietly when you mewl.

“Been wondering what you’d taste like for ages, love,” he coos. He uses his grip on your thighs to pull you closer, and you moan when he buries his head between your legs. Your panties are still on, but that doesn't stop Tom from nosing up against your slit, hot breath fanning out across your warmth. When he draws his tongue over the front of your panties, you release a breathless whine. “Bet it tastes as pretty as you are.”

You reach down and bury your hand back into his curls, pulling Tom closer as he ghosts his tongue over the front of your panties. He’s lapping lightly up your slit, the pleasure muted but still there, and your eyes fall shut as the muscles in your thighs tense.

“Fuck, Tom,” you whine, feeling your cunt pulse. “Take them off. I need more.”

His nimble fingers are quick to follow your instructions, and as soon as your hips are falling back to the bench, his mouth is on you. You cry out as you finally feel him, the pleasure direct and far greater than you’d expected. Tom devours you, using both of his thumbs to press your lips apart as his tongue travels all over your heat. He spends a while focusing on your clit, the tip of his tongue firm and unrelenting, but when you start to whine a little louder, he teases you by drawing away. He flattens his tongue and licks a few broad strokes up your centre, moaning against you until you’re fisting at his hair and shaking.

“Fuck,” you whine, voice barely there. “Feels so good.”

Tom’s complete attention is on you and your eyes roll back when he teases your entrance with his mouth. One of his thumbs rolls up to toy with your clit as he pushes his tongue into you, your walls throbbing as he explores you. You push him deeper, obscenities mixing with slurred acclamations of his name, and it’s as though you can feel your pulse hammering in your head.

“Knew it. Tastes like fucking heaven,” Tom murmurs, pulling away from your entrance to shoot you a smirking smile. He brings two fingers to your pussy and teases you there, his eyebrows shooting up his forehead when you moan and rut down against them, taking agency and fulfilling your desires. “Shit, baby. You’re so wet.” He fucks your heat, eyes moving off your face and fixing on the mess between your legs as he coos. “I can feel you clenching around my fingers. Does that feel good?”

“Yeah,” you whine. When Tom drops his head and wraps his lips back around your clit, you cry out. “Getting so close,” you say, words tangling together as your chest heaves. You feel so hot, your body trembling as your edge hangs in sight. “Keep going, f-fuck, Tom. You’re so good.”

He adds a third finger to your heat, and your jaw slackens. Tom changes the angle of his digits a few times before curling them just right, and he continues to stroke up against your g-spot as you cry out. You stammer out a few words of warning, and he moans in response. The vibrations of the sound coupled with the way his tongue is applying the perfect amount of warm, sloppy pressure to your clit push you over the edge. As you peak, you fall back onto your elbows, tightening your grip on his hair as your pussy throbs, taking wave after wave of pleasure as it rocks across you and smothers you.

Tom doesn’t stop until you’ve ridden it out completely and you’re sensitive. With a push at his hair, you coax him away, still trying to gather yourself as your throat feels dry. The expression of cocky fulfilment hanging from his lips makes you shiver, and you almost moan again as you take in the sight of his chin, glistening with your arousal.

“How was that?” he asks, cleaning his chin with the back of his hand. Tom carefully stands up, still looking at you as he leans back and picks up a box of tissues from one of the benches. He passes a few to you then leans back against one of the lockers, looking at you admiringly with his arms crossed.

“Really good,” you manage, voice still a little hoarse. You clear your throat and ignore his chuckle as you take care of the mess between your legs with a tissue. Your eyes soften when you look back to him. “Thank you.”

Tom just nods, taking the used tissues and binning them before making a quick stop by a sink to wash his hands. When he strolls back over, he stands in front of you and cups your cheeks in his palms. You stare up at him, smiling as he meets your eyes.

“Glad I could make you feel nice,” he says, voice soft. He leans down to press a gentle kiss to your forehead. “Now… If you have time, I want to take you home. Run you a nice bath, make you some lunch. Make sure you’re looking after yourself.”

You feel your face warm as you listen to his musings, and find yourself biting the inside of your cheek. “You’d want to do all that for me?”

Tom nods. His hands run over your face, fingertips gently caressing your cheekbones. It’s as if he’s examining you, trying to ensure that you’re okay, that you’re safe, that you’re happy. It makes your heart soar.

“‘Course, darling. I care about you a lot.”

You tilt your head to the side so you can kiss the inside of his palm. “Okay,” you agree. You stand up, wincing slightly as your ankle disagrees with taking your weight. Tom’s hands move down to hold your waist, steadying you. “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

You start to walk, only to look back at him and glare jokingly. “Can’t believe you ruined my underwear,” you say. “Feels fucking freezing without them on.”

Tom arches a brow, picking up his bag and slinging it over his back before catching up to you. “Um, I think technically it was you who ruined your underwear.”

You scrunch up the tip of your nose, only for your scowl to melt when he kisses it. When you reach the door, you undo the lock and open it, letting Tom through before following him out into the corridor.

“Whatever,” you reply, sinking into his side. His hand is warm in yours, your fingers tangled together nicely. “Worth it.”

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

It’s noisy in the arena.

With the final match of the season underway and the league title up for grabs, the atmosphere is electric. The stands are packed, frenzied by the presence of the large broadcasting cameras that stream the match live to thousands online. Sitting in the home section, the noise seems louder than it would be elsewhere in the arena. Everyone around you is as invested in the result as you are, and as the energy rises and falls, you feel connected to the mass of strangers around you. You know that they share the ache in your fingers built from the tight clenching of your knuckles into fists, and the strain of your eyes as you spend too long staring at the bright white ice.

The score is 4-4. The players from both teams have been giving some of the most convincing performances of their careers. It’s been close all match.

You hadn’t been sure that you’d be able to make the game, your own days filled with the later stages of your competition, but you’re glad you managed to swing it. Tom needs you.

He’s skating well. He’d assisted one of the team’s goals, and managed to subvert several other shots on goal attempted by his rivals. Tom looks as handsome as ever, face flushed, eyes focused, figure bulked wide with protective padding, but you know he’s nervous. He’s looking up at you more than usual, his teeth gritted together, and his jaw tensed. It’s clear just how much the title means to him.

It’s been a few weeks since Tom came and picked you up after your meltdown at practice, and since then, your feelings for him have escalated. You think it must be a form of torture to watch someone you care about so much getting pushed around, and injured, and hurt on the ice, knowing you can’t do anything but sit and watch it play out in front of you. Every time he gets slammed up against one of the plastic wall barriers, you wince, almost feeling the pain yourself, and despite him always brushing it off and getting on with the game, you worry for him.

“Fucking hell. That looks like it hurts.”

Beside you is Harry, one of Tom’s brothers. You’d met him before the match when Tom had thrust a ticket at you and told you that he’d wrestled it off one of his other brothers. Your guilt had been assuaged when you’d been told that Paddy finds the finals too stressful to sit through. Harry’s been entertaining you all evening, acting as a buffer between you and his parents, who make you feel nervous being so close to.

“Shit,” you agree. You wince as Tom gets barged into and goes spiralling across the ice, only stopping when one of his teammates catches him. “This is actually brutal.”

Harry makes a low humming noise. He turns to glance at you, then he hesitantly reaches down to pat your knee.

“He’ll be fine, though, Y/N,” he says, speaking a little awkwardly. “It’s uh… just part of the job. He’s used to it. I’ve lost count of how many times he’s broken his nose.”

You hum as you think about the wonky lines of Tom’s face. “True,” you agree. You pull your team scarf further around your figure, snuggling into it in search of relief. “Just isn’t nice to see him hurt.”

Harry makes a humming sound of agreement and releases your leg with a final pat. The game continues, and before you know it, they’re into the last third. As the clock ticks down from 20 minutes, things are tense. Tom blurs with the rest of the team, and your eyes skim around all the figures, moving and spinning across the ice like it’s choreographed. There’s something quite beautiful about how they’re able to execute formations and manoeuvres amidst such chaos.

Your eyes stick to the back of Tom’s jersey, screaming Holland in bright orange. He’s closing in on an opponent, trying to steal the puck with gritted teeth. The air leaves your lungs as the scene plays out in slow motion, your eyes widening to the size of gold coins as you watch the larger man smack the puck with ferocity, attempting a shot on goal before Tom manages to steal it. Instead of the puck flying near the goal, the angle flicks it to the side, and the entire section around you gasps as it soars through the air and collides with Tom’s face. His eyes are fine, given the visor on his helmet, but his nose is exposed, and it bears the brunt.

Your heart stills for a moment, the volume of the arena fading out completely as you see Tom go down, clutching at his nose as a trail of blood drips over the ice. There’s the sound of a whistle, and you only start to breathe again when you see one of Tom’s teammates haul him from the rink. His blood freezes to the ice, leaving a trail of dark marks staining the ground behind him.

“Fuck, fuck,” you find yourself saying, finally tearing your eyes away from Tom to stare at Harry. Tom’s brother is wincing. “What do we do?”

Harry shrugs, grimacing. You look back to the ice to where Tom’s being dragged on his skates back to the team bench. You can see him smiling, but it's indisputable that he’s in pain. You can see it in his eyes, and the way his blood mixes with the salty blend of aching tears. “Can’t really do anything,” he says. “Told you his nose gets it.” Harry pauses for a moment, then gently elbows your side. “You could go down, though. They’ll probably do a quick fix in the tunnel. I doubt he’ll want to be benched for the rest of the match.”

You nod stiffly, but find yourself hesitating. “Are you, uh, sure that he’d want that? It wouldn’t be annoying?” When Harry turns to raise an eyebrow, you chuckle nervously. “I don’t want to knock him out of the zone, y’know?”

Harry’s eyes fill with understanding, but you think you can still detect a layer of teasing to it. “My brother is actually obsessed with you,” he says. “He watches compilation videos from your competitions every single bloody night. Even if you broke his heart, I doubt he’d ever be able to find you annoying. So…” Harry pokes your shoulder. “Get down there, alright?”

You shoot him a smile, unable to pretend that his words don’t warm your heart.

The game is still paused, yet you hurry down the aisle, stepping over trays of discarded nachos and half-filled plastic pints of beer as you utter words of apology to the disgruntled fans. Moving quickly, you dodge up and enter one of the back stairwells, flashing your team ID at security. The arena is a complex system of back corridors and passages, but you know them inside out.

You reach the long corridor that connects the changing rooms to the ice, and you see Tom standing in the middle of it. He’s surrounded by people—doctors, his coach, a few reserve players. Out in the arena, you hear the game pick up, but back here, time is standing still.

“Stay still,” one of the medics says. Tom grumbles something before yelling out a light curse word. The closer you walk, the more you see. Tom’s holding a bunch of stained tissues to the bottom of his nose as the medic quickly bandages his bridge. It’s not advised for him to go back on the ice with a broken nose—but you also know that with ten minutes left on the clock, the patchy fix-it job probably won’t cause permanent damage. You quite like Tom’s wonky nose, anyway.

“He’s such a twat,” Tom grumbles, wincing again. “Did he get benched?”

“Yeah. Penalty.”

“Good.” Tom folds his arms over his chest. When the medic pulls away to dig through his bag of bandages, Tom glances up the corridor. His eyes widen as he sees you, and you watch him do a double-take. When you raise a hand in greeting, his face softens. “Y/N?”

“Hi,” you call out, stepping closer. “Is it okay I’m here? I, um… I was worried.”

He nods, only to receive a scolding from the medic. Smiling sheepishly, Tom beckons you closer. He offers you a hand, gloveless and cold, and you hurry forward to take it.

“‘Course,” he murmurs. Now close, you’re able to see the flecks of dried blood on his face. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” he says, speaking softly as if he knows how frazzled you feel. “Happens all the fucking time.”

“Mmm. Harry said so.”

Tom raises an eyebrow. “Oh, really? How is he? Looking after you?”

You chuckle. “He’s funny,” you say. You roll your thumb over the back of Tom’s knuckles as he winces again, the medic pushing his ice pack out of the way so he can dab a wet tissue at Tom’s nostrils. You realise that his nose has stopped bleeding.

“Funnier than me?”

“Never.” You squeeze Tom’s hand. “You’re doing well out there.”

“Thanks, darling.” Tom glances away from you, looking back at the medic as he finally steps away to gather his stuff. “Can I-?”

“Yes,” the medic confirms. “Just don’t touch anyone. The second you’re done, come find me and I’ll fix you properly.”

Tom nods, then bites back a noise of pain. “Thanks, Doc,” he murmurs. Tom looks back to you, dropping his voice as you’re left alone with him. “I, uh, I gotta go,” he says, tilting his shoulder back in the direction of the ice.

“Okay.” You shoot him a soft smile and squeeze his hand before stepping back. “Good luck, Tom. Smash it.”

He pouts slightly, a wedge forming between his brows. “Kiss?”

“Kiss?” you repeat, snorting softly. When Tom nods sadly, you step nearer and press your hands to his shoulders. You lean up and capture his lips in a warm kiss, smiling into it as his palms paw at your waist. For a very brief moment, you get lost in it, overcome by the round lines of his chapped mouth and the heat of his hands, but you force yourself to step back. You can feel how badly he wants to be out on the ice. “Good luck, handsome,” you say, whispering against his lips. You step back and cross your arms, smiling widely as he blushes. “You’ve got this.”

Tom gives you a final nod, eyes alight. “See ya in ten!” he says, before turning on his skates. You stay watching him until he reaches the end of the corridor, and the smile is still on his face as he turns back to grin at you. The arena goes wild as he reappears, and you find yourself biting your lips as you try to control the butterflies in your stomach.

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

Tom lives about twenty minutes from the arena, and you find yourself waiting on his front step. With your knees pulled to your chin, the chill of a March evening cools your face. You don’t feel the cold much—instead, you’re distracted by the images of the team winning, playing on loop in your mind.

It’s a blur. A snapshot collection of Tom scoring the tie-breaking goal, the sight of the crowd going wild as the final buzzer sounded, the spray of champagne foam sticking to the ice. You’d hung around afterwards, receiving a very messy kiss from Tom who was vibrating from excitement. After a round of celebratory photos, Tom had been hunted down by the medics, and he’d pulled you aside briefly to ask you to meet him here.

You sigh as you stretch your legs out in front of you, looking down at the laces of your shoes and how they contrast the dark cement paving stones. Tom shares his house with Harrison and Harry. You’ve been here a few times, and it feels odd to be here without him.

“Y/N!”

You startle as you look up, so distracted by the loops of your laces that you’d failed to see Tom. He finishes clambering out of a large car, and you think you catch a glimpse of Harry in the front before it goes speeding away from the pavement. Tom approaches, his nose bruised but free of bandages, a wide smirk on his face as he picks up into a light jog. When he reaches you, he sweeps you to your feet, taking your hands firmly and kissing you before you have a chance to say a word. You shiver as he reaches up to cup your cheeks, craving the body heat, sinking into him and the scent of his fresh shampoo.

“You’re shivering,” Tom murmurs, pulling back to stare at you. His eyes widen as guilt shadows his features. “Fuck, how long have you been waiting for me?” He steps back to dig through his pocket, tongue settling between his lips as he hums.

“Ten minutes,” you estimate. When his eyes widen, you shrug bashfully. “Hasn’t been that bad. Next door’s cat came and said hi.”

Tom scowls as he steps past you, driving his key into the front door with ease. “Little ratty thing, isn’t it?” he mutters. He opens the door with a flourish, then steps aside to invite you in. When you walk across the threshold, Tom winds his arms around you from behind, pressing his chin to your shoulder before tilting his lips so he can kiss your cheek. His warm breath fans out across your face. “I’ll warm you up, darling. I’ll make you feel better.”

Ten minutes later, you’re in his bed. Despite his promise of warming you up, you seem to be losing more and more clothes. What had started out as a celebratory kiss has ended in you straddling him, grinding over Tom’s crotch as he gasps into your mouth and grabs at your waist.

You like being on top. It gives you better access to Tom—to the sight of his face constricting with pleasure every time you grind a little harder, and to the sound of his small moans. There’s a shadow along his nose and lining the swell of his cheeks from the break in his nose, and if he wasn’t so tender, you’d try to kiss it better. Instead, you decide to make him feel better in a different way. He’s calmer now than he’d been at the arena when he hadn’t been able to keep his hands off you or his lips away from your neck, but the longer you spend making out with him, the more eager he gets. There’s a dark spark in his eyes that matches the fervour in his grip.

“God,” he murmurs to your lips. “You’re such a beautiful girl.”

A hot flush travels through your body, and you shy your face into his neck. You distract him with kisses, dragging your lips over the firm flesh of his warm skin.

“Can I mark you?” you whisper, dragging your lips up to his ear. Tom moans loudly as you move your teeth over his earlobe and bite lightly.

“Fuck yeah,” he murmurs, rolling his hips up against you. You’ve ditched your jeans, and so has he, but where you’re still draped in a shirt, Tom’s chest is bare and exposed. You run your hand over his arm and feel his muscles there as you kiss up the side of his neck. Deep marks follow in the wake of your lips, but they aren’t nearly as pretty as the sound of Tom’s moans. “Fuck, darling. Shit. Feels so good.”

Tom lasts about a minute more before growling and pushing you from his neck. His eyes glint and a shrill squeal leaves your lips as he picks you up and presses you down onto the mattress. As your back sinks into the bed, the slats creak. Tom cages you in with a forearm either side of your head, one of his hands drifting into the ends of your hair as he very lightly rests his nose against yours.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi.” Your smile twists a little darker as Tom rolls his hips against yours and you feel his cock straining against his boxers. You reach up to play with his hair, tugging on the strands when Tom moans. His curls are fresh and fluffy, air-dried after the shower and silky smooth to touch. You’ve been together a few times since he ate you out in the changing rooms, and though you’re yet to go all the way, you’ve picked up on a few of his preferences. “Are you okay?”

He isn’t doing much, just staring at you, lips parted. His eyes skitter across the shapes of your face before linking up with your own, and you feel your heart clench in your chest as Tom shifts his hand to cup your cheek.

“Just thinking,” he murmurs. He’s speaking quietly, voice gentle as if he’s being fragile with you. “I, um… I want to ask you something?”

You tilt your head to the side. “Right now?” you ask. To prove your point, you snake a hand down between your bodies and apply pressure to his member with the flat of your palm. Tom groans, eyelashes fluttering out across the top of his cheeks. It seems to take him a lot of self-control to nod, and you feel his hips quiver as he holds himself back from grinding into your hand.

“Yeah.” Tom takes a moment to pause. “We’ve been hanging out for a while, Y/N, and I really like you. I think that you’re so talented. And beautiful. Shit, you’re really beautiful.” He chuckles, his nerves showing on his face. “I can’t imagine being with anyone else. I wouldn’t ever want to be with anyone else. So, darling… Do you want to be my girlfriend?” He pulls back to peer at you, teeth clenched, eyes wide.

A smile breaks out across your face.

“I’d love to be your girlfriend, Tom,” you whisper. You lean up to kiss him just as he leans down, and you gasp as you accidentally hit Tom’s nose with yours. He groans, pulling up and dramatically falling onto his back as his limbs splay out. “Shit,” you giggle, sitting up and crawling closer. Tom’s pouting, tenderly poking at the edge of his nostril as he grimaces. “Sorry, baby.”

Tom melts, pulling you back on top of him. “Call me baby again and you can do anything you want to me,” he mutters. A small blush finds his face as he comprehends his words, and you end up smiling softly as you settle over his thighs. One of his large hands curls between your legs and you whimper as he teases you over your panties for a few moments. When he finally dips his fingers beneath the silky material, you find yourself whimpering.

“Feels good,” you moan, pressing your hands to Tom’s chest as he rolls two fingers around your slit. You get antsy and grind down against his touch, wriggling up his legs until his fingertips nudge against your hole.

His hair is spread out against the white sheets of the bed, face screwed into an expression of concentration as he curves his digits into your heat. You whimper, tossing your head back as he works you open with ease, brushing up against your g-spot and stimulating it until you’re gasping. As heat slowly begins to take over your body, you reach down to the hem of your shirt and pull it off. Next to go is your bra, and you guide Tom’s other hand to the curve of your breasts as you ride down on his hand.

“Look so pretty up there,” he murmurs, biting at his lip. “Like an angel, or a princess.” Tom skims his thumb over your nipple, smirking as you whine. “My princess.”

You gnaw on your lip for a moment before sitting up, letting Tom’s fingers slip out from you. You reach down and hook your thumbs beneath the material of his boxers, and Tom seems to get the hint.

“I need you,” you say, speaking quickly. You have to roll away to kick off your pants, and by the time you’re ready, Tom’s sitting up again. He slides up to sit against the headboard, fiddling with a condom and sheathing himself before you can spend too long admiring his length.

“C’mere then, lovie,” Tom coaxes. He pumps his cock in his fist a few times before hitting at his thighs, beckoning you forward. His lips kiss your forehead as you straddle him. Blindly, you reach down to cover his hand in yours, and together, you guide his tip to your entrance. Your slit is hot and pulsing, your body worked up from the teasing and the anticipation. “Are you sure you want this?” he asks, voice softer.

You shoot him a teasing look. “Yes,” you emphasise. You bite your lip as you slowly lower yourself onto him, gasping softly. “Been thinking about this for so long, Tom.”

Tom grasps your lower lip between his teeth, sucking on it harshly before flicking it up and stealing your mouth in a deep kiss. You moan as you settle there, in his lap, your walls stretched around him completely. You can feel everything—the curves of his cock, the press of his tip against your velvety walls, the feeling of his skin on yours. You love it.

It’s quick to become hot and intense. Tom’s hands on your waist, your fingers tangled in his hair. The stretch burns to enjoyment before long, and then you’re just lost in it. You feel so bare to him, beyond the fact that your naked bodies are intertwined so closely, like he’s able to see straight through you. For someone who spends so much of his life fighting aggressively, Tom is remarkably soft. His hips are firm, and his thrusts unrelenting, but his lips on your face are warm, and the words of heated affirmation he whispers into your ear make you melt.

“So tight, princess,” Tom moans, grasping at your waist. He kisses you, groaning into your mouth as you continue to ride him. You alternate your movements, swapping between deep bounces and swirling your hips in broad circles so that you get to feel every delicious line, bump and curve of him. “God. Feels like fucking heaven.”

“I know,” you manage, voice hoarse. You’re not embarrassed by the way there are wet sounds of arousal filling the air—it only seems to spur Tom on as he squeezes at your waist.

Things blur quickly. You can tell that he’s wound up from the stress of the game, and his hand is shaking when he reaches up to cup the top of your heat. You’re quick to match his arousal, feeling your own climax jerking closer as Tom brings his thumb down to your clit. You’re aroused, and your slit is wet, so it’s seamless as he toys with the bud.

His name falls from your lips like a prayer, the syllables blurring as your eyelids drop closed. It’s hard to tell where your body ends and his begins, but you like it. Tom wraps his other arm around your hip and holds you close, touching his lips to yours as he finally spills.

“You’re so perfect,” he moans, his eyes screwing shut. “Shit, Y/N—”

The action of him throbbing against your walls pushes you over the edge too, and you’re panting into him as warm shivers spread over your entire figure. You’re full of a golden buzz as you stop moving, stilling with his cock still pressed inside you. Tom’s lips come down over the top of your head, following in a line from your forehead down your nose before going to your lips. When he finds your mouth, both of you are smiling.

“Wish we could do that forever,” he murmurs. “Felt amazing, darling. You’re amazing.” There’s a rosy flush to his cheeks, and he looks at you like he’s won the greatest prize of the night. “Stay?”

“Overnight?”

“Yeah. Right here.” Tom reaches out to hit the mattress. “I’ll cuddle you,” he promises. “Make you tea. Bring you breakfast.” He smirks. “Make love to you all night.”

You roll your eyes.

“Okay, boyfriend,” you agree.

Tom raises a brow as if he likes the sound of that, then seals the deal with a softer kiss.

“Perfect.” His hands skim up to cup your breasts, and he pecks your lips a final time. “Girlfriend.”

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

There’s an hour to go before you skate in the biggest competition of your life. You’re at the largest arena in London, killing time on one of the practice rinks as you try to forget that you’re so close to delivering your final routine of the season. This routine will decide if you come out on top or not and reveal whether you’ve managed to impress the Olympic talent scouts.

You feel a blend of two very fine emotions—confidence and nervousness. You’re prepared, you’re in control, and you’re ready, but that doesn’t make the prospect of going out there any less daunting. Adrenaline soothes the nerves, and distraction is your best friend.

Tom’s sitting on one of the benches, flitting between watching you and messing around on his phone. You’ve learnt that he’s the only person you like to be around before a competition, and in the month you’ve been officially together, he’s become your rock. He seems to get you—understands the way your brain spins when you’re stressed like this, knows when to step near and when to leave you alone. As if sensing your thoughts lie with him, he glances up from his phone.

The month off from competitions has been kind to Tom. He’d had a cracking set of bruises following his broken nose, but they’re healed now, and his skin carries the golden glow of a champion. After mouthing a few words to him from across the ice, you watch him sit up straighter and put his shoes to the bench. Tom had brought his skates to the arena, despite not being the one competing, because he knows, just as you, that sometimes the best way to relax before a competition is to mess around and distract yourself. Sitting beside him is a very large banner, hand-painted, that wears the words, Go Y/N!. He’d made it with the rest of his team, and you’d almost cried when he’d unrolled it and given it to you, grinning with pride like a small child showing off his art project.

You do a few spins as you wait for him, the small practice arena blurring. A few other people are hanging around—mainly your friends, and a few coaches, but none of them pay attention to you. You go so fast that you miss whatever it is Tom scoops up from the bench and then proceeds to hold behind his back, keeping it out of your sight as he skates towards you. A frown finds your lips as you drift nearer, squinting your eyes.

“What’s that?” you ask, trying to make out the object.

Tom juts out his lower lip, eyes dancing teasingly. “Not gonna say hello, darling? That’s a bit rude, don’t you think?”

You shoot him a poisonous look but sigh when he just smirks in response.

“Hello,” you say. You skate forward, planting your hands on both of his cheeks and drawing him in close. Tom’s lips are warmer than yours, and you savour their firm press. When you pull back, you cross your arms over your chest. “What is it?”

“Close your eyes first.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

Begrudgingly, you shut your eyes. You hear the rustling of plastic, and then smell the scent of fresh flowers. Tom presses a bouquet into your hands, and your lips twist up at the corners.

“You can open them now.”

It’s a bunch of roses, dark red and delicate. You trail a thumb over their petals, breath caught in the back of your throat. Your boyfriend continues to speak as he watches you.

“You said that no one had ever bought you flowers before,” he explains, voice steady. “I was going to save them for afterwards when you win, but I know you’ll end up being given about a thousand when they all see how talented they are, so I wanted to get in first.”

You look up at him, tears blurring your waterline.

“They’re beautiful, Tom,” you whisper. His confidence in you, and the support he shows you, every single day, means everything to you. He means everything to you. “I love them. I…” You look up, meeting his eyes as you finally speak the words that you’ve felt so strongly but kept tucked away in your heart for fear of rejection. You aren’t scared anymore. “I love you.”

Tom’s eyes widen, his lips briefly parting. There’s a heart-stopping moment when he betrays nothing, but then life twitches across his face. He relaxes, sinking forward to touch your waist as he pulls you closer and brings his lips to yours.

“I love you too, darling,” he says. He’s able to press his nose against yours now, and you feel his cold tip press to your face as you shift the bouquet into one hand and curl the other around his back. “I feel like the luckiest man in the world.”

You smile against him. “It was lucky, wasn’t it? That out of all the people on the rink that day, it was me you managed to crash into.”

Tom chuckles. “Felt less like luck at the time,” he admits. “I thought you were going to kill me.”

You smirk. “I was pretty mad. Can you blame me, though?”

“Nope.” Tom kisses the tip of your nose. “Worth it, anyway.” He surprises you by skating back, plucking the bouquet from your hand with ease before spinning you beneath his arm, cooing as the hem of your dress flutters in the air. “Did I ever tell you how much I love your outfit?” he adds. “You look like a princess.”

Your cheeks hurt, and when you stop spinning, you turn to face him.

“I feel like a princess,” you admit, accepting the flowers for the second time. “Does that make you my prince charming?”

Tom nods, smiling. “It’d be an honour.”

The air between you stills, and all that’s left is love.

“I’m nervous,” you admit, glancing down. “What if I fuck this up? What if I fall over? Or- or what if I don’t land a jump? What if my ankle can’t take it?” You gnaw on your lip. “Then it’ll all be over.”

Tom soothes you with a hand on your cheek. “You won’t fuck it up,” he says, voice confident. “You’re incredible, Y/N. You know the routine, and you know yourself. You’re ready for this.” He tilts his head to the side, eyes glinting warmly. “You’re going to go out there, smash it, then you’ll come back, and we’ll celebrate. Alright?”

You look down at the roses, then back to your boyfriend’s face, and you know that you believe him.

“Okay,” you agree. You bite your lip before darting up to kiss his cheek. “Love you, Tom.”

His eyes are full of adoration. “That’s my girl,” he murmurs. “I love you too.”

Tom presses his forehead to yours, and you relax there. With your fingers grasping the flowers and his hands caressing your waist, you let him support you. You let him kiss you, and hold you, and love you.

(And, later on, you let him hold your shiny gold medal, too.)

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

i hope you guys liked dutchy as much i liked writing him :’)) this has taken almost a month! if there’s any interest, maybe we could do a hockey!tom blurb night soon...? idk ! i’d be down. let me know if you’d be too <3 thanks so much for reading!!!! please let me know what ya think!

mlist and taglist can be found through the link in my bio!

#tom holland x reader #tom holland fic #tom holland smut #tom holland x reader smut #tom holland x reader fluff #tom holland fluff #hockey!tomfic #tblr....please let me in the tags...? please?

[polaroid15]

Guy in the Chair

Summary: Having a superhero for a best friend isn’t easy. But with the help of Mr. Stark, Ned things he might just be able to swing it.

Or, 5 times Ned was there for Peter and 1 time they were there for each other.

Read on Ao3 here.

-----

Ned hates funerals.

But mostly he hates seeing Peter in so much pain.

He sits beside his friend now, silent and relieved to be hearing him breathe evenly. The service for Ben had ended less than an hour ago. Overwhelmed, Peter had let Ned guide him away from the grave. They’re close enough to see May kneeling beside the freshly upturned dirt, her head in her hands, but far enough away that Peter no longer hyperventilates.

The cement bench they sit on is freezing. Snow comes up to their ankles. Both are shivering but too numb to move.

“Peter?”

Nothing.

Expecting it, Ned looks to his friend. Peter is curled in on himself, eyes open with frozen tear tracks running all the way down to his chin. He doesn’t give off any external cues that he’s heard Ned’s prompt, his sight unseeing.

“Peter?” he tries again, and when it still doesn’t elicit a response, he reaches out cold fingers to rest on Peter’s arm. Lightly, carefully, like he’s touching something fragile. “Hey man. You with me?”

Eyebrows creasing, Ned watches as a glimmer of coherence returns to Peter’s eyes. And with it, pain. Sharp and raw. Peter sucks in a long breath that rattles in his chest- like it’s the first real breath he’s taken in hours. It blows out in a puff of air that obscures the grave ahead of them.

“Peter.”

With some confusion, Peter swivels his head. He reaches a trembling hand to his face and uses his fingertips to feel the ice on his skin. “N-Ned?” he stammers. “I- when did we... I don’t remember coming over here.”

“It’s okay man. We came after the service.”

“May?”

“Over there. She’s okay.”

Breathing deep again, Peter’s eyes shine with new moisture. He buries his head deep into his elbow and leaves it there, his knuckles white where they clutch at his coat. “Sorry,” he murmurs. “God, I’m going crazy.”

Ned’s stomach hollows out. “Don’t be sorry.”

“I am,” Peter sniffs. “It’s cold.”

“It’s not that cold.”

Peter lifts his head and offers Ned a weak smile, though it falls fast. He hopes it isn’t permanent. “I just- I can’t believe he’s really gone.”

Ned bites his lip. He hadn’t known Peter when his parents had died, but he knows well enough from their sleepovers that he wakes up in cold sweats. He also knows that Peter has a tendency to blame himself for things that aren’t his fault, that he walks as if the world is on his shoulders.

And Peter had been there. In the alley. He had tried to keep Ben alive as he bled out.

And it didn't work. God, why couldn’t it have worked?

“Me either.”

Peter chokes on his next breath. Holds it. “What- what are we going to do without him?”

“Peter-”

“May can’t…I can’t-” Peter breaks off, gasping. “He can’t be gone.”

Words are impossible. Ned reaches deep within himself and whispers, “I’m sorry Peter. I’m so sorry.”

Peter’s lip wobbles. His eyes fill until there’s nowhere for the tears to go but out. At the same time they reach for each other, and Ned holds onto Peter as if it’s his sole purpose in this life. “It’s my fault Ned,” Peter sobs into his shoulder. “I couldn’t save him. It was me. He’s d-dead because of me.”

“That’s not true and you know it.”

“We had a fight,” Peter continues, delirious in his grief. “We had a fight and he died and I should’ve been able to save him.”

“It’s not your fault, man. What happened to Ben was terrible, but it wasn’t your fault, okay? He wouldn’t have wanted you to blame yourself. You know that.”

Peter tries to speak but is crying too hard for Ned to make out the words. So instead he pats Peter’s back and hugs him as hard as he can. He holds on. He whispers ‘he loved you’ and ‘it’s not your fault’ in between Peter’s sobs. He’s not sure how long it goes on for. He feels like a skipping record, his condolences an endless loop.

Eventually, Peter’s head lolls against Ned’s cheek. He stops crying. Stops everything. “I’m sorry,” he says. Then, more sure, “you’re a good friend, Ned. Thanks- thanks for being here with me. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Always,” Ned says. It’s a promise, a vow. “No matter what.”

And with every nerve in his body, he means it.

------

Peter is Spider-Man.

In a way, Ned still feels the aftershocks of the surprise. It hits him over and over again whenever he sees Peter with a limp or a bruise, or a cut that he can tell from it’s scar Peter had stitched himself.

But it’s nothing in comparison to Homecoming.

What’s supposed to be a fun night turns into a full out adrenaline high with life or death stakes. Instead of dancing, he fires Peter’s web shooters and works tirelessly in the computer lab. Being the guy in the chair.

And then there’s silence. An awful, consuming silence.

Ned expects Peter to come back to the party, and when he doesn’t, he tries calling. All thirteen calls go straight to voicemail.

He tries again now.

“Hey, it’s Peter. I promise I’m not ignoring you. Uh, leave a message. Thanks.”

Failing to ignore his worry, Ned drags his aching feet home. His mom is working a late shift at the hospital so he unlocks the door to his apartment and flicks on the lights, rubbing at his face in exhaustion.

He barely makes it two steps before he hears it.

A thud, like something heavy hitting hardwood.

Ned grabs the item closest to him, an umbrella propped up in the corner by the door and walks with caution towards his bedroom where the noise came from. Not for the first time that night, his heart beats viciously in his chest. Did Liz’s dad figure out he was helping Peter? Did the guy from the bus lot follow him home?

“Hello?” he calls, wincing when his voice shakes. He holds the umbrella a little tighter, the thin metal sticks digging into his palm. “Who- who’s there?”

When there’s no answer he pauses outside his door and cranes for clues. Hearing nothing, he braces himself before kicking open the door. The first thing he sees is his open window, and then-

“Oh my God! Peter!”

His friend is slumped under the glass, pale and covered in sweat and blood. Though his eyes are half lidded, he smiles at Ned when he sees him. “Why’re you holding an umbrella?” he slurs.

Ned dips his head to look at the makeshift weapon before tossing it to the side. His hands are shaking horribly. “I thought- I thought someone broke in!”

“Well technically,” Peter coughs, wincing, “I did break in.”

“It’s different,” Ned says, his legs like jelly as he stumbles forward. He kneels beside Peter and holds his hands out gingerly, sure whatever part of Peter he touches will shatter. “What the hell happened to you?”

Peter frowns. There’s too much blood. “I crashed Mr. Stark’s plane,” he says.

“What?”

“Liz’s dad was trying to steal it. I stopped him though.”

“You’re hurt.”

“I get hurt all the time.”

“Not like this,” Ned argues, and Peter’s eyes darken.

“I’m okay,” he whispers.

Grinding his nails into his knees, Ned shakes his head. Peter hasn’t moved since he found him, his arms curled tightly around his chest. “Why’d you come here?”

Gaping, Peter pales further. “Oh. I didn’t... I’m sorry-”

“No,” Ned says quickly. “Not like that. I mean, isn’t Mr. Stark supposed to help you with stuff like this?”

Peter closes his eyes, his face shadowed. “Mr. Stark doesn’t want to see me anymore. He ended things, remember?”

“But if he knew you were hurt-”

“Ned.”

“You’re bleeding really bad. I don’t know how to help you.”

Peter smiles again, but it’s sad. Broken, like the day of Ben’s funeral. It makes Ned feel sick. “Can I use your shower?”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Definitely. I’m covered in sand and ash and concrete-” Peter shudders, eyes becoming distant for a moment. “Please?”

“Right. Of course, man. Whatever you need.”

“Thanks.”

Peter tries to stand but needs Ned’s help in the end. They limp to the bathroom together and Ned helps Peter pull the top half of his suit off because Peter can’t lift his arms above his head. Peter is quiet during the process, but Ned doesn’t miss the way he sways and bites his lip.

When the suit is finally stripped away, Ned is sure he’ll have nightmares of for the rest of his life. Impossibly dark bruising covers nearly every inch of his friend’s skin, puncture marks still leaking blood and surrounded by countless smaller cuts and scrapes. He notices that Peter doesn’t look in the mirror. He doesn’t even look down, his hands shaking as he stares in determination at the opposite wall.

It’s only now that Ned truly understands the weight of what Peter is taking on. That having superpowers comes with a cost.

I just wanted to be like you, Peter had told Mr. Stark.

And I want you to be safe, thinks Ned, aching.

“Peter,” he whispers. He feels strangely detached from his body, as if he’s viewing the massacre through someone else’s eyes. “This- this is really bad. Like, hospital bad.”

Peter doesn’t argue, which Ned knows is a bad sign. Instead, his eyes glisten as if he’s about to cry. “I heal fast.”

“But-”

“I’m going to shower now.”

“Peter.”

“Ned please. I know you mean well, but- but I can’t think about it right now, okay? I just need to shower and then I’ll be okay.”

Ned stills. Swallows. Then, with great reluctance, he nods. “Okay.”

Looking weak with relief, Peter gives him a watery smile. When he speaks, his voice cracks. “Thanks man. I- I really owe you one.”

“It’s nothing. Guy in the chair, remember?”

“Thanks Ned.”

After their handshake, Ned leaves. It takes a minute of standing by the bathroom door and breathing intently through his nose to get his heart to calm. When it does, his pocket vibrates. He pulls out his phone, expecting it to be his mom.

Instead, it’s an unknown number.

With a sinking feeling in his stomach, Ned answers, making sure to move away from the bathroom. “Hello?”

There’s staticy silence. Then, heavy breathing. “Is this Peter’s friend?”

“Who’s this?”

“I’ll take that as a yes. This is Happy Hogan. You called me earlier.”

An unexpected surge of anger makes his ears hot. Hand tightening around the phone, Ned doesn’t try to keep the annoyance from his voice. “What do you want?”

Happy sighs. “Peter. Have you seen him?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Now. He’s at my apartment.”

More silence. Ned paces.

“How is he?” Happy asks finally.

“Why do you care?” Ned snaps. His heart is beating fast again. He can hear it in the base of his eardrums. “I tried to warn you earlier and you hung up on me.”

“Kid, listen-”

“He’s not okay,” Ned interrupts. “He’s hurt really bad. And he wouldn’t be if you had just listened.”

Ned expects deflection, but Happy’s words surprise him with their concern. “Wait. Peter’s hurt?”

It leaches his anger. “Yeah.”

“Can I talk to him?”

Ned opens his mouth to respond but pauses at the sound of a muffled conversation on the other end of the line. There’s a short struggle and then a new voice fills his ears. One that he’s more than familiar with.

“Ted, right?” Tony Stark asks. “Put Peter on the phone. Pronto. ASAP.”

“I- I-”

“He’s with you, isn’t he?” the man urges.

“I- yes.”

“Well then?”

Ned, despite how freaking cool it is to be talking to Iron Man, can’t help but feel a streak of protectiveness for his friend. “He didn’t call you for a reason.”

Tony is quiet, which Ned doesn’t expect. He plows on. “He thinks you don’t care. And maybe you don’t. But you can’t just choose when you want to help him. He’s here and he’s hurt, and I’m just about the least qualified person to be helping him. There’s blood on my floor and my mom is going to freak out-”

“Take a breath kid,” Tony interjects, his voice pinched. “You’re right. I’m sorry. Just let me talk to him.”

“He’s in the shower.”

“We’ll come pick him up, then. What’s your address?”

Ned closes his eyes, feeling two seconds away from a breakdown. He should be excited, but instead he just feels hollow. How did this become my life?

He rattles off his address and hangs up before Tony can respond. Then he sits on his floor beside Peter’s blood and cries silently into his hands.

-------

Ned tries to talk to Peter about Homecoming, but his friend just defects. Ned tries not to let it bother him.

But it does.

Physically, Peter recovers quickly. The ugly cuts and bruises disappear after the weekend, but the weariness that accompanies them never really leaves. The dark circles under Peter’s eyes get worse everyday and it’s harder to get a genuine smile out of his friend.

It all comes to a head on Wednesday.

They’re in the hall grabbing textbooks from their lockers between classes. Peter has been especially quiet today and Ned has done his best not to say anything about it. He’s reaching for his physics binder when it happens.

A loud crash, the sound of metal hitting the floor. Heart jumping, Ned spins to see a table flipped on its side beside a group of snickering kids. He exhales, shaking his head. “Man, that scared me.” He turns to Peter to laugh it off and freezes, insides turning to ice.

“Peter?”

His friend has lost all the color in his face, his eyes wide, unblinking, and staring out at nothing. When he doesn’t respond Ned takes a step forward to nudge his arm and Peter flinches back as if burned, hitting one of their classmates who scowls and pushes him off.

Peter barely manages to catch himself, his chest heaving like he’s just finished running a marathon. More careful this time, Ned grabs Peter’s elbow and steers him away from the hall and towards the bathroom. When they get there Peter detaches himself from Ned’s grip and stumbles until he hits the wall, sliding down to curl into a ball on the dirty tile. Now that it’s quieter, Ned can hear just how strained his breathing is.

“Peter?” he asks softly, squatting down to his level. “You’re scaring me man. What’s going on?”

Peter looks up at him helplessly, clutching at his chest as he pales further. “S-sorry. Just- ah. Gimme a minute.”

Ned opens his mouth to argue but closes it decidedly. The door to the bathroom swings open behind them and Ned shoos the freshman who appears away with his hands.

Peter’s upbeat ringtone cuts through the tension. Obviously not coordinated enough to answer, Ned helps Peter pull it out of his pocket and stills at the contact.

“It’s Mr. Stark,” Ned says in awe. “What- what do I do?”

“Don’ answer it-”

But his thumb is already on the green. He gives Peter a panicked look of apology before yanking the device up to his ear. “Hello?”

“Ted? Why do you have Peter’s phone?”

“It’s Ned. And he- he can’t really talk right now.”

Tony curses. “Is he with you? His watch sent me a spike in his vitals. Don’t tell me he’s actively bleeding out.”

Peter must hear what he’s saying because he groans, his breathing becoming increasingly laboured. He sticks his head between his knees and digs his knuckles into the tile until tiny cracks appear under the pressure.

“He’s not bleeding out,” Ned assures. “He’s- well, I don’t really know what’s happening. He said he can’t breathe.”

“Damn it. Damn it. Okay. He’s having a panic attack. Put me on speaker.”

“But-”

“Now, Ned!”

Gulping, Ned obliges. He holds out the phone between himself and Peter like some sort of offering and feels some distant part of him relax as Tony takes control.

“Pete?” Tony asks, his voice sharp and clear. “Focus on my voice kiddo. Alright? Imagine that I’m there with you.”

“Mr. St-Stark-’

“Shh, kiddo. It’s okay. I’m going to help you breathe. I need you to tell me five things you can see. Can you do that?”

Eyes gaining some clarity, Ned watches them wander. “Uh, Ned. The phone. The- the sinks. A mirror. And- and, uh. Paper towel.”

“Bathroom. Classy. Alright, now four things you can touch.”

“Ground. Wall. C-clothes. Backpack.”

“Good, kiddo. You’re doing so well. Keep breathing. Three things you can hear?”

“You. Ned. Kids outside.”

With every answer, the tension in Tony’s own voice seems to ease. For some reason, it softens some of the resentment Ned’s been holding against the man ever since the ferry incident. He continues with urgency. “Two things you can smell?”

“Soap. Sweat.”

“Good. And one thing you can taste?”

Peter exhales, long and slow. He closes his eyes. “Spearmint.”

“That’s great,” Tony encourages. “Feeling any better?”

At this, Peter’s face scrunches up as if he’s about to start crying. Instead, he relaxes more fully against the wall and reaches up to wipe his eyes. “Yeah, Mr. Stark. That’s better. I’m really sorry-”

“Nope,” Tony interrupts. “Gonna stop you right there kid. We’ll talk in person. I can be there in twenty.”

“What?” Peter stalls, eyebrows drawing together. “I have class.”

“Not anymore. See you soon. Ned, can I talk to you real quick?”

Another shot of adrenaline spiking through him, Ned fumbles with the phone until it’s off speaker and pushes it up against his face, though he knows full well Peter will still be able to hear. “Yeah Mr. Stark?”

A short pause. “Has this happened before?”

“Not at school.”

“And not at school?”

Peter looks down at his shoes. Ned frowns. “I don’t know.”

Tony sighs. “Thanks for watching out for him. Do you know what triggered it?”

“Um. A table got flipped over. It was really loud.”

“Yeah, that’ll do it. Damn it. Can you stay with him until I get there? Give him water and make sure he doesn’t fall asleep. You got that?”

“Yeah. Yes. Of course.”

He doesn’t get a response, the line going dead. He pulls it away in disbelief and sets it on the floor. Peter smirks weakly at him from where he’s slumped against the wall. “It’s okay,” he mumbles. “He hangs up on everyone.”

------

For a while, it gets better.

“Ned! Oh my God- MJ said yes! I’m freaking out man!”

Stomach dropping with excitement, Ned spins a full 360 in his room, hands reaching up to his hair. “No freaking way! I told you!”

Peter’s excited rambling continues through his phone. It makes Ned’s heart soar. “What do I do? Where do I take her? The movies? The park?”

“Swinging through New York,” Ned offers with a smile, and Peter laughs.

“No, seriously. It needs to be perfect.”

“Laser tag?”

“Don’t forget that I’m broke, man.”

“How about the Pride Parade? That’s happening this weekend. Seems like her kind of thing.”

Peter pauses, warmth filling the other end of the line. “That’s perfect! God, you’re a genius. Thanks man!”

“You owe me,” he teases.

“I so do. We still on for the death star 2.0 tonight?”

“Wise is Yoda the most?”

Peter laughs again. It’s nice. “Right. See you soon.”

“See you.”

When Ned hangs up, tears bite at his eyes.

He doesn’t remember the last time he’s heard Peter so happy.

--------

Of course, it doesn’t last long.

Ned gets the text during band practice.

It’s from Peter and the empty seat next to him feels more pronounced. He almost ignores it, feeling, despite reason, a deep bitterness for his loneliness. But the message is short.

Help.

Ned nearly tilts out of his chair, his mouth adopting a strange metallic quality and his stomach dropping down to his toes. Before he can even get his shaking hands to cooperate another message lights his screen.

Bleachers.

Ned stands before he can process how strange it must look. His teacher, Miss Gregerson, raises her pencil thin eyebrows. “Ned? What is it?”

“Bathroom,” he blurts, and parts the music stands blocking his exit before she can say another word. He hears laughter follow him but can’t find it within himself to care, his heart beating loud in his ears as he jogs through the empty hallways. Peter needs you. Something is wrong.

He had thought having a best friend for a superhero would be cool. But the longer the time stretches, the more Ned realizes how much sleep he’s been losing over his friend’s safety.

Please don’t be dying.

Ned bursts through the back doors and trips his way down the hill to the track. The yard is empty, filtered with pink and orange light from the sinking sun. It’s warm and the air is still, but the deep sense of foreboding doesn’t leave him.

“Peter?” he calls, even though the bleachers are distant and his throat is closing with fear. He walks faster and it’s only when his feet hit the red dirt of the track that he sees Peter’s hunched form. He’s sitting on the lowest step of the bleacher, his face pinched and the edges of his suit showing from his open backpack. He’s pale and covered in sweat, and when he sees Ned, he sags, his eyes fluttering with what can only be a mixture of relief and exhaustion.

“Peter,” Ned repeats, skidding to his friend’s side. His hands hover, unsure again what to do or how to help. Assess the problem, his mind supplies. Find out what’s hurt.

It doesn’t take long. He follows Peter’s tense posture to his hand, which is clamped down hard over his side. His skin is painted red underneath, the material of his dark shirt shining in the fading light. There’s a cut on his temple that bleeds too, and Ned notices how hard Peter is trying to concentrate on his form, his eyes seeming incapable of adjusting.

“Hey man,” he croaks.

“Oh my God,” Ned breathes. His whole body is shaking now. Weak. Because he’s not equipped for this. “What happened?”

Peter struggles to process his question, blinking heavy and biting hard on his bottom lip. Then he swallows, sways, and musters a weak smile. “Stabbed. Long knife.”

When Peter falls to the side, Ned has to lunge to catch him, supporting his entire weight against his body. The new position allows him to see the blood that’s been pooling on the metal where Peter’s been sitting. A distant part of his brain wonders if the stain it’ll leave will be permanent.

“You need to go to a hospital,” Ned says. Peter’s head is pressed hard into his rib cage. They’re both shaking, their breaths uneven and loud.

“No,” Peter says. “You can help.”

“I can’t.”

“Please.”

It’s desperate. More desperate than Ned’s ever heard his friend. Even after Homecoming. “Peter-” he starts, but there’s no words to convey the weight in his chest.

“We can fix this,” Peter says. “We can fix it.”

“You’re bleeding too much.”

“I just need some help.” Peter lifts himself away with Ned with trembling arms. He’s even more pale, his skin close to translucent. He struggles with the side pocket on his backpack before revealing a small sewing kit. He transfers it into Ned’s palm where it leaves a thick smudge of red. He stares at it for a long time and won’t realize until much later that he’s in shock.

“What?” he stutters, transfixed by how much blood is on the sewing kit.

“My hands... my hands are shaking too much to thread the needle.”

Ned stares. He’s numb.

“Ned?” Peter prompts. He reaches out a hand and bracelets Ned’s wrist in his blood. “Can you- can you thread the needle for me?” he pauses, and almost sheepishly, he smiles. “I need my guy in the chair.”

It’s like a damn breaking. Ned snaps back into awareness, sad, angry, and unable to fully comprehend why. Guy in the chair.

“I’ll help you,” he says, “but not in the way you want.”

Before Peter can protest, Ned pulls out his phone. He dials in the number and tries to ignore the way Peter’s chest falls, or how a tear cuts a line through the grime on his face.

“Mr. Stark?” he asks when the line connects. “I need your help.”

In the background, Ned can already hear the mechanical thrum of what can only be a suit being activated. Mr. Stark doesn’t question it. He doesn’t waste time. “I’ll be there in three minutes,” he says, and then the line disconnects.

Peter blinks slow. His lip trembles. “I wish you didn’t do that,” he says.

And then he collapses.

Ned cries out as he catches him. His shirt will be ruined. Peter’s head lolls sickeningly against his neck, his arms going limp at his sides. Acting on instinct alone, Ned reaches to put pressure over the still bleeding wound in Peter’s side. It’s warm and he gags. His eyes burn with tears.

“P-Peter?” he cries, but Peter remains still against him. He wonders if this is how Peter had felt when Ben had died, and for the first time understands the guilt Peter had pinned on himself. “Wake up, man. Mr. Stark is coming. He’s going to- he’s going to help.”

But Peter doesn’t wake up. He doesn’t even twitch until Mr. Stark hits the dirt hard beside them, his suit retracting from his face to reveal a look of complete terror. It catches Ned off guard, but not as much as the way Mr. Stark gently maneuvers Peter out of Ned’s arms and into his own lap.

“Hey Underoos,” Mr. Stark says. His voice is soft but urgent. He taps on Peter’s face and brushes back his hair. “This isn’t a good look, kiddo.”

Ned is frozen. Stuck. He feels the tacky wetness of blood on his hands and is unable to look at them.

“Pete,” Mr. Stark continues, louder this time. “Wake up. That’s an order.”

Ned holds his breath as Peter’s eyes open to slits. They’re hazy, confused, but his lips manage to quirk up into a smile that betrays the pain in his eyes. “Tony,” he whispers.

Mr. Stark sags and Ned can practically see the relief leak out of him. He plays with Peter’s hair, his free hand pressed down hard against the worst of the bleeding. “You never do things halfway, do you kid?” he asks with a smile that even Ned can tell is for Peter’s benefit alone. “If it weren’t for Ned, you’d be six feet under right about now.”

Peter’s eyes drift to find Ned. His smile widens when they connect. “He’s my guy in the chair,” he slurs.

Tony hugs Peter tighter and Ned is struck just how paternal the hero is acting. Like Peter is the most important thing in the world. A lot has changed since Homecoming, he realizes. “Let’s get you some help, buddy. You up for a flight?”

But Peter doesn’t seem to hear. His eyes are still glued to Ned. He doesn’t speak, but Ned understands anyway.

Tony stands, bringing Peter up with him, and Peter goes limp once more. Ned doesn’t miss the way Tony’s breath hitches or the urgency in his movements. He stops before he takes off, regarding Ned with a look of gratitude. “Happy is on his way to pick you up. Wait here for him, okay?”

Ned can only nod, and when they both disappear into the air, he sinks to the ground. It takes hours for the blood on his hands to wash off, and when he finally makes it to Peter’s room in medbay, he finds Tony Stark with his head pillowed on Peter’s thigh. They’re both sleeping, their arms linked.

And for the first time, it all makes sense.

------

It’s been two weeks since the blip’s reversal.

They’re back at school. Ned shuffles awkwardly at his locker, uncomfortable, like his skin is on too tight. Graduation pictures of his classmates hang on the wall.

Five years.

A deep, unrelenting sadness pulls at his heart. He should be happy to be back, but he’s not. Not really. His little sister, who what seems like yesterday was half his height, now reaches his chin. The calendar in his room is useless.

So much time.

Across the hall, he sees Peter. It calms the sharp edges of his anxiety and as if mirroring his own relief, he sees his friend’s shoulders lose their tension. Ned begins walking towards him and Peter drifts too. It’s slow, cautious, like everything will vaporize in a moment if they move too fast.

But at last, they meet. And in the middle of the hall, surrounded by faces Ned no longer recognizes, they hug. Peter’s grip is strong. Almost bruising. It reminds Ned of Ben’s funeral and the heaviness in his chest doubles.

Peter sniffs. He trembles like he’s cold.

“Are you okay?” Ned whispers in his ear.

Peter is quiet. Ned can hear his measured breathing, an exercise taught to him by Mr. Stark shortly after the incident in the school bathroom.

Mr. Stark, who had died to save them all.

“Not yet,” Peter says after some time. They still haven’t pulled apart. “I just- I really miss him, Ned.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Peter’s fingers curl into his hoodie. People are staring at them, and for the first time in his life, Ned can’t bring himself to care.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Peter says, and Ned feels his eyes sting.

Five long years.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you either.”

Finally, Peter pulls away. He wipes his sleeve across his cheekbones and takes in a rattling breath. “Wanna help me with my web shooters after school? May’s making lasagna. Pepper and Morgan are coming over, too.”

Ned smiles. Because after all the injuries he’s seen Peter sustain over the years, he’s seen them all heal too.

He’ll heal.

They both will.

“That sounds great, man.”

After a particularly sloppy handshakes, they walk to class with their shoulders bumping.

And though it may just be a trick of the light, Ned swears he sees Mr. Stark standing in the crowd of students, a wide smile on his face as he looks at them.

And just like Ben, Ned knows that Peter has Tony forever.

#spider man #peter parker #tony stark #ned leeds #irondad fic #peter & ned #hurt/comfort #hurt peter parker #peter parker whump #protective ned leeds #protective tony stark

[itslieutenanthawkeye]

After Laughter

Day 1 of Jeankasa Week 2021: Reunion / After The Three Years

Ao3 

After over a thousand days of grief, Mikasa is able to laugh for the first time in years.

Mikasa’s heart was frozen in time, fixated, perhaps, on the man that had laid beneath the ground for three years now.

She’d almost refused going to the royal party organized by Historia in the inner districts, the one to commemorate the beginning of peace. Proposals from men swarmed her each time she showed herself to any event Historia invited her, and comments from people who hated her were even more prevalent. She didn’t like attention and it seemed that the older she grew, the more attention she received.

But above all, Mikasa Ackerman didn’t think she deserved the fun of that night. She could count the number of times she’d laughed since her return to the island with one hand. She wasn’t worthy of the island’s forgiveness, of the future it had to offer, not after seeing the horrors the man she had loved had caused, with the man’s head She couldn’t forgive herself for loving a monster, for mourning him still. Not now, not ever.

Thus, happiness was a commodity she couldn’t afford. Lovers of monsters didn’t deserve anything.

She wondered if the same thing went through her friends’ minds as she walked into the room, followed by two dozen pair of eyes. Traitor, A few voices echoed, giving her the urge to roll her own eyes. For some reason, jaegerists focused all their hate on her, going as far as using slurs against her whenever they saw her.

She didn’t understand it, neither did she like it, but Mikasa had learned to live with it. Maybe she deserved it, she thought gloomily.

Her feet took her to the first balcony she saw. What was she doing there?  Historia had invited her, but for what? What purpose did she have with all these people? She had a home, an empty home with a cold stove and a hard, colder bed, but a home she’d built herself nonetheless. She could’ve been knitting something instead of suffocating in the dress the queen had sent for her.

“Mikasa?”

Mikasa turned around, certain she could recognize that voice anywhere. “Jean,” she said, blinking in surprise at the sight of him. “You got taller.”

He wore a fancy looking black suit, which somehow enhanced the hazel in his eyes. “I know,” he said, scratching the back of his head awkwardly. “I must look like a big goof.”

“You don’t.” Mikasa replied, playing with the embroidered sleeves of her dress. “Welcome home.”

“Thank you,” he said, giving her the kindest smile anyone had given her in a while. “Armin’s looking everywhere for you in there.”

“I figured,” Mikasa said. “Did he send you for me?”

Jean lifted a packet of cigarettes in front of her, taking slow steps until he stood next to her. “I wanted to have a bit of a smoke,” he said, moving his neck one side to the other. “It’s a bit of a large crowd in there…and I had something different in mind for the first time I saw you again.”

“How so?”

“First, I wasn’t going to be reeking of cigarettes,” Jean chuckled, putting one in his mouth, struggling with what seemed to be an lighter. “Second, Connie and I thought maybe flowers would’ve been appropriate.”

“To hide the smell of cigarettes?”

“Good one,” Jean replied, giving her a sideways glance. “How have you been?”

His question was polite enough, but Mikasa knew of the layers of meaning it conveyed. She’d been apart from them for a whole three years, frozen in time and in grief, and Jean knew it as well as the rest of what was left of their squad. A cordial answer came to her mind, but she didn’t think Jean would be the person to believe a lie, not from her. “Lonely,” she admitted. “Sometimes scary.”

A crease appeared between Jean’s eyebrows. “Scary?”

“Sometimes I think I won’t get rid of the things we saw back then, and from the things I saw on the way back to the island,” Mikasa said without looking at him, knowing that he probably had his eyes set on her. “I see them when I’m asleep.”

“Me too.” Jean said. Mikasa turned to look at him and he smiled again. Suddenly, the music from the party became distant in her ears. “You’re not the only one who has it, Mikasa. The guilt. I see them every night, too. I feel bad for not stopping him earlier, I feel bad for not saving him. For still caring about him, too.”

“You as well?”

“I can’t imagine what it must be like for you,” Jean replied. “You loved him, didn’t you?”

Mikasa nodded; for some reason, admitting that she had loved Eren, to Jean of all people, didn’t make her feel as much of a terrible person. The syncopation of grief and peace was new, and not at all bothersome.

“Have you loved anyone since?” Jean asked suddenly.

“No.” she said. There had been more than a few men who had shown interest in her; they were handsome enough, good sons and brothers with good hearts, and yet Mikasa had never paid attention to any. But she wasn’t going to start gossiping about men with Jean.

“How about you? Any of you have someone back in the continent?” she asked, clearing her throat.

“Connie does,” Jean replied. “She’s a cute girl, a couple years older than him. I don’t know which one of them speaks louder, and I still don’t know which will get tired of the other first, but they’re happy. I’ve no idea how, though.”

A low chuckle escaped her, and Mikasa brought her hand to her chest.

“What’s wrong?” Jean asked.

Mikasa shook her head, undermining the matter. “I couldn’t remember the last time I laughed.”

“Well, it’s a lovely laugh,” Jean replied automatically. “I’ll tell the others to make a point of making it come out more. I’m sure Connie will help, also Pieck. She’s a bit of a handful, though. Lovely, but she does have a tendency to get in your nerves when she tries.”

“Are you and her…”

“Pieck?” Jean laughed. He hadn’t touched the cigarette he’d lit since the beginning of their conversation; and the embers of it had gathered in a heap near his hand. “No. She likes girls, for the most part. Besides, she’s not my type.”

“But do you have someone?” Mikasa asked, suddenly curious.

Jean turned to look at her, his eyes almost shinning in the moonlight. “How could I?” he said in a stark, unusually bitter voice. “I feel like I can’t move on.”

Mikasa nodded; she understood that better than anyone. “Move on from everything that happened?”

“That, and other matters.” he said, his eyes still on hers. He’d grown at least a couple of centimeters since the last time she’d seen him, which made him look even more mature, more like a proper adult. Years ago, during their attack against Marley, she thought Jean had finished with all his growth. But he’d settled more into his adult self even more during those three years across the sea. The lines of his face were sharper, his expression sterner and yet just as kind as before. He was truly a leader now, a diplomat and a war veteran. Adulthood suited him well.

The rest of them would be the same; they would all keep moving forward, growing, living life, and leaving Eren and their other fallen comrades behind, frozen in time as mere memories. There was a burst of energy in her chest all of a sudden; one that told Mikasa she didn’t want to be just another comrade left behind.

“What other matters?”

“That’s a secret,” Jean replied. “I’ve been keeping that one sealed for a while now.”

Mikasa frowned, curiosity growing. “Is it bad?”

“Is love bad?” Jean asked. Mikasa looked at him for a long moment, realizing how close they stood, how intently he was looking at her.

Jean laid his hand on the balustrade, his skin touching the hot embers from his cigarette. “Fuck!” he shouted, jumping up and down in the same place as he tried to shake off the ashes, cursing in both eldian and another language from the continent she didn’t recognize. He put the cigarette in his mouth, but it only fell apart on his perfectly white shirt, leaving a stain.

“Fuck!” Jean shouted again.

Mikasa’s chest jolted once, then twice, then thrice; each time, a little hiccup of laughter escaped her at the sight of Jean trying to shake off the hot ashes off him. She folded over herself, her eyes filling with tears, her laughter accompanied by snorts. It didn’t take more than a couple of seconds for Jean to join her.  

“Hey!” he said after a few minutes. “Don’t laugh at an injured man.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Mikasa repeated, laughing still, leaning against the balustrade and holding her stomach. She looked up at him. “It’s just…”

Jean smiled widely as another fit of laughter took over her. “Mi-ka-sa!” he shouted. “Come on, don’t laugh at your comrade.”

“I’m sorry,” Mikasa replied, catching her breath. She straightened and used the sleeves of her dress to wipe the tears that had spilled down her eyes during her fit. “You’re taller, but you’re as much of an idiot as always.”

“Am I?” Jean said, smiling. Mikasa nodded, covering her mouth with one hand to laugh a little more, using the other to lean on his shoulder to steady herself.

“Just as much.”

“Well, at least I made you laugh.” Jean pointed out. Mikasa’s lips fell open in surprise; how long had it been, really? She couldn’t remember one occasion in which she’d laughed this hard. Ever since Eren had told her he hated her—no, since before. Ever since Sasha’s death, or perhaps since before Sasha’s death…

“I don’t think I’ve laughed this hard in over ten years.” She admitted, almost embarrassed that her last memory of a fit of laughter was one from her childhood, from before the rupture of her small family. What a sad little human she must be.

“It’s lovely,” Jean repeated, smiling. “Even when it’s at my expense, thank you very much.”

Mikasa snorted again. “I’m sorry. It’s just…your dance, it was ridiculous.”

“I was on fire, Ackerman.”

“You were dancing, Kirstein.” Mikasa quipped back, surprising herself at how easy they’d fallen into banter territory. “Thank you, Jean. I don’t…I don’t think I remember the last time I’ve spoken this much. It’s weird to hear myself speak.”

“I’ll be here for a while, and then maybe a little while longer,” Jean replied, moving his arm to gesture towards the benches laid out across the balconies. “I’ve all the time in the world to talk, if you want to.”

Mikasa considered it, looking at his anxious face. Was he fearing that she would say no?

She couldn’t say no, not after what he’d done, not considering he’d been the one to make her laugh for the first time in an eternity. Besides, Mikasa realized, she didn’t want to reject his invitation. This was Jean, after all. She wasn’t talkative, but she knew he’d make up for it. “I’d like that,” she said. “I don’t have many stories, though. Do you?”

“I do,” Jean replied. “I’ve got a hundred stories for the continent.”

“You won’t mind telling me?” Mikasa said as they walked together towards the benches, separated by only a few inches.

“I’d love to tell you.”

Mikasa gave him another look. “You really did get taller.”

“And you really got lovelier.” Jean said. “Loveliest sight in a thousand miles.”

“Are you trying to make me laugh again?”

“I’m trying to give you a compliment.”

“Oh,” Mikasa said, lowering her face to hide the heat that had rushed to her face. “Thank you.”

“Your hair’s longer again.” Jean said.

“I was thinking about cutting it.” Mikasa replied. “But I didn’t want to, in the end.”

“Thank Ymir for that.”

“Why?”

Jean shrugged, smiling as he looked up at the sky. “That hair of yours is pretty.”

Mikasa smiled. “Tell me about the continent, please.”

__________________________

Armin frowned as he made his way across the ballroom, hand in hand with Annie. They’d been looking for her for the better portion of the party, and they hadn’t caught a glimpse yet. She was there, he knew from what some of the guests had informed him, but he couldn’t find her.

He wanted to show her their rings, he wanted to ask her to be at their wedding at the continent, he wanted to tell her of all the things that had happened in those three years while they’d been away. Above all, Armin wanted to hug her, to tell her, to promise her, that she wouldn’t be alone anymore.

“I think I see them.” Annie said, opening the glass door in front of her.

“Them?” Armin asked.

“There,” Annie said, pointing with her index finger. “On the benches. I think that’s Jean.”

“Jean?” Armin said, bewildered. Armin pulled him forward, and they walked across the balcony until they reached the two sleeping figures on the bench. Mikasa had her hand on Jean’s shoulder, while his head rested peacefully on hers.

“Should I wake them?”  Annie whispered. Armin shook his head, noticing the dark circles under Mikasa’s eyes. Anyone who knew her as well as he did would realize this was probably the first time in a long time she got to sleep peacefully. “Is this why he never paid went with any girls back home?”

Armin smiled. Back home. That was the continent now, for him, and for Connie as well. It had never been for Jean. To Jean, home was someone. And that someone had grown out her hair, and wore a pretty dress with embroidered sleeves.

“We should probably get them a blanket.” Armin said. “They’ll be embarrassed enough when they wake up though.”

Annie snorted. “I want to see that.”

__________________________

Mikasa leaned a little closer to the warmth to her right, which felt like sunlight itself giving her a hug. Dreamless sleeps were a bliss, a bliss she hadn’t had the privilege of in a long time. And the warmth next to her was soothing; an ointment for even the deeper scars of her heart. In her sleep, Mikasa smiled.

#jeankasa #jean x mikasa #Mikasa Ackerman #Jean Kirstein #JeanMika #jeankasa fanfic #fanfiction #fanfic #ao3 #JeankasaWeek2021 #mikasa x jean #snk #shingeki no kyojin fanfiction #escritos

[thorin-is-a-cuddler]

Revelation

A/N: Spoilers for all Skulduggery books till #13

There has been some talk about what would happen if Dexter finds out that Skulduggery is Lord Vile. So have my extremely dramatic version. 

This takes place after Tanith, Skulduggery, Valkyrie and Dexter had a fight in Roarhaven against Lord Vile who has travelled into their dimension from the Leibniz Universe. He revealed himself to them and it goes all downhill from then on. I listened to incredibly sad music while writing this, so ... just be certain that you can take bad, bad angst without happy end when you read this.

Dexter was sweating. He was also bleeding. And he was incredibly pale. 

Valkyrie was very quiet while taking care of his bleeding collarbone. She didn’t dare to look at his face. Something very close to horror had taken over her eyes and now seemed to jam through her every second she breathed. Her cheeks appeared more hollow than they actually were. The revelation from the fight they’d just survived in Roarhaven had obviously shocked her deeply. 

Dexter could of course understand that. He himself was in a nearly catatonic state. That picture. That picture of him taking off his armor. The moment right after his helmet had disappeared. With a shudder Dexter realized how sick he felt. „Val…“ He huffed out warningly, before he held his head to the side and threw up in the far corner of the abandoned room. 

Valkyrie lowered her shaking fingers. Blood was on her fingertips and on her cheek from her own cut. A cut Lord Vile had caused with his slashing shadows. 

Tanith was standing by the window that was nailed shut with three wooden bars. She was hugging herself, avoiding to look at either one of the other three. 

And Skulduggery was staying in the shadows. He was standing by the wall opposite to Tanith. He was completely still. More so than usual. No wind moved his clothes, his arms didn’t cross over his chest, he didn’t touch his hat. He just stood there. And waited. 

Dexter readjusted his position on the broken bed by the window and took the piece of cloth out of Valkyrie’s hand to take care of his wound himself. He patted the space next to him and tried to take her by the arm, meaning to help her sit down in case she was feeling as nauseous as he was. But Valkyrie freed her arm from his grasp and took a step away from him. She’d only looked that grave to Dexter once before and that was during their mission in the Leibniz Universe. All the guilt, all the pain she’d felt back then had settled in the lines on her face. The exact same face was looking at him now. 

All Dexter could think off to lighten the mood was the following bit: „You know that feeling when you watch a mystery movie or something and you guess who might be the disguised stranger and you have ideas and when the revelation comes up it’s someone completely unexpected? That is such a shocking feeling. Shocking… Like… that’s what I just felt… I would have never guessed that the Lord Vile from the Leibniz Universe is Skulduggery!“ A hysterical laugh escaped him and suddenly all eyes were on him. 

Skulduggery took a step to the side. Valkyrie’s lips parted in surprise and Tanith raised her brows. She had found out about Skulduggery being Lord Vile back in the Leibniz Universe already. And she had managed to make the correct conclusions. Skulduggery was Lord Vile. In every universe. In every story ever told, in every horrible memory kept, in every encounter made. It had been Skulduggery in that armor. That was his biggest, darkest secret. And Tanith had kept it. She knew, Valkyrie had been keeping it, too. Probably for a lot longer than she had. 

Yet, here they were. The last of the Dead Men were bleeding on the floor and Dexter couldn’t jump to the conclusion. He couldn’t. He had always been the smartest of them all. The most reasonable and thoughtful - despite his (former) tendency to crack jokes and take life lightly. He had loved his friends so deeply, so profoundly. All of them. Anton, Ghastly, Larrikin, even Erskine, Skulduggery. 

Saracen…

And he had lost all of them. He had loved them and he had lost them. What remained was his friendship with Skulduggery. He cared about Valkyrie and Tanith. But it wasn’t the same. With the Dead Men he’d fought evil, he’d survived on less than one could survive on, he’d suffered for them, with them. Now they were all gone. Only Skulduggery remained. Only Skulduggery. Who had now been in the armor of Lord Vile. 

That could not be. Dexter didn’t allow the conclusions to arise. He pushed them down, down, down. They were coming right back up, forcing him to puke, forcing him to acknowledge them, to see what was true. What always had been true. The way Skulduggery had betrayed them, had tried to murder them, had fought against them. The way he had made them suffer. The cause of the worst kind of nightmares, the reason why Dexter had spent nights awake, hunching in the shadows to protect his crew, scared Lord Vile might come and wreak havock on them all. It had been Skulduggery. The root of so much pain and anger. The reason for war, for loss, for grief. 

Dexter’s hysterical laughter stopped. He took in deep, hard breaths. With a wavering smile he stared into the shadow to make out Skulduggery’s shape. „Lord Vile, ha! That could be hilarious, if it weren’t so fucking disturbing!“ 

He waited for a comment, for a snort, anything that reminded him of the Skulduggery he’d known. He needed to hear that, to see that. He was starting to feel sicker and sicker, the longer the awful silence remained. Valkyrie’s horrified eyes were piercing through him, Tanith’ creased forehead and lowered chin worried him, Skulduggery’s frozen shape didn’t allow relief to flood his stomach. 

„Dexter…“ the husky, morbid voice from the shadow said. The despair in Skulduggery’s tone forced Valkyrie to close her eyes. The physical pain in her gut was almost too much. She could barely keep herself on her feet. Tears threatened to slip out from between her tightly shut lids. 

Dexter’s face turned pale again. So pale. His blue eyes, once so bright and glinting, now lost all their color. It looked like the conclusion had been dropped into the deep blue oceans of his eyes and was now slowly sinking to the bottom. Like a disease. Like a poison. Killing everything on its way down. Hope, love, trust, admiration. What was left was two cold, colorless ponds, haunted and emptied of life. 

Skulduggery was Lord Vile.

From his eyes the disease spread. His face distorted into a mask of pain. The slow inundation of his features broke Tanith’s heart, made it explode like a glass made from crystal. She pushed her fists against her stomach to keep herself whole. Otherwise she might have just as well copied her heart’s desire to dissolve. 

The tears came faster than his anger. 

Silently they fell. 

Valkyrie pressed her hands against her lips. She saw Dexter in front of her, that last rest of the man he used to be. She saw the cold, dead eyes, the tears streaming down his face, his lips slightly trembling, as he stayed still like a statue. 

Skulduggery dropped his head, his hat covering the bones of his face. There was nothing he could say, there was nothing he could do to make this up to his old friend. This was it. 

Dexter gulped hard and moved his hands to his cheeks. With one swipe he got rid of his tears. Then he looked down at his knees, his jaw clenched hard enough to make the bone pop. It was starting.

It already crackled between his fingers. 

His magic wanted to take matters in its own hands. The energy was throbbing in his chest. It looked like a lighting heart that shot the blood through his veines. 

All that grief, all that impossible pain he saw himself faced with needed an outlet. 

The next time he looked up at Skulduggery, the cold ponds of his eyes were glowing blue. 

Skulduggery immediately grabbed Valkyrie’s arm and hauled her behind himself, he meant to grab for Tanith, too, but Dexter suddenly let out a herat-wrenching howl and uncotrollable blue energy sparks flew between Tanith and Skulduggery. She gasped in shock and threw herself against the wooden bars of the window to get out of their way. 

„DEXTER!!!“ Valkyrie screamed when a loud windy noise started to accompany the growth of the energy turmoiling in Dexter’s chest. Tears were blurring her sight. She wanted to run to him, but Sulduggery caught her around the waist and wrestled her to the floor.

„NOO! I NEED TO HELP HIM! HE NEEDS HELP!“ 

„YOU CAN’T HELP HIM, VAL!! NOBODY CAN!“ 

Valkyrie wailed in agony as she saw Dexter lose more and more control over his own magic. He squeezed his eyes shut in pain, only to open them again with panic. He clutched his hands to his chest and tried to curl in on himself, but that seemed to only cause him even more pain. He threw his head against the wall. The windy noise turned louder. Dexter’s eyes were shining with an almost white light now from the energy building up behind them. 

Skulduggery held Valkyrie’s head down with his gloved hands and stared at his old friend. He saw what he had done to him. He saw what the revelation of his past crimes meant to Dexter. He saw how he had betrayed him in the darkest way possible. And all he could do now was stare at the anguish and heartbreak that threatened to tear Dexter apart. 

Tanith cried out, when the energy in Dexter’s core came to its ultimate expansion. She threw herself to the ground and covered her head in the same way Skulduggery was covering Valkyrie’s. 

The sound Dexter made when his grief exploded in a destructive energetic wave was the cry of a tormented soul, already in hell, already right inside the burning flames. 

Valkyrie screamed when her eardrums shattered, Skulduggery felt a myriad of cracks tear through his bones. Tanith’ head slammed to the ground and blood started trickling from her nose, her eyes, her ears. And when the house shattered around them, they fell and their arms and legs got squashed under the roof, the walls, the wood. And when it was all over they remained motionless under the weight of what Skulduggery had done. Because he was the one who had committed all of Lord Vile’s crimes. What Valkyrie had been able to forgive, because she hadn’t enlived it, had ripped the heart out of Dexter’s chest. 

When they found him, his eyes had dissolved into smoke, blood running down his cheeks. His ribs were deformed and had managed to tear through his skin in two spots. His chest was perforated from energy streaks that had been so forceful they had shot through his skin like bullets. Valkyrie fell on her knees before him and cradled his head on her shoulder, holding on to him until the healers arrived. Because he was alive. 

But all three of them knew when he woke up he would wish to be dead. 

#skulduggery pleasant #seasons of war #lord vile #dexter vex #tanith low #valkyrie cain #pain #hurt #no comfort #hurt!dexter #mentions of going blind #blood #drabble #i could write on and on about that #but i had to stop here #my idea is that this continues somewhat like #dexter stays at a hospital for a long time #he doesn't wake up anytime soon #and valkyrie visits him and tanith too and they just sit by his bed #and they know that all his not well #and when dexter wakes up eventually he is blind #and he is sadly not in any composure to make billie ray jokes #skulduggery visits him too #and the talk they have is so #bad #the hate in dexter's broken voice #the typical skulduggery silence #just too much pain #who writes something fluffy now???

[one-boring-person]

You Died!

Alaric Saltzman x Reader

Context: Set towards the end of episode 20 of season 3, just after Alaric has completed his transformation. The reader is Ric's best friend and is distraught after finding out he will ultimately die, not yet knowing Esther has made him complete the transition.

Warnings: Blood, some death, "lethal" biting

A/N: This is my first time using Tumblr as a writing platform, so forgive me if the format is a bit off.

Exhilaration courses through me at the sensation of the wind rushing around me, the cold air blocked out by my riding leathers, thankfully, my helmet preventing my eyes from tearing up, keeping my vision clear enough for me to navigate the dark, twisting road with ease. Beneath me, my black and chrome roadster growls loudly, the vehicle responding to my every move with a sensitivity it’s always had, the engines revving as I push the bike into a faster pace, knowing no one else will hear me out here. Normally, I would never consider going out at this time, especially not on the motorbike, and definitely not at this ungodly speed, but after today’s events, I feel as if nothing else will clear my head sufficiently.

Tightening my grip on the handlebars, I try to ignore the grief gnawing away at my heart, planning to deal with it tomorrow in whatever way I feel fit, whether that be drinking ridiculous volumes of whiskey or beating up some poor punching bag somewhere, or doing something much more dangerous. For now, all I want to do is forget about the fact that my best friend died, or is currently dying, and that there’s nothing I can do about it. And I never got to tell him how I really feel. At that, I grit my teeth and accelerate the motorbike again, nearly hitting the 100 mph mark on the metre as I drive around the winding bends of the deserted road, the thrill at riding at such a speed doing little to cure my current state of mind, only reminding me of what he would say if he saw me being as reckless as this. Under my helmet visor, I feel a tear roll down my cheek, leaving a hot trail in its wake.

Turning a corner, I brake a little as I catch sight of the thick bank of fog that seems to occupy the road, unsure of whether or not to continue on into it; after all, Klaus is still out there and up to his tricks. Too late, I figure out the bike won't slow down in time to avoid it, so I carry on through the eerie white mist, cutting the speed slightly, only to push it back up again as I decide to get through it as fast as possible, even if I can barely see a thing. The headlight seems to do nothing, the pale light catching on the fog, making it appear thicker than it actually is, illuminating only what is directly in front of the front tyre.

For what feels like hours but is in fact only minutes, I drive through the bank of fog, slightly confused as to its sudden appearance, until I reach an abrupt break in the suffocating cover, everything becoming clear and visible very swiftly. I only have a second to register the figure standing in the road, in which time I sharply pull the handlebars to the side, tilting the bike dangerously as it skids past, the wheels losing traction on the slick tarmac, careening into the side of the road. As it makes contact with the barrier, I am flung from the seat, the world spinning in my view briefly before I crash to the floor, my body smashing against rocks and tree branches as it rolls over and over, coming to a halt at the base of a road sign, pain exploding across me from multiple points of my body. Breathing hard, I try to move, only to find myself incapable of doing so without invoking a sharp stab of agony from my new injuries, leaving me lying helplessly at the side of the road, bruises littering my skin, my conscience slowly starting to fade.

A pair of hands on my waist snap me from the cloud of pain, the appendages roughly pulling me up onto someone's shoulder as they carry me back onto the road, their breathing as heavy as mine. A whimper of pain leaves my lips at the jolting motions, the air leaving my lungs as I am thrown, violently, onto the tarmac, my head cracking against it slightly as my helmet absorbs the shock. Agony erupts in my limbs and chest, drawing a long, low groan from me as I try to find my assailant, confusion and horror filling me as I recognise the person standing over me. Bending over, he harshly pulls my helmet off my head, revealing my bruised face to the world as he looks down into it in disgust.

“Alaric?” I croak out coarsely, thinking I’m hallucinating, spitting out a mouthful of blood as it wells up in my throat, signalling to me that I have internal bleeding. Above me, my best friend and crush of six years eyes the trail of crimson liquid as it flows over my face, a hungry look in his now-dark eyes.

“(Y/N).” His voice is low and sinister, the tone proving to me it’s not the caring man I know and love, but the side of him I’ve come to call Psycho Alaric, due to his murderous tendencies.

“Y-You died...” The words are forced as I feel the agony of my injuries, both mental and physical, start to take over my body, more blood flowing from my parted lips.

Above me, Alaric crouches down to my level, a predatory look on his handsome face as he stares at my prone figure, taking in the torn riding leathers, as well as the darkening bruises surrounding my jaw and temple.

“I did.” He simply states before reaching down to me, pushing his arms under my torso as he pulls my body closer to his, one of his hands cupping the back of my head, threading his fingers tightly in my hair, the overall movement wringing a quiet whimper from me. Hearing this, Alaric licks his lips, his eyes roaming over the blood covering my chin, dropping to the skin at my neck.

“What...What're you doing?” I question him, fear starting to accompany the throbbing pain in my body as he lowers his face to mine, his breath fanning over my skin, hotly. At any other time, I would’ve felt giddy at the thought of being so close to him, but now it scares me – there’s something off about him.

In way of reply, Alaric leans further into me, his familiar scent overwhelming me, as well as the sharp odour of blood, swiftly swiping his tongue over my chin, drawing up the crimson liquid staining my skin, a surprised grunt leaving my lips as a hungry groan leaves his. Pulling away, he looks down at me with obvious desire, his face suddenly changing as familiar veins form under his eyes, his lips pulling back to reveal razor sharp fangs, the overall expression not unlike that of a vampire's. In seconds, he pulls me to him, crushing my body against his as he sinks his teeth into my neck, biting into the soft skin with ease, blood flowing from the wound into his mouth, his hot tongue swiping over the area a few times to draw up every drop of the hot liquid. Around my head and shoulders, his grip tightens, the sensation of him sucking my blood out of my arteries somehow feeling euphoric in comparison with the previous, agonising pain from the crash, a sigh falling from my tongue, moans and grunts of appreciation and need leaving the lips he has pressed against my neck.

Already, I feel my conscience leaving me, black spots appearing all over my vision as he finally pulls away, blood coating his chin and lips, satisfaction evident in his eyes as the veins and fangs retreat, dropping my limp body to the ground as he stands, wiping the substance away with his sleeve. Giving me one last glance, he smirks down at me before leaving my broken body lying on the tarmac, the pain becoming too much for me to bear as I finally fall into the darkness at the edge of my vision.

*

Bright light assaults my eyes as I crack them open, a dull ache starting in my head as I try to lift my hands to rub them, trying my best to remember where I am and how I got here. Coming up blank initially, I look around at the room I’m in, recognising the bed beneath me as belonging to one of the Salvatores, Damon in particular, meaning I'm in the boarding house.

“Morning, sleepy head.” A familiar voice greets me from the corner behind the bed, a quick look proving to me that it is, in fact, Damon.

“W-what happened?” I manage to croak out at him, confusion lacing my voice as I try to recall how I got here, staring blearily at the raven haired vampire as he rolls his eyes, exasperated at my question.

“You crashed your motorbike, I think. I found you a couple of hours ago with your body broken and bruised as hell, and with an impressive bite mark to top it all off. You were nearly completely drained of blood.” He responds, his tone light even though I can see the worry in his piercing eyes.

At his words, the events that got me here rush back, the images of Alaric drinking from my neck sparking a sense of dread in me.

“Alaric.” I mumble, knowing Damon will hear me, even from his position across the room. Instantly, I find the vampire standing at the side of the bed, having used his unnatural speed to reach me, a confused and curious look in his eyes.

“Alaric? What do you mean?” His voice is tight at the thought of his friend.

Swiftly, I explain everything to him, watching as a look of grim horror crosses his handsome face, realisation setting into me. Alaric, somehow, made the transition.

As if on cue, a bang from another room interrupts the silence that has settled on us, drawing my attention towards the door, a confused look on my face.

“That’ll be Bonnie.” Damon muses, brow creased a little as he stands, looking back down at me.

“Bonnie?” I question him, puzzled.

“Yeah, Alaric got her, too.”

Shock fixes me in place for a second before I can speak again.

“He did? How?”

A pained expression crosses his face at my question, the subject obviously a sensitive one.

“Our old friend the Original Witch possessed her to go and help him complete the transition. It was her blood that sealed the deal.”

“Esther did this?” Horror and hopelessness well up in at the idea of the witch being back, especially when I consider the fact that Alaric's fate has been sealed by her, at which point anger accompanies the initial feelings.

“Yep. I’m gonna go deal with Bonnie now. Get some rest, you'll need it for tomorrow.” Damon suggests, smiling slightly as he turns and leaves the room, allowing me to try and fall asleep once more, which is easier said than done, what with the turbulent thoughts and crippling grief churning around in my mind. Eventually, though, I manage to tire myself out, my body forcing itself to sleep.

#alaric saltzman #alaricxreader #the vampire diares imagine #tvd #psychoRic #writing #imagine #Alaric

[smkkbert]

Mothers know best

Summary: Since they have been kids, they have been best friends. Since they have been friends, their mothers wanted them to be together. After coming back from the east coast, Felicity takes over a position at Queen Consolidated, the company her best friend will soon take over from his father. Their mothers still push for them to be together, and they seem closer to that goal than ever because wedding bells are ringing. The only problem is that they both plan to get married to someone else.

Rating: Explicit

Previous chapters: 1  2  3  4  5  6  7  8  9  10  11 12 

Chapter 13 of 22: Hiraeth

= Homesickness mixed with grief and sadness over the lost or departed, or a type of longing for the homeland or the romanticized past

Almost everything on his to-do list was handled by now. There were only a couple of things to be taken care of until the wedding in like ten days. Most of them just demanded his presence. He wouldn’t really have to do anything for them though.

Standing in front of his parents’ mansion, Oliver made a face. Technically, this last suit fitting was only demanding his presence too. Of all the things he still had to do until the wedding, this was the one he hated the most though. Well, maybe the rehearsal dinner the night before the wedding was even worse as he would have to put up with all of his parents’ friends.

A sigh escaped Oliver as he looked at the building that he had been growing up in. Though his parents had taken him here from the hospital and raised him here until he had left for college, he remembered that it hadn’t always felt like a home to him.

He had lived here with his parents and Raisa. His grandfather had lived here before he had died and Thea had eventually joined once she had been born. Still, the only time that he remembered the mansion really feeling like a home had been when Donna and Felicity had stayed with them. They had brought that missing piece of heart and soul into the thick stone walls.

Oliver sucked in a deep breath. Felicity had always made everything feel more heart. With her kindness and her generosity, she had just made everything better.

There was a terrible stitch in his heart as he remembered once more that he might have lost her forever. Since their little slip two weeks ago, they had barely talked to each other. They had limited their contact to the bare minimum, only talking to each other if not avoidable. At some point, they had even started letting their assistants message the other rather than seeking direct contact.

Oliver didn’t know if taking more and more space as they were doing right now was really doing them any good. At the start, he had thought that maybe it was better that way, but that was different now. He didn’t believe that taking space was the right way for them to save their friendship. It actually seemed like it was threatening the small thread they were still holding onto.

Shaking his head firmly, Oliver pushed that thought away. Sooner or later, their friendship would be back to the way it had used to be. They had known each other for too long and been through too much to let a little slip like that to get in between. Once all of this had lived down, it was going to be okay again.

Oliver knew he had to believe it or he’d go crazy.

Behind one of the windows upstairs, the woman he had made a promise to, was trying on the most important dress in a woman’s life. At least that was what people said right? That the wedding dress was always the most important one in a woman’s life. Oliver shook his head slightly as it didn’t matter.

All that mattered was that he had promised McKenna to always love her and always be with her by proposing to her. She was looking forward to this special day in their life as much as he was looking forward to it. He owed it to both of them to find a way to deal with this slip. He couldn’t let it ruin both of their lives forever.

Oliver took a deep breath to gear up for the fitting or rather the conversation with his mother that he would have to go through first.

“Mom?” he asked immediately upon opening the door and stepping into the mansion. “Mom, are you home?”

While he was putting his helmet on one of the small tables at the side of the foyer, Oliver tried to listen. His mother didn’t answer though, making Oliver roll his eyes with a shake of his head. She wasn’t answering because she wanted him to find her where she was probably sitting in the living room and reading some fancy magazine. She didn’t like it when anyone yelled.

With quick steps, Oliver went through the foyer and turned into the living room. Indeed, he found his mother sitting on the couch and reading some magazine just like he had thought she would. She was trying to keep the expression on her face casual like she really hadn’t heard him. Oliver knew his mother a little too well to think that was true though.

“Mom,” he said a lot more quietly now.

Moira looked up, a smile playing on her lips. “Oliver.”

Oliver had trouble not to roll his eyes at this. He knew she had heard him, but of course Moira would never admit it.

“Ready for the final suit fitting?”

Oliver shrugged his shoulders. “Sure.”

“After that, the next time you will wear the suit, it will be your wedding day.”

As much as Oliver tried to keep calm, he felt his thumb rubbing against the other fingertips. He painfully remembered Felicity pointing out that little nervous tick to him again and again. Even he tried to ball his hand to a fist, he couldn’t. His fingers just continued rubbing together on their own.

When a small crease formed between his mother’s eyebrows, Oliver bit down on his tongue. He was still thinking about what he could possibly say to hide his nervousness when she put her magazine away. Leaning forward, she rested her elbows on her knees and looked at her son with her deep, blue eyes.

“Is everything alright, Oliver?”

Her voice was soft and full or worry. She really wanted to make sure that he was alright, but Oliver knew he couldn’t tell her the truth. As close as he had always been to his mother, he knew how much she loved Felicity. As Donna’s daughters, Felicity was almost as close to Moira as her own children. She would put all the guilt for what had happened on him, and he couldn’t have that right now.

That his best friend was part of the family was great, but it was also kind of difficult. His parents loved Felicity with all of their hearts. He loved that because he knew Felicity deserved all the love in the world and she deserved people looking out for her and considering her their daughter when not even her own father considered her his child or at least didn’t treat her like that. At the same time, his parents had the tendency of taking Felicity’s side because she was this tiny blonde with that shy smile. It could almost be a little bit annoying.

“I am just a little bit nervous,” Oliver said, avoiding his mother’s intense gaze. “I mean there is still a lot to do and… I don’t know. I guess I just want everything to be perfect.”

“Don’t worry, Honey,” she said with the same soft voice she had always used to him when he had been sick. “Your father, as much as he tries to deny it, was so very nervous before our wedding too. I think if he would have been given a chance, he would have run.”

“But he didn’t.”

“No, he didn’t.” Moira chuckled. “I can’t deny that I was almost a little bit surprised that he actually showed up to the ceremony. When the doors were opened and my father led me down the aisle, I honestly thought that there wouldn’t be anyone waiting for me at the end of it. Your father was standing right there though, looking at me with a nervous smile while he was waiting. God, his fingers wrapped around my hand so firmly I thought they would break. We got married, and now we are still married. We also have you and Thea.”

Oliver nodded slowly though he wasn’t entirely sure what his mother was trying to say here.

“I guess what I am trying to say is,” his mother added like she had just read his mind, “that it’s normal to get nervous before something like this. At the end, once those vows have been spoken and you will be announced husband and wife, all the nervousness is going away again though.”

Again, Oliver just nodded slowly. He guessed his mother was right. The usual nervousness before a wedding that most people were feeling would certainly go away once the ceremony was over and the reception had started. After doing that official part, the party would come easy for people who went into their marriage optimistically.

For Oliver, it was different though. As much as he wanted to be optimistic about his wedding with McKenna, it was difficult to be optimistic given that his one-night-stand with Felicity was still in the back of his mind. He hadn’t told McKenna about it, and it might be over if she ever found out. Going into your marriage hopefully with a secret like that between you and your partner felt impossible. Even if she didn’t find out he felt terribly guilty for what had happened.

He felt all the more guilty for being unable to get Felicity and their night together off his mind. It was driving him crazy and-

“Did I hear vows?”

Donna stepped into the living room. The high heels of her boots gave her steps even more swing. The turtle neck of her steel blue dress made her neck seem even longer just like the hem that reached to slightly over her knees made her legs look longer. Her naturally blonde hair – unlike her daughter’s dyed blonde – fell over her shoulders loosely. Although she almost looked a little conservative, but her style still shone through.

Never would Oliver forget the first time he had seen Donna. He had met a lot of his mother’s friends before. Most of them, just like his mother too, were classy and wealthy women. The more surprised he had been when Donna had stepped in with her white leather boots, the dress that had barely covered her butt and that weird feather jacket that had looked like a bird had exploded on it.

“Donna.”

Moira got up from the couch and spread her arms. Donna stepped into the hug and both women kissed each other’s cheek before they sat down.

“I hope I am no inconvenience.”

“Like you could ever be one.” Moira smile at her friend honestly. “Oliver just arrived for his last suit fitting.”

“Oh, that is exciting.”

Oliver just nodded his head, unsure if he was even supposed to say anything about that. He couldn’t really do or say anything other than to agree.

“So, Oliver,” Donna asked and looked him up and down in a way that made Oliver swipe his sweaty hands at his jeans, “how are the wedding preparations going?”

Oliver did his best to hide the breath of relief that fell from his lips. He hadn’t really thought that Felicity would tell her mom of all people about what had happened between them. Still, he wouldn’t have been surprised if Donna would have asked something suggestive that would have made it hard for him to keep quiet about what had happened between them.

“We are probably going to make it in time.”

“Probably?” Donna chuckled. “It’s a good thing you are so relaxed.”

Oliver bit down on his tongue, but Moira was already putting a hand on her friend’s arm.

“I just managed to relax him about it.”

“In that case I won’t continue talking about it.” Donna winked at him before her smile widened even more. “I just love weddings so much. I cannot wait for Felicity’s time to finally come.”

The thought of Felicity getting married made Oliver’s heart stitch painfully. Even before their night together, he hadn’t liked the thought of Felicity getting married. He hadn’t been able to see his friend with some guy by her side.

“How is Felicity doing after the break-up with Carter?”

Again, Oliver bit down on his tongue. He had wondered how Felicity was doing more than once in the last couple of days. She had told him after the break-up that she was fine, but maybe their night together had just been a sign that she wasn’t as fine as she was trying to look like.

Oliver’s fingers rubbed together nervously. As her best friend, he should be there for Felicity. He should comfort her and make sure she had everything she needed. With the way things were, he knew he couldn’t do this though.

“She is off lately.” Donna sighed. “We all know that Felicity is usually quite talkative, but she doesn’t talk if it’s really important. I have never seen her like this before. It’s almost like she is sick or maybe even worse.”

At Donna’s words, Oliver frowned. “What do you mean?”

The moment the words were out, Oliver regretted saying them. Moira and Donna were looking at him with a deep frown. It was obvious that they were more than surprised that he had to ask. For a long time, if anyone had wanted to know what was going on with Felicity, he had been the first person to ask.

When Felicity’s tooth had been loose, he had been the one who had helped her get it to show it to her mother. When Felicity had her first period, he had been the first to know. When Felicity had her first real hangover, he had been the one to hold back her hair. It had always been like that, at least until now.

“Felicity’s walking around like a ghost,” Donna said. “I am surprised you wouldn’t have noticed.”

“I know the wedding is a lot,” Moira said, “but-“

Luckily, Raisa came in at that moment and saved him before his mother gave him another speech about how getting married shouldn’t stop you from maintaining your most important friendships. He was sure it would only rub salt into his still bleeding wounds.

“Mr. Oliver, the designer is here now.”

Oliver nodded quickly and was up on his feet within a second. Both women’s eyes were still on him expectantly. They wouldn’t let go of him without some kind of explanation.

“I just thought there was something else to it,” he said quickly before he gestured back over his shoulder. “I gotta go now.”

He turned around and left quickly. The designer, a tall guy with a bald head and thick glasses, was waiting there for him. They shook hands quickly before Oliver gestured downstairs. The designer followed as Oliver led him into his old room.

Oliver got out of his clothes and into his suit quickly. He looked at himself in the mirror, nodding along to everything the designer was saying without really listening to it. The suit was exactly what he had thought it should be though he couldn’t see much difference to other suits if he was completely honest. It was just typical Queen fashion to let oneself design a piece of clothing though they could have as well just bought something in that fancy boutique.

Stepping onto the small podium and spreading his arms for the designer to check if really everything was fine, Oliver released a long breath.

Maybe when all this wedding trouble was over and there was more time to spend differently, things could go back to normal. He had more time to invest in his relationship or rather marriage with McKenna, and he would have more time to rekindle his friendship with Felicity. Hopefully.

When his phone rang, Oliver turned his head.

“Sorry,” he said to the designer. “I just need a moment.”

The designer whose name Oliver couldn’t remember though he was trying to really hard released an annoyed snort and rolled his eyes. Apparently, the thought that anyone thought something could be more important than clothes didn’t sit well with him. He let go of Oliver though and allowed him to step down from the small podium.

Oliver crossed the room to the bed where he had left his clothes quickly. He took his jeans and pulled his phone out. His heart stopped for a second when he saw Felicity’s name and the stupid photo that he had taken of her the day she had left for MIT on the display of his phone. She had her eyes squeezed shut, messy strands of hair falling into her face and her tongue stuck out. He doubted anyone but him would recognize it was her.

“Felicity.”

“Where the hell are you?” Felicity almost hissed the words. “We were supposed to have this conference together. And with supposed to I mean that I am already here. You, on the other hand, are still missing though this conference started ten minutes ago.”

“Fuck.” Oliver slapped his hand in front of his eyes. “I forgot.”

“You forgot?”

Oliver could hear the suppressed screech in Felicity’s voice. It almost made him smile a little because it just didn’t happen too often that Felicity was losing control over things happening in her life.

“I-“ Oliver sucked in a deep breath. “You don’t need me for this.”

“I don’t- Oliver, you were the one who were supposed to lead this conference. How should I-“

“Felicity,” Oliver interrupted her with soft but firm voice, “you can do this. You have all the information. You have probably even all relevant numbers remembered. You are even more on fire about this project than I am. Just put in your ear piece and put your hair in front of your ear. If there are any problems, I will talk you through them.”

Felicity released a long breath that was trembling slightly. Oliver didn’t need her to say anything for him to know that she wasn’t entirely convinced yet.

“Felicity, you are incredibly smart,” he started with the obvious because it was the easiest to come from his lips right now. “Everything IT related is your world. You’re the queen of this branch so to speak. You love this project so much that no matter what you might think you could possibly lack to do this, your passion for this is going to make you rock this conference.”

Again, Felicity released another deep breath. Oliver could hear the changes though. He knew that Felicity was convinced or at least convinced enough of his plan to give it a try.

“You owe me,” Felicity mumbled. “Big time.”

He did owe her big time, but it had nothing to do with this conference call. If it wasn’t for her, Oliver wouldn’t be where he was right now, and Oliver doubted that he’d have had the kind of life he had now. A lot of his successes and his happiness, he owed to her.

There was a moment of silence before he heard Felicity calling for attention. She announced that Oliver had fallen sick and wouldn’t make it before she started the conference. He was sure that only he was able to detect the slight nervousness in her voice. Everyone else, everyone who didn’t know her as well as she did, wouldn’t notice it.

With held breath, Oliver listened to Felicity’s voice as she led through the conference. Her voice was strong and the passion he had talked about before was audible in it. She only needed his help twice, and he was actually sure that she would have made it through these two moments too if it hadn’t been for her nervousness.

The whole conference took only thirty minutes. Two minutes later, Felicity was back in her office and released a long breath of relief and exhaustion that made Oliver smile. He could almost see her sitting in her chair with her legs stretched out and her head leaned back as she looked at the ceiling.

“You did really good,” Oliver said quietly, pride shining through his voice. “Nobody noticed that this was the first conference you did.”

“Yeah, because you talked me through it.”

“In two short, little moments.”

“Yeah, but those counted.” Felicity released another long sigh. “God, it felt really good having you inside of me.”

Her words made Oliver’s breath get caught in his throat. Of course he knew what Felicity was referring to. In the context of this situation – smart words he was sure he had adapted from Felicity at one point in his life – the meaning of her words was clear.

Given their night together, their meaning blurred though. Images of that night and how their bodies had been tangled together in slow and gentle sex flashed in front of his eyes. He was sweating suddenly and feeling cramped in his suit.

“And by you, I mean your voice,” Felicity said, awkwardness undeniable in her voice. He could almost see her screwing up her face and cursing herself the words she was saying. “And by me, I mean my ear. I should go back to work. Right now.”

“Yeah, I have… things to do here too.” Oliver cleared his throat. “Bye.”

“Bye.”

They both hung up quickly. Oliver let the phone drop to the mattress and shook his head. For just a moment, it had felt the way it had before. It had felt like the Oliver and Felicity they had known. Then it had suddenly turned awkward.

Shaking his head once more, Oliver turned around. With a groan, he noticed that the designer was still standing there with his arms crossed in front of his chest and the heel of his foot tapping on the wooden floor. Oliver had completely forgotten about him or the suit fitting, and he couldn’t say that he was the least bit happy about remembering him now.

“Can we continue now?”

* * *

Reaching the end of the paragraph, Felicity realized once more that she hadn’t paid any attention to what had been written. She had read this paragraph at least twenty time now, but she seemed to be unable to process the words.

Her eyes glanced towards the mug of coffee at the edge of her desk. It was already half-empty and it was already the last mug of her second pot. She guessed coffee wasn’t helping her today as much as it usually helped her. Nothing could help her to focus today.

When tears welled in her eyes, Felicity pushed the report she had tried to read away and released a trembling breath. She rested her elbows on the top of her desk and let her face fall into his hands. Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to push away all those distracting thoughts that was stopping her from work, but she didn’t succeed.

Felicity’s throat started burning, and she felt a sob rising inside of her throat at the thought of how messed up and broken everything was right now. She had come to Starling, thinking it would allow her life to be whole and fuller than it had ever been, and now she felt like she had nothing left.

Not even her job, this wonderful job full of responsibility that was supposed to anchor her no matter what would happen, wasn’t helping with how broken everything was. She couldn’t focus on it because she was always distracted by her memories of her night with Oliver. Work had been the one thing that had been supposed to distract her, but not even her passion for anything IT related could distract her from her memories.

The way Oliver had touched her, exploring every inch of her body, still made goosebumps spread on Felicity’s skin that she was thinking about it now. His mouth had felt incredible as it kissed down her body and his cock had just felt so-

The shrill ringing of her phone made Felicity flinch almost violently. She put her hand to the back of her neck where the abrupt movement had sent a flash of pain.

Quickly, she grabbed her phone and frowned slightly as she saw who was calling her.

“Felicity Smoak,” she said as she took the call.

“Wow, I didn’t think I would actually reach you.”

Felicity chuckled lightly though she wasn’t really feeling it. “Then why did you call me?”

She didn’t have to see Lena Luthor to know that she was smiling at the other end of the line. During the couple of days Felicity had spent in Metropolis two weeks ago, the two women had become friends. They were so similar as they shared the same interests and were both quite successful at making themselves someone in a branch that was dominated by men. They had instantly liked each other.

“I was just hoping to be lucky,” Lena replied lightly. “I have a proposal for you.”

Felicity leaned back in her chair a little. If her daily work wasn’t distracting her from Oliver, Lena’s proposal might have the power to do so. During her visit in Metropolis, Felicity and Lena had negotiated the terms for the collaboration for some project of Queen Consolidated and LuthorCorp, so Felicity knew that Lena had some interesting ideas.

“Okay. Shoot.”

“So, I have been thinking a lot about this,” Lena said slowly, “and you are free to interrupt me when I am wrong, but I got the feeling that you enjoyed being in Metropolis a lot and that maybe you would have liked to stay here a little longer instead of going back to Starling City.”

Lena made a pause, giving Felicity the time to interrupt her and tell her that she had gained the wrong impression. Saying so would be a lie though as Felicity had indeed enjoyed being in Starling, and she had certainly rather stayed there than going back to Starling City where everything reminded her of that night she had spent with Oliver.

“Well, I was wondering if maybe you would like to hear about the job that I have to offer to you.”

Felicity felt her breath getting caught in her throat. Working with Lena Luthor would be an incredible chance at working with another woman who was successful in STEM. The fact that it would give her an excuse to leave Starling City would only be an extra.

“I am planning to build a subsidiary for the research on biomedical engineering,” Lena explained to her. “I want to do research and new developments of prostheses. Given the progress technology has made in the last years, it’s actually sad that protheses haven’t been developed that much. I would like to give you the position as CEO of this subsidiary. Of course it would still be linked to LuthorCorps, but I promise that I will give you full reign over it.”

Noticing that her fingers were rubbing together in the same nervous movement Oliver’s always were rubbing together when he was nervous, Felicity balled her hand to a fist quickly.

“That’s… quite the offer.”

Lena chuckled softly. “I hope it is. I knew I needed to give you something good to even consider taking my offer. Starling City and Queen Consolidated are close to your heart. I know that and I respect that. Maybe you could still consider this offer at least. I mean, just imagine a building with the words Smoak Tech on them because that is definitely a name we should consider for that subsidiary.”

Felicity felt her thumb rubbing over the knuckles of her fingers now that it couldn’t reach the fingertips anymore. Lena’s offer, though absolutely amazing, was just crazy. A couple of months ago, being the co-CEO at Queen Consolidated had already been a big step. Leading her own company, even if it was only a subsidiary, was even bigger though.

Taking Lena’s offer would be the easiest way for her to leave Starling City behind without any further questions asked. Who wouldn’t understand that she just had to take this offer? Nobody would think she was leaving because something was wrong between her and Oliver. This was the kind of out that might solve all of her problems.

Looking around her office and out of the large windows where the lights down in the city showed that she wasn’t the only one left awake after midnight, Felicity felt a stitch of regret though. She loved Queen Consolidated as she had learned a lot of her basic skills here. That Robert trusted her with the company meant the world to her. Leaving the company and letting down Robert would be incredibly hard.

“Just promise me that you will think about my offer,” Lena asked her. “Please.”

Felicity nodded. “I will. Thank you, Lena.”

“You are welcome. Goodnight, Felicity.”

“Goodnight.”

As Felicity ended the call, she got up from behind her desk and stepped towards the large window front. She leaned against one of the pillars there and looked outside onto the only city that had ever felt like a real home to her. That it was a home she felt she didn’t really belong to anymore gave it a painful notion.

Maybe Metropolis could be a new home to her. If she could build something new there, something she was only given the chance to build there, maybe that would make Metropolis a good place to start a new part of her life.

Away from Starling, maybe she could have the necessary distance to Oliver and everything that had happened to truly recover. It would hurt to be away from here and all the people she held so dear, but maybe it was exactly what she needed.

She should have known that it hadn’t been a good idea to come back to Starling City. As much as Felicity had wanted to come back here, she had hesitated because she had been afraid of what it might mean. She had been afraid that her heart would get broken because in that little corner of her heart, she had always known that her heart had been lost to Oliver. She had loved him much longer than she had known.

After she had met Carter, she had thought that she was over it. Carter had been perfect for her. On paper, he was exactly the kind of person she should have fallen in love with. Life just didn’t work like stories written on paper. Carter had realized even before Felicity had been ready to admit to herself and spared them both a lot of pain.

Felicity had just been too stupid to protect her heart from pain the same way.

“You are still here.”

For the second time tonight, Felicity flinched violently. With a quick movement, she turned around to where Robert was standing at the door and watching her with vigilant eyes. The expression in them was soft, but Felicity could see the glint of worry and maybe suspicion that was lying beneath.

“Yeah, I just wanted to get a little more work done.”

Felicity avoided his gaze as Robert continued to take her in thoroughly. Even without looking at him, she could feel his gaze on her skin, creeping over her body and right into her soul. She stepped behind her desk and rearranged some files there, trying to distract her from the feeling. It didn’t help though, so heat was rising into her cheeks and spreading all the way through her body.

When her father had left her, Robert had taken her in. He had raised her like she was his own daughter. He had opened the doors for her to go to the best schools and study at the best colleges. Now that he was considering to retire, he was even trusting her with the company he had built. Robert had treated her like a daughter in all possible ways, and he was the only one who had ever done so.

Still, all she did was disappointing him. She had considered his offer to work here for a long time instead of just taking it. She had almost messed up that conference because she had been too nervous for it. Now she might have to let down him and his company because she had slept with his son who was about to get married to a beautiful and smart woman that he loved very much.

Once more, Felicity felt a sob rising in her throat. She swallowed it down, but the burning only seemed to pool to a lump in the middle of her throat, making it impossible to breathe.

“Felicity, you do know that you can always talk to me, right?”

God, how much Felicity wanted to believe that it was true. She wanted to talk to Robert as she was sure that he had the necessary distance and the needed wisdom to know what to do. His opinion mattered a lot to her.

“I can’t.”

The words fell from Felicity’s lips in a whisper. As much as she wanted to tell him, she knew she couldn’t. If there was someone who should tell him what had happened, it was Oliver. No matter how much he had treated her like a daughter, he was Oliver’s father first and foremost after all.

Felicity wasn’t able to bite back the new sob that raised inside of her throat, at least not enough to hide that little whimper. In the spaciousness of the room, it echoed against the walls made of glass and marble. She had no hope that Robert would have missed it.

She still kept her eyes down at her hands that were trembling against the top of her desk when she heard Robert crossing the room towards her. He came to stop next to her. When Felicity didn’t turn around to him, he just took hold of her upper arm and turned her around to him. Before she could stop him, his arms were already wrapping around her body and pulling her close to his chest.

Felicity didn’t know if it was just the fact that she had had an exceptionally bad day or if she had just needed someone to hug her. Whatever it was, it caused all the bottled-up emotions to suddenly burst out of her. Tears were streaming down her cheeks and the heartbroken sobs made her entire body trembling in Robert’s arms. Even if she had tried, she knew that she couldn’t stop it.

“It’s okay,” Robert whispered soothing words to her as he rocked her from side to side, interrupting the kisses he pressed to the crown of her head. “It’s okay. Just let it out. I am here for you.”

Felicity knew that Robert meant it, so she did exactly as he had told her. She might feel guilty and somewhat embarrassed, but none of this mattered anymore. Nothing seemed to matter anymore.

Crying in his arms, Felicity lost all sense for time. Maybe she was crying there for hours, maybe it was only taking a couple of minutes for her to take time. Either way, Robert held her until her sobs calmed down and her body started trembling. Even when her breathing had evened out and she was all quiet and almost relaxed in his arms, he still held her tightly.

“Tell me what is going on, Felicity,” he pleaded with her gently and stroked his hand over her head. “Is it about Carter?”

Felicity didn’t want to tell Robert. She knew in every cell of her being that it was the wrongest thing she could possibly do. If she told Robert and he blamed Oliver for her broken heart, their friendship would probably be unsavable. If she told him and he blamed her for it, she would lose the one man she had always looked up to. Either way, she was losing.

Still, Felicity needed to tell Robert about it. He was the only person she could possibly be honest with without being pitied or something else she didn’t know how to deal with. He would be brutally honest with her. He had always kept the pain away from her that would have been too much and that would hurt her without teaching her something. He hadn’t spared her a little bit of a heartbreak though when he had known that it would make her smarter.

Tightening her arms around him and pressing her face against his chest in the slight hope that it would drown the words she would say, she sucked in a deep breath.

“I had sex with Oliver.”

With held breath, Felicity waited for Robert’s reaction. His hands that were still stroking over her back and over her head only faltered briefly. The moment of hesitation was barely noticeable as his hands continued their stroking movements after the break of a second.

“When did this happen?” Robert asked with whispered voice. “How?”

“He took me home after his bachelor’s party. I wanted to show him the reader’s corner and… I don’t know. We were lying on the bed together and I told him that Carter broke up with me because he thought we were supposed to be together. We were both making fun of it and suddenly our lips were so close and then… it happened.”

Robert seemed to need a moment to process this as he kept quiet. There was the slightest of tension in his muscles, and Felicity was almost sure that he was wondering if he had to put guilt on anyone here.

“Was it just that one time?”

Felicity took in another deep breath before she admitted, “It happened again the next morning.”

Again, Robert kept quiet. Felicity listened closely, trying to figure out what he was thinking and feeling from the way his breathing stuttered sometimes. She wasn’t sure what it meant though and Robert still didn’t say a word.

Eventually, Felicity couldn’t wait any longer. She lifted her gaze towards Robert and found him looking at her with deliberating eyes. He obviously wasn’t sure what to think about this yet and maybe it was the fact that he didn’t seem to judge yet that prompted Felicity to go even a step further.

“Can I tell you a secret?”

The ghost of a smile flashes over Robert’s face as he seemed to remember that she had always asked that question when she had been a child too. She had beckoned him to come closer and whispered the question. Only when he had sworn on all he held dear that he would keep her secret, she had told him what she had found out about computers. In hindsight, no secret she had shared with him had actually been anything new to him.

“Always,” he whispered.

Felicity felt one more tear escaping the corner of her eye and wiped it away quickly. She took in a trembling breath, readying herself for saying the words she had only just thought the first time a couple of minutes ago.

“I think I might be in love with him.”

Robert perked up his eyebrows in surprise, showing the first real reaction to what she had told him.

“You two always insisted that there was nothing going on between you,” Robert said softly, no reproach and no judgment audible in his voice. All he wanted was to understand what had changed all of a sudden. “Your mothers have been asking you about this in forever, and you always said that you were just friends.”

“Because we were.” Felicity nodded slowly. “I mean we… we have always been friends. I might have been in love with him long before that party, but I think I only realized it now. Besides, Oliver does not have feelings for me and-“

“Oh, Felicity.”

Felicity stopped, frowning at Robert. He was looking at her with soft eyes, shaking his head slightly. There was the slightest of amusement playing in his eyes as if her words were almost ridiculous, something a little kid was saying with conviction that made the adults smile.

When Robert looked at her again, he released a low sigh. His arms loosened around her, allowing Felicity to take a tiny step back, so she could look at his face without angling her head back too much.

“Felicity, I know my son quite well,” Robert said with firm voice, “and I can say without any doubt that he had never talked about or looked at anyone in the way he talks about or looks at you. Just like it took you some time to see it, I guess he hasn’t been able to see it yet either. Maybe he still doesn’t see it now. Either way, I am sure that he is in love with you.”

There was a part in Felicity that wanted to deny Robert words. If she allowed herself to think that Oliver was in love with her too, their entire situation would only be more tragic. It was easier to think that this was a story of unrequited love than to admit that this might be a story about two people who had loved each other for years and had just been to scared and too stupid to do something about it.

“You know, the year when you graduated high school,” Robert said, the faint expression in his eyes telling Felicity that he was somewhere deep in his memory, “and you didn’t want to go to prom, Oliver wanted to ask you to go there with you. He said every girl needed the experience of getting asked out for prom and going there with someone they could have a good time with. I think that was the first time he noticed that you were more important to him than he knew.”

Felicity frowned slightly. “Oliver and I didn’t go to my prom together.”

“No.” Robert smiled softly. “Before he got a chance to ask you out on it, Cooper had already taken his chance. Oliver was so mad when he came home, tearing his entire room apart. I think that was when he realized that he definitely felt something for you. He just couldn’t allow himself to actually let that thought into his head or into his heart because he was too afraid of the pain it would cause him.”

Oliver had never liked Cooper. For a long time, he had insisted that seeing her kiss someone had been like watching Thea kiss someone. After he had switched excuses and claimed that there was just something off with Cooper. He had never really tried to get to know him though.

Robert’s story made a lot of sense. It was like the missing piece of a puzzle Felicity had never been able to solve.

“Just like you two might be to afraid to do something now.”

Felicity looked at Robert again. He was watching her with slightly perked up eyebrows and a soft smile. Still, it was more than visible that he wanted her to do something about this because he didn’t agree.

“We don’t have a chance,” Felicity said, whispering the words as new tears welled in her eyes. “It’s too late.”

“That’s not true.”

Robert’s voice and the expression in his eyes hardened slightly. He wasn’t judging her for what had happened between her and Oliver. He didn’t reproach her for having sex with his engaged son. However, he did reproach her for having feeling for Oliver and doing nothing about it. He judged her for her fear of at least giving it a try.

Felicity felt like he had every reason to. She lowered her eyes, almost a little bit ashamed.

“If two people love each other,” Robert said and waited until Felicity looked him in the eyes again, “it’s never too late.”

As much as Felicity loved Robert, she couldn’t say that she believed this was true. She believed that he thought it was the truth, but it wasn’t. Sometimes, it really was just too late.

“The circumstances for you two are complicated. There is no doubt about that.” Robert shot her a pointed look, telling her without saying a word that the time she and Oliver had let pass was the very reason for that. “That doesn’t mean it’s too late though.”

Unable to be in his arms any longer, Felicity took a step back. Robert let her take the distance and just pushed his hands into the pockets of his pants loosely. Felicity turned away for a moment, combing her fingers through her blonde hair, and walked over to the window front. She took a moment to look down at the city lights before she turned around to Robert again.

“Oliver is engaged. He and McKenna will get married in less than two weeks. Everything for the wedding is already planned and set up. All that is missing is the two of them saying their vows and exchanging the rings. How can that not be too late?”

“Because it’s only too late when either of you is dead.”

Felicity wiped another tear that had fallen away and shook her head firmly. She hadn’t always believed in marriage. She still wasn’t sure if she really believed that getting married was a smart decision for any person to make, but she knew that a wedding meant a lot to most people. They considered it a life-long promise. Any person who got in between a married couple was immoral and said to end up in hell. She knew she didn’t want to be either of it.

“No matter what promises you two make to other people, neither of you will be ever be happy as long as you are not together. Even when you fall in love with someone else, that big what-if of your love for another will always keep you from that blissful happiness every person should experience with the life partner they choose. You have to find out if what you are feeling for each other is something that can work if you ever want to be in a happy relationship.”

Blissful happiness was not something Felicity had ever considered for herself, especially not in a relationship. With everything her mother had gone through, Felicity doubted that she could even let herself fall like that in a relationship. She was almost sure that she would always have her doubts, afraid that she’d be left alone with nothing left like her mother.

Still, she was sure that Robert was right. Everyone should experience that blissful happiness at least one time in life. It had to be a good feeling, being able to let yourself fall because you didn’t have to worry about being left.

“Neither you nor Oliver should relinquish your happiness, the happiness you can only have together, because the circumstances are complicated.”

Felicity didn’t know if that was true. She and Oliver might get out of this with broken hearts, but they only had themselves to blame. If they actually acted on their feelings now, McKenna would end up with a broken heart to, and she didn’t deserve that. She hadn’t done anything wrong.

When Robert released a long sigh, Felicity frowned at him slightly. She found him chuckling softly, shaking his head.

“I think I have said this before, but I still think Vegas weddings are the best inventions the human race has ever done when it comes to marriage.” Robert sighed. “Marriages are a complicated thing because people put way too much meaning into if you ask me. You and me, we are logical people, Felicity. We know that you cannot promise to love someone until the end of your life. Still, people do so over and over again, and they lose so much time waiting for the right one to say those words to and planning the perfect marriage and trying to kit a marriage that has long failed because of the promise they shouldn’t have made in the first place.”

With those few sentences, Robert had basically summarized what Felicity had thought about marriage for most of her life. Eventually, she had come to realize that marriage was just supposed to give people safety. Still, she felt like there was still a lot of truth to Robert’s words.

“When you get married in Vegas, you just decide to do so without thinking about it to much. You go there and get done with it. Then, when you realize that maybe it hasn’t been the right decision, you just tell yourself it’s because you got married in Vegas. You don’t hold on for longer than you should just because you put so much energy into one day.”

Maybe Robert was right. Maybe a Vegas wedding was what would spare a lot of people so much heartache. For her situation, it didn’t matter though because Oliver and McKenna hadn’t run away for a wild Vegas wedding. They had taken their time and planned a fancy ceremony and party with all of their friends. Even if they hadn’t, Felicity knew it wouldn’t change anything for her.

“I can’t,” Felicity whispered, shaking her head. “I can’t get in between there, and I know that you will think that I am a coward and that you will be disappointed of me, but-“

“I could never be disappointed of you,” Robert said firmly, shaking his head. “No matter what you say or do, you will always be like a daughter to me. I will always love you and always trust that you know yourself better than anyone else does.”

Felicity felt another sob raising in her throat. She wasn’t Robert’s daughter by blood, but he loved her as much as only a parent could love you. His love was unconditional.

“Even if I tell you that I might be leaving Starling City and Queen Consolidated behind to go to Metropolis and work for Lena Luthor?”

Robert took in a deep breath, and the expression in his eyes showed that he wasn’t happy at the prospect. When he released the breath with a sigh, Felicity could see that it wasn’t disappointment that made him dislike the thought though. It was the father’s love for her. Like ever good parent, he wanted his daughter close because he would miss her.

With slow steps, Robert crossed the distance towards her. He put his hands to her shoulders and stroked his hands up and down her arms.

“I told you, Felicity, that I love you like my own daughter,” he said firmly. “Like every one of my children, I just want you to be happy. If your happiness lies in Metropolis, all I can do is wishing you good luck and telling you that I will come to see you as often as possible.”

Felicity smiled through the tears in her eyes and let Robert pull her back against his chest. She didn’t need to thank him for him to know that she was grateful, and he didn’t need to tell her that it was okay for her to know that he really meant it.

Lena Luthor was giving Felicity an out, and Robert had just made it the easiest solution for her.

* * *

Oliver had no ideas if his smile still looked as stiff as it had looked when he had practiced it in the bathroom mirror. He was sure that the groom was supposed to smile through the rehearsal dinner, knowing that the wedding was happening tomorrow, but Oliver just couldn’t get himself to smile honestly.

The closer the wedding had come, the more tensed Oliver had felt in the last couple of days. He knew this should be an exciting time, but his guilty conscience was eating him alive. He could barely look McKenna in the eyes without feeling his stomach twisting painfully.

“Oliver?”

Only when McKenna tapped her forefinger onto his chest lightly, Oliver was snapped out of his thoughts. He blinked several times before his eyes found hers. She had rested her head against his shoulder and was looking at him with a slight frown between her eyebrows.

He smiled at her though he was sure that it didn’t reach his eyes and just looked as miserable as the forced smile made him feel. When McKenna frowned in response, he guessed his smile wasn’t saving him.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “What did you say?”

“Well, my mother just said that she was wondering if we wanted to join her and my dad at their beach house in the Hamptons for a week this summer,” McKenna replied, her frown deepening. She put a gentle hand to his cheek. “Is everything alright?”

“Just a headache,” Oliver whispered and realized that it wasn’t even a lie. He really did have a headache. “I think I haven’t slept enough these last weeks.”

He was about to turn towards McKenna’s mother and tell her that, of course, he would love to spend a week at their beach house. Before he could do so, McKenna stroked her fingers over his cheek and nodded towards the widows.

“Maybe you should catch a breath,” McKenna suggested. “I will excuse you everywhere.”

Oliver smiled with relief and he was almost sure that it was the first honest smile that crossed his lips in a while. Grateful for McKenna’s offer, Oliver pecked her lips.

“Thanks. I’ll be back in a couple of seconds.”

“Take your time.”

As quickly as he could, Oliver turned around on his heels and fled towards the terrace doors. A little too late, Oliver realized that he hadn’t even excused himself to McKenna’s parents. She was probably telling him about the headache though and excusing him. There was no reason for Oliver to go back and make good for that.

Without another look back, Oliver stepped outside of the terrace. He closed the door behind him and with eyes squeezed shut, he leaned back against the cool stone wall next to the door where nobody could see him.

It wasn’t cold outside, but it was cool enough to clear his head. He took some deep breaths, letting the cold air fill his lungs and spread through his body. His headache ceased a little though the throbbing pounding continued.

When a voice was cleared, Oliver opened his eyes quickly. His eyes skipped a beat as he saw Felicity, hiding in the shadows. He took her in, lowering his gaze down her body that was covered in a tight-fitting dress that showed all of her curves, the curves he had loved to explore with his hands, his lips and his tongue.

The thought made Oliver shiver slightly. He straightened up quickly and swallowed down hard, trying to push away all the memories that rose inside of him now.

“Here we are again,” he said instead. “Just like during our engagement party.”

Our engagement party. Those words alone deserved him a slap he guessed. It had been an engagement party, they had shared, but it hadn’t been their engagement party.

Not the choice of words alone, but also the memories that came with it deserved him a slap in the face though. Back during that night, they had still been the friends they had always been supposed to be. They had been the best of friends, both happy in their relationships and with each other.

Now, that was all ruined though.

Felicity took in a deep breath and lowered her eyes. He could see that she was feeling the same way. She knew as well as he did that every mention of their night together and everything that had been before just reminded them how badly they had screwed up for just one night of passion and pleasure.

Clearing her throat once more, Felicity gestured towards the terrace doors once more and said, “I should go back inside.”

Oliver nodded his head, not getting a word out with the lump in his throat. He watched Felicity lowering her eyes with a deep sigh before she started stepping towards the doors. She looked defeated and just as tired as Oliver felt too.

Giving her the room that she needed and he definitely needed too, Oliver took a step away when she stepped at the door right next to him. He watched her taking in a deep breath and straightening her shoulder before she pushed down the door handle.

Stopping her from opening the door, Oliver held onto her forearm lightly though. He could see Felicity tensing and holding her breath. Her eyes glanced in his direction briefly, but she didn’t look at him fully. After that one brief glance, she kept her eyes straight forward.

For a long moment, neither of them said a word. Oliver didn’t know what he was supposed to say. He just knew that he had to say something. He couldn’t let Felicity leave like this as this was the first time in weeks that they were outside of Queen Consolidated and all alone. There was so much he had to tell her, so many things to say, but he knew that he just got one shot.

“Is it ever going to be normal between us again?”

He didn’t know it was the right question to ask or even just the right thing to say. Whenever he had met Felicity since their night together, the question had been burning in his mind though. Felicity had always been a part of his life, and they had find their normal a long time ago, and they had drifted far away from it since that one night they had spent together.

Felicity didn’t say a word, and she still didn’t say a word. She just continued to look straight forward though the hazy expression in her eyes told him that she wasn’t really seeing anything. She was staring into emptiness, captured in her memories or her thoughts.

Although she wasn’t looking at him, Oliver could see the pain in her eyes. This moment was as terrible for him as it was for her. They had their memories of that one night, but no matter what could have been, it was long lost.

“I doubt it,” Felicity said eventually. She glanced at him briefly. “For the sake of our friendship, we have to try though.”

Oliver nodded his head firmly. Their friendship was the most precious thing he had. He had never held anything so dear as he was still holding dear their friendship.

There was a part of Oliver that just wanted to tell her how sorry he was for that night because it had messed up everything they had built over the years. He knew there would be some lie to that apology though. He was sorry for the way their friendship had been messed up, but he wasn’t sorry for that night. He couldn’t be sorry for it given how right it had felt.

He was already taking in a breath to at least apologize for the way how messed up everything between them was now when Felicity suddenly turned around to him. Her eyes full of pain met his, and it caused him to suck in a quick breath.

There was a moment of silence that neither of them was saying a word. Oliver was sure that he could see the same kind of glint in Felicity’s eyes that he knew was always there when he thought back to their night together. The memories of kissing each other and joining their bodies was still so very present for both of them. There was no doubt about that.

They both remembered the way the heated lips had met in passionate kisses. They both remembered the taste of each other’s lips. They both remembered the feeling when their bodies had first joined. They both remembered the low moans that had fell from their mouths with every thrust. They both remembered the pleasure rushing through their veins when they had come.

It took Oliver a moment until he noticed that his thumb was rubbing over Felicity’s upper arm. He was stroking it over her skin and it was almost like every circling movement of his thumb against her skin rubbed in another detail of their night together.

Felicity eyes lowered to watch the movement, but it only lasted for the break of a second. Instead, she lifted her gaze towards his eyes again, allowing him to see the deep sadness that was in them now. It had been lying underneath before already, but now it was front and center in her eyes.

She pulled her arm away from his touch and shook her head slightly. “We missed our chance.”

Those whispered words had just left her lips when she opened the door and stepped back inside. Through the window, Oliver watched her disappearing in the crowd of guests. He himself stayed back in the darkness of the terrace, squeezing his eyes shut and shaking his head.

Felicity was right. They had missed their chance. They had missed it so long ago. 

* * *

@fannaz @promiseyoullbepatientwithme @bytemegeekette @felicity-said-just-in-case @phanseptiic @orangeisorange @mspotatohead14 @whentheheavenfades @emmaamelia95 @smoakingskye @seaolicity @ourwritinginvein @1022bridgetp @felicityqueenforever @leagueofolicity17 @yryssss @myhauntedblacksoul @sherlock44 @sinceriouslybea @arrowsalways @olivyflavescentdeer @olicitys-castle @ofnothingcharming @vaelisamaza @smoakedandcharmed @alexisa1206 @mysaudadespt2 @florence-bubbles @addictiontelly @queens-of-arrows @memcjo @hysterical-for-joshifer @oswinelevenforever @olicitylovemaking @bandanab310 @mymusiclove101 @lynslogic @scarletqueen23 @olicityshipper19 @alex-wesley @arrows-4ever @unabashedlynerdypatrol @louehmysoul @ligiapimenta @chattyyana @charlie-leau @coal000 @samcrowleys @ishippolivia @julianegomesqueen @malafle @miriam1779 @charlinert @melaux @ontheolicityship @myshipperlife @wrightainsley @lexi9515 @ladygreenwood @multi-fandom-crazy-fangirl @morinamel @mje-thomas @kebarry @canadianheartgirl @nannett2307 @almondblossomme @paarti12 @kathrynelizabeth89 @imdfabulous @cutearrowgirl @mrt2501 @mecha1330 @arsipaci14 @mzminx @salasvia @brandis91 @cainc3 @morganmiguess @pr0fessi0nal-fangurl @iamisalima @nessafrancis-blog @jonhdiggle @niki-is-amazing @universed-posts @hopeful-warrior @senoritaswiftie @bellemmie @green-arrows-of-karamel @iheartarrow @olicityovereverything @oliverfel4 @navyaarsha @fandoms-breathe-life @simone4mcswarek @olicity-in-the-heart @fullychippedcreation @geemarie @everything-but-normal-cat @myarroworld @tjmartinez @pleasantfanandstudent @itsmagnoliagirl @j69confessional2 @scentedcolorpirate @icanica74 @javinancupil @tjmartinez98 @certainmentalityface @tatianadamaceno @ryelew @wildwillowzepplin @missafairy @letsplaymurde-r @lipizette @positivepiper @nuttymilkshakehologram @laksagirl @turnupthemusicandscream @pumpernickle93 @onceuponanolicity @1106angel @jaspertown @fadinglands @morganashimi83 @mochababychristy @omglovechrissie @mariejr88-blog @thetaufactor @onceuponanolicity @speakandseethetruth @bri206 @aglasgo @thats0klaroline @geemarie @pineprincess @nerdgirljen @peterpanslostgirl666 @eternal-olicity14 @allyouhadtodowas-stay-stay-stay @lovelycssefan @tsseract @flowerandsunshine @dcnmarvelgamergeek @blondeeoneexox @monetsmark @soaring-cities @bb-olicity @mashamarty @rulerofsilence @erika-amber @felicity087 @i-claim-only-emily @pattid1 @westallenandolicityshipper @babyolicityandwestallen @nothingmorethanmyotps @kayleenyc @tonto16 @olicityfluv @olicitea1990 @olicity5ever @haahaaa2408 @pattid1 @faegal04 @24karatgem @wrldtravler @readerkas @valery6488 @lemmyeatspeaches @olicity-beliver @greencoffeecups

(If you want to be tagged or untagged, just let me know. :))

#arrow #olicity #olicity fic #olicity fanfic #time for a story

[taylart-x]

Whumptober- Day 14

Day 14: Tear-stained

Fandom: Thunderbirds Are Go!

Characters: Sally Tracy, Jeff Tracy, Virgil Tracy (mentioned)

Disclaimer: I do not own Thunderbirds or any of the characters from the show (or from TAG). I just want to make cool stories :)

Sequel to Day 17: “Stay with me”

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She reached out to hold his hand, the small fingers limp between her palms. She rested her forehead against the hand in her’s, closing her eyes for a moment.

The door opened behind her and she moved her head up again, gently kissing the hand before looking over to the intruder.

Jeff stood in the door, two cups of coffee held in his hands, his eyebrows drawn together in concern.

She was probably a sight. Red eyes, tear stained cheeks, her hands trembling slightly, though she tried to hide it. Her clothes were wrinkled from sitting in the chair, and from having other small hands clutching at her.

First she lost her daughter in law, now she might lose a grandson.

They had managed to restart Virgil’s breathing, barely. He was incubated now, a tube down his throat and seemingly taking up half his face. His face was sheet white, eyes hooded and eyelashes dark brushstrokes against white canvas. His cheekbones stood out a bit too much for Sally’s liking, his lips cracked and dry. He was not out of the woods yet.

How had they let this happen?

For the past two weeks Alan and Gordon had taken up most of her time. The two youngest boys were struggling with the loss of their mother. As were all the boys. But the two youngest haven’t been able to comprehend not being able to see their mum at all. John was a bit aloof, but still Sally had made sure to seek him out, knowing his tendencies to isolate himself when thinking.

But how had she forgotten about Virgil?

The young artist was known for burying feelings, for putting on a brave face for his brothers and yet feeling everything so much. Many a time over the past few months, Sally had found Virgil moving himself out of the way, removing himself from the family to cry where no one would see him.

How could she let him slip out from under her radar?

How could she let this happen to her little boy?

“It’s not your fault, Mum,” Jeff said, almost collapsing into the chair next to her. “This is on me.”

She listened to the beeping of the heart monitor before meeting the sparkling blue eyes of her son. So like Scott; you wouldn't be able to miss the family resemblance. “Do not blame yourself for this. It’s on both of us.”

Jeff sighed but nodded, his gaze once again settling on the comatose boy in front of them. “I just can’t believe I-we didn’t pick up on the signs. I look back and it’s obvious. He didn’t ask for a hug, or even a hand to hold at the funeral. He came into the kitchen the day after, and no one said anything to him. I hadn’t seen him since then before Scotty found him. He was… sparing us, I guess? I don’t know. Why didn’t he come to us for help? Why?”

“He probably didn’t feel as though he was important enough,” Sally responded, stroking her thumb across the back of the hand still clutched in hers. “He seems to think that all his brothers are more important, deserve our attention more. At least in the past month or so, since Lucille got sick. He’s been withdrawing, and he even told me one day. Said ‘you need to look after the other boys, Grandma. They need support and love. Their mum is dying. I’ll be fine.’ What 13-year-old says that? And that’s probably what he was thinking at the funeral, and afterwards. He was removing himself so that he wasn’t distracting us from the other boys.”

“God,” Jeff exhaled, shaking his head into his hands.

“Where are the boys?”

“Scott took them down to the cafeteria. Alan’s asleep just outside the door. Said he would wait there for me. They’re all so scared, mum. Their brother is in a coma in a hospital, which is the place where their mother died. They’re terrified.”

“He’ll wake up,” Sally assures, teaching out for her son. Her hand made contact with his cheek and he leaned into it, eyes fluttering shut.

Her little boy was grown up, and growing old. His face was lined with creases, crows feet beginning to bloom at his eyes, and worry lines engraving into his forehead. And yet his eyes were still so young. Full of adventure and hope but glazed with grief. Grief and guilt. It seemed to weigh on his shoulders like a boulder, dragging him under to where his family couldn’t reach. To a darker place than anyone knew of.

“I’m scared, Mum.” His voice was soft and broken, tears clogging it to make it thick and hoarse. “I’m so scared for him, for them. Everyone hurting and I can’t do anything. Lucy’s gone. And now Virgil…”

“Shhh, don’t think like that. Virgil will be fine. He’ll pull through.”

“But what if he doesn’t? The boys can’t lose their brother just after losing their mother. And I-I can’t lose my son. I can’t lose him, Mum, I can’t.”

Jeff was crying, his tears running down his face and dripping onto the floor. His bright eyes were clouded by the extra liquid, showing the roiling pain that seemed to gnaw on him just under the surface.

“He’ll pull through. Virgil’s strong. He won’t leave us yet.”

And with all her heart, Sally prayed that she was right.

#thunderbirds #thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds 2015 #virgil tracy #whumptober prompts #whumptober 2019 #whumptober #jeff tracy #grandma tracy #sally tracy

[emboldens]

            “when I ask you about your first love i am always secretly hoping that you will say your own name. now, wouldn’t that be beautiful – to above else have a heart that was proud of itself.”

BASIC INFORMATION

Full name: Marlene McKinnon Pronunciation: Nickname(s): Mars, Mack, Lena Birthdate: 05/27/89 Age: 30 Zodiac: Gemini Gender: Female Pronouns: she/her Romantic orientation: Lesbian Sexual orientation: Lesbian Nationality: British Ethnicity: Japanese on her mother’s side, Irish and English on her father’s side Current location: London Living conditions: Living in the moment! 

BACKGROUND

Birthplace: London Hometown: Wiltshire, England Social Class: Middle, formerly upper Educational achievements: Graduated secondary school with honors Father:  Brian McKinnon was a smalltime character actor and BBC show runner infamous for his divisive, often politically incorrect dark comedies. Although his personality found popularity within the small niche of cynics and unsuccessful satirists, having his wife’s career overshadow his own tore away at his insecruties. These frustrations were never explicitly expressed, but glimmers of his envy more often than not took form through the mean-spirited “jokes” and the occasional arguments he subjected his wife and child to. He passed away in 2008 after a year-long battle with pancreatic cancer. He once claimed that his biggest dream was to play James Bond. Up until his death, this statement was believed to be part of his comedy routine. It was not. Mother:  Midori McKinnon (nee Iizuka) born into family of wealthy hotel owners who’d moved to London for better business prospects. Their wealth gave her access to the theatre world, where she slowly and steadily thrived, landing supporting roles in West End productions of Miss Saigon, Les Miserables, and Jesus Christ Superstar, in addition to her occasional stints at the Globe Theatre. By her mid-to late thirties, her career made a breakthrough in Hollywood, where she gained international renown for her grace, beauty, and intelligence. However, the poise she carried herself with did not translate as well off-camera, as she was subject to bouts of deep melancholy, stemming from an allegedly troubled childhood, a dissatisfaction with her marriage and her later estrangement from her daughter, and a family history of mental illness. She took the world by surprise when she took her own life at the young age of 45. Today, her performance as Ophelia in a 1991 production of Shakespeare’s Hamlet is considered legendary. Her biggest dream was also to play James Bond. Sibling(s): None Birth order: Only child Pets: Two cats, Vita and Virginia, and a St. Bernard named Samus Previous relationships: Alecto Carrow, TBD Arrests: 3 Prison time: None

OCCUPATION AND INCOME

Current occupation: Bar owner Dream occupation: Wife of a lesbian Alpaca breeder Past job(s): Prior to opening a bar, she was a saleslady at Lush. Spending habits: Mostly thrifty, but occasionally makes large transactions for things she sees as investments for her business. In debt?: Yes Most valuable possession: Sentimentally? Her copy of Matilda, which was the first novel she ever read.

SKILLS AND ABILITIES

Physical strength: Average  Speed: Average Intelligence: Above Average Accuracy: Average Agility: Average Stamina: Average Teamwork: Prefers to work alone, as her issues with authority mostly get in the way. Talents/hobbies: With over eleven years of vocal training and the fortune of having a musical actress for a mother, Marlene can sing surprisingly well, boasting a four-octave mezzo-soprano range. She doesn’t tell anyone about it, because she likes surprising people at karaoke nights. Shortcomings: Fears vulnerability and commitment, has a tendency to appear frivolous due to her cheeky demeanor, occasionally self-destructive Languages spoken: English, some Japanese. Drive?: Yes Jump-start a car?: No Change a flat tyre?: Yes Ride a bicycle?: Yes Swim?: Yes Play an instrument?: Yes Play chess?: No Braid hair?: Yes Tie a tie?: Yes. Pick a lock?: Yes Cook?: Debatable

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE AND CHARACTERISTICS

Faceclaim: Sonoya Mizuno Eye colour: Brown Hair colour: Black Hair type/style/length: Long, sleek, and straight Glasses/contacts?: Yes Dominant hand: Left Height: 5′7 Weight: 56 kg Build: Lean and fit Exercise habits: Weekly gym visits, jogging regularly Skin tone: Fair Tattoos:  Butterfly with shadow ( Right shoulder, 2007 ), Moon cycle band ( Left arm, 2007 ), Velociraptor skull ( Right hand, 2008 ), Pterodactyl skeleton ( Chest, 2009 ), Apatosaurus skeleton ( Left leg, 2010 ), Spiderweb ( Elbow, 2010 ), Van Gogh skull smoking ( Collarbone, 2011 ), Floral sleeve ( Right arm, 2012 ), Floral design ( Neck, 2012 ), Marlene Dietrich smoking ( Right arm, 2013 ), Semicolon ( Left wrist, 2015 ), Band-aid ( Above the heart, 2016 ), “It’s chaos. Be kind.” ( Above the left elbow crease, 2016 ), The Star and The Moon tarot cards ( Left arm, 2017 ), Junji Ito comic panel ( Upper back, 2017 ), Phoenix ( Thigh, 2018 ) Piercings: Outer conch, labret, and brow Marks/scars: None Clothing style: Casual, monochromatic. Not a big fan of dresses or shorts. Allergies: None Diet: Mostly, but not exclusively vegetarian Physical ailments: TERRIBLE period cramps

PSYCHOLOGY

MBTI type: INFP - A (64% introverted, 66% intuiive, 57% feeling, 69% prospecting) Enneagram type: Type 9 Moral Alignment: Chaotic neutral Temperament: Sanguine Element: Water Emotional stability: Marlene appears to be stable on the surface, but her repressed feelings of guilt, anger and grief over her broken relationship with her mother still linger within, making her prone to bouts of extreme despondency. Introvert or Extrovert?: Introvert Obsession(s): The Leaky Bucket will know when Marlene is on her period because on the first two days, the pub’s radio will exclusively play a single female artist’s discography on repeat. Last month, it was Mitski. The month before, it was Regina Spektor. On a month she denies existed, it was Taylor Swift. Compulsion(s): Humor as a coping mechanism, repressing negative feelings, self-awareness without self-improvement Phobia(s): None Addiction(s): Nicotine Drug use: When she was younger Alcohol use: Occasionally Prone to violence?: No Prone to crying?: On her monthly cycle, yes. Believe in love at first sight?: Yes, but to her, this is very, very rare.

MANNERISMS

Accent: English, London dialect Speech quirks: None Hobbies: Casual video gaming, interior design, music curation Habits: Sitting on surfaces that aren’t meant to be sat on, smoking Nervous ticks: Lip biting, staring at the ground, blinking, diverting the subject with crass humor Drives/motivations: Maintaining her current lifestyle. Fears: Cockroaches Sense of humour?: Almost anything goes. Puns are her guilty pleasure, though she won’t admit it. Prefers subtle humor over loud, straightforward jokes, but either is fine. Enjoys vulgarity. Loves banter. Do they curse often?: Moderately.

FAVOURITES

Animal: Wolf Beverage: Bubble tea Book: Mr. Penumbra’s 24 Hour Bookstore by Robin Sloan Colour: Red Food: Pork dumplings Flower: Plumeria Gem: Emerald Mode of transportation: Train Scent: Petrichor Sport: Gymnastics Weather: Sunny & breezy Vacation destination: Reykjavík

ATTITUDES

Greatest dream: Slow life. She aspires for nothing more than a peaceful existence with a person who understands her and her values. Greatest fear: the Duolingo Owl Most at ease when: Curating playlists for the Leaky Bucket Least as ease when: Somebody ( namely, certain Black family cousins ) threatens the security of her bar. Worst possible thing that could happen: For the Order to dismantle, or lose their ideals Biggest achievement: The Leaky Bucket! Biggest regret: Not reaching out to her mother before it was too late.

#i don't know how to improve the quality of tumblr photos and at this point im too afraid to ask #edits. #about. #penumbrafeed

[rosemoldaver]

post 506 thompkean

Barbara and Lee stuck in the ME office together because I said so. Mentions the pregnancy. I wrote this really fast late last night. Half awake, as usual. I’m not satisfied with the ending (I want them to kiss obvs) so I want to add another scene or two before I bother with ao3. BUT as a creature that lives off of positive feedback I’m also not sure about how motivated I can get to finish something for a f/f ship with so little following. Plus, ngl, my interest in gotham is kind of waining SO. I’m gonna post this bit and go. Not really edited. Heavy with personal character interpretation from someone who hasn’t explored these characters in writing very extensively in the past. definitely will diverge from future canon but compliant with current canon.

o-o-o-o-o

It had to be an accident.

The look on Barbara’s face was proof enough of that. Her furrowed brow and instant stiff frown, sticking up her nose and inhaling in discomfort at the same time. Lee felt small and lost in that moment, but reading faces was still second nature. Barbara’s face had a tendency to speak her mind, if one knew how to read it right. She’d learned that the first night they met. The hard way.

Lee wouldn’t have approached her. She had no reason to. Her own problems. Jim Gordon nor his unborn child nor his affairs were not her concern whether she planned to ally with him or not.

Barbara certainly wouldn’t have approached Lee. There were reasons, Lee was sure. She wouldn’t have entered if she knew Lee was here, and the fact that she was already turning to leave made that more clear.

Lee only looked down as she reached for the door handle again. She had nothing to say, and no reason to stop her. Despite that something nervous flitted through her stomach as if reminding her to be polite. Say something, anything.

Barbara turned the handle, pulled. It didn’t open.

“What the hell?” Barbara’s voice was strained by clenched teeth. Such a short temper.

Lee’s eyes stayed down, she pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. Her mouth opened, the urge to offer some courteous pleasantry somehow still lingering on her lips. It felt so wrong. But so did everything else, and basic etiquette, even with Barbara Kean, seemed to be the only thing she had to lean on.

“What the hell!?” Barbara yanked at the door. Clearly, it was stuck. She cursed again, kicked it, grabbed the knob with both her hands and pulled with all her strength. It didn’t budge.

“It’s clearly stuck,” Lee said with no shortage of blunt mockery. She never did get that pleasantry out.

Barbara became uncharacteristically distraught. She raised a fist to the door and pounded on it. “Harvey!” She shouted.

Lee wanted to laugh, despite everything. She almost did.

Barbara sighed harshly, turning suddenly, her long coat spinning with her like some kind of cape. Lee kept it to herself that she liked the new look.

“What are you doing here?” Barbara asked.

Lee wasn’t sure about the answer to that question. She was staying, wasn’t she? Where else did she have to go?

“Waiting for instructions or information.” She answered, with all the boldness she could muster.  “Why are you here? And why are you snooping around behind closed doors?”

“I wasn’t snooping, I was looking for the bathroom,” Barbara planted her hands on her hips, taking in a shaking breath. Lee regarded her for a moment, and that was as long as it took for her to understand. Barbara looked double uncomfortable, being in Lee’s presence was only half the cause of the sour look on her face.

The other half was quite possibly making its way up her throat.

“Bullock!” Barbara spun and shouted again, throwing herself against the door and jerking at the doorknob once more.

“You’re one door off,” Lee said, almost sympathetically.

Barbara sighed. “Guess I never did get to know this place that well…”

“You can use the sink,” Lee suggested, gesturing toward the sink used to clean medical tools. She could always sterilize it later.

Barbara’s frown seemed to harden, as if she were yet even further put off by the insinuation that Lee understood what was going on. Lee had a hard time caring if it bothered her, or even continuing to acknowledge her presence.

She had a chip in her head that could lead her to kill. Nearly lead her to kill Jim. Could have already lead her to kill others. Every time the thought returned to her mind her ability to process anything else felt far away.

She wasn’t aware that she had her arms wrapped around herself until she tightened them.

Barbara sighed, and it was harsh and irritated.

“Where’s Jim?” She asked, roughly, fingers tapping impatiently at her thigh. “Shouldn’t he be debriefing you on chip-head 101?”

Lee shifted with more discomfort. “I got the short version.”

“Are you gonna help me with this door?” Barbara all but interrupted her reply, jerking a thumb back toward it.

Lee shook her head back and forth. “You’re a delinquent, just break the handle like one,” she suggested instead.

Barbara snorted. “Delinquent? That’s the nicest thing anyone’s called me in a while.”

Lee was less than a second into reconsidering her choice of words when Barbara’s face went white. Wide eyes, she whipped around suddenly and crossed the room with loud steps until she got to the sink and threw herself over it.

Lee looked away as she wretched.

‘There’s nothing in the cupboards for morning sickness,’ ‘we could try to call someone to help with the door,’ ‘do you need a paper towel?’ would all have been better things to say than what she did say.

“You shouldn’t have a baby in a place like this.”

Barbara wiped her mouth on her wrist, using her other hand to yank the handles next to the faucet. “…no shit,” was all she said before rinsing her hand and wrist under the stream and then cupping her hand so she could sip the water from it.

“But there’s no other place in the world for me,” Barbara asked as she turned back to face Lee, wiping her mouth again, this time on her sleeve. “As soon as I step foot outside of Gotham I’ll be on trial, won’t I? This is the only place where a person can get away with being me or… having been me.”

“Having been?” Lee chimed in. “Is that an expressed desire to be someone else for a while?”

“Ever since Tabitha…” Barbara leaned over the sink, eyes fixed on her shaking hand as it gripped the stainless steel edge. “…not since she died, since the first time she died. I didn’t want anything I’d wanted before. I only wanted…” she trailed off, shoulders heaving as she shook. Lee watched quietly, recognizing the body language, the way her knuckles turned red.

“…It’s all pointless now.” Barbara said, whipping around, voice becoming less weak and more harsh. “I don’t want a child. But I don’t think there’s any way to stop it in this place, do you?”

She didn’t sound like she wanted to stop it, more like she was making an excuse not to. Lee couldn’t disagree though. Even if they had the proper medication, it had other, more dire uses, and if Barbara was on the fence there was no sense in goading her into it. Nine months was a long time. Things could have been safer by then.

Lee felt sick at the very thought of them not being safer by then.

Barbara sighed harshly when Lee didn’t answer. “I don’t know why I’m talking to you…” she turned back toward the sink again, and Lee watched her glance at the jammed door once more.

“It’s okay,” Lee shrugged. “I’m easy to talk to, and you don’t have anyone else.”

Barbara scoffed audibly, licked her teeth behind her lips as some alternative to shoving her tongue in her cheek. For a nice girl, Lee Thompkins could be so damn mean. Likely only because Barbara, even in her own eyes, deserved it.

“Has Jim talked to you about it yet?” She asked, more gently, and as if she were merely curious.

“He won’t stop,” Barbara scoffed. “Gets these huge, terrified eyes every time though, like I’m a ticking time bomb that he doesn’t know whether to hug or run away from.”

“How did it happen?” Lee asked, her voice faltering at one point, like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to ask that question.

“We were both distraught,” Barbara shrugged like it was no big deal. “I’d just lost the love of my life, he’d lost Haven, and a bet with Penguin…”

“We both needed a distraction…”

Lee’s eyes shifted away. She wasn’t familiar with that level of simplicity, but she believed it.

“What about you?” Barbara asked, taking a few steps closer, each one lead by her hips. She grinned as she got close, placing a gloved hand on the arm of the chair Lee was still holding herself in. “You look like you could use a distraction…” she leaned in close, close enough that Lee felt a tingle at the top of her spine as she was sure Barbara was going to kiss her. But she stopped with only an inch to spare.

“That thing in your head is giving you all kinds of grief,” The grin on Barbara’s lips only grew, as if she were reveling in it. “It’s written all over your face.”

Lee was sure she wasn’t wrong, but she was just as sure Barbara underestimated how right she was. Lee’s eyes flicked down to her lips for hardly a split second, but it wiped the smile right off of them when she did. She could hear the leather glove straining as Barbara squeezed the arm of the chair and her expression turned into something wanting.

“Really, Lee?” She said on a breath. “You’re thinking about taking me up on that…” her breath was hot against Lee’s lips and maybe Lee was and maybe she wasn’t but this was the first thing she felt that relieved her of even an ounce of how terrified she felt since this all started.

“I was just teasing…” Barbara went on, “…but if you need something, I’m here to help…”

Lee sucked in a breath in an attempt to gather herself, closing her eyes and swallowing hard.

“I’ve done worse, but you just vomited,” Lee said. “Maybe another time.”

The crease between Barbara’s brow faded, and there was an unexpected warmth at the sight of her starting to smile, ever so slightly.

They were interrupted by the squeak of the ME office door swinging open.

“Uh…” Harvey’s voice came from the doorway. “…what are you both doing in here?”

Barbara spun to face him, and Lee caught sight of the mask of a smile that stretched across her face as she did.

“…I was just leaving,” she said, and took long strides toward him. “Thanks for getting the door,” she gave him a pat on his shoulder as she passed, and then turned the corner to disappear. Lee didn’t realize she’d been looking after her until she was gone.

#thompkean #barbara kean #lee thompkins

[homeo-care-clinic]

Homeopathic Treatment for Albinism-

Albinism is termed as an inherited disorder of genetic mutation characterized by a defect in one or several genes from both of the parents which travel to newborns.

Pathophysiology:

There is a deficiency of melanin production due to a decrease in tyrosinase enzyme or mutation in tyrosine protein.

This low level of melanin results in milky white skin.

Symptoms:

Absence in colour of hair, skin and eyes

Lighter white complexion of skin as compared to normal skin.

Impaired vision or blindness

Photophobia ( Sensitivity to light)

Nystagmus (involuntary movement of eyes).

Strabismus (crossed eyes)

Astigmatism

Diagnosis:

Physical examination of hair and skin pigmentation

Eye examination such as electroretinogram test which includes check on potential nystagmus, strabismus photophobia.

Detail history of bleeding tendencies, or repeated injuries

Lifestyle Changes:

Use low vision eye field

Use sunscreen

Avoid prolonged sun exposure

Use clothing which are fully covered such as long sleeves, collared shirts, gloves, socks.

Protect eyes by wearing UV sunglasses

Homeopathic Management for Albinism:1. Nitricum Acidum:

This remedy is one of the best effective remedies in treating albinism. Affected parts are more in the hands and legs . Usually suited in children accompanying symptoms of low vision. A person requiring this remedy tends to be restless sensitive, dissatisfied. Albinism causes feelings of anxiousness and fear of death Also there is the tendency of herpes, chilblains, cracks, and creases. Mentally patients are very pessimistic complaints are aggravated more in the evening and night and better while riding.

2. Causticum:

This is also one of the best remedies for the known cases of albinism. Ailments occur from long-lasting grief and sudden emotions. Soreness is marked which appears in folds of skin, back of ears, and between thighs . Skin prone to intertrigo during dentition. Also the tendency to warts formation.

3. Phosphorus:

This is also one of the best remedies for albinism. There is inflammation of mucous membrane, suited to tall slender narrow thin people . Mentally patient has a dread of death when alone. oversensitive to external impressions restlessness present. Purpura haemorrhagia. Complaints aggravate more on change of weather and due to physical and mental exertion .better in the open air.

4. Lycopodium:

This is one of the best remedies for skin problems. This remedy is adapted to symptoms that are gradually developing. Emaciation is well marked. Patient desires everything warmth. melancholic,  Extreme sensitive, apprehensive, Cannot bear new things. Skin appears to be dry, indurated thick and shrunken with violent itching brown freckles and spots appear on the skin. complaints aggravate more in warmth.

5. Sulphur:

This remedy is often prone to complaints which relapse. Mentally patient is very irritable, vivid, depressed, weak, childish peevishness in grown people. Very selfish no regard for others .skin is dry scaly indurated. itching burning all over the skin, excoriation in folds of skin Pruritis especially after warmth. Complaints aggravate more on washing, warmth feeling and better by cold.

If you are facing any of the above complications, consult today with Dr. Vaseem Choudhary at Homeo Care Clinic, Pune.

#Best Homeopathic Albinism Treatment in Pune #Best homeopathic doctor in Pune #Best homeopathic doctor in Hadapsar for skin #best homeopathy doctor in Pune #Homeopathic anxiety treatment in Hadpsar #Homeopathic skin specialist in Pune #Homeopathic skin treatment in Hadapsar #Homeopathic skin treatment in Pune #Homeopathic Treatment in Pune #Homeopathy clinic in Pune

[dreamsinger-rose]

Smacksgiving Day

So I was thinking about the Trolls Holiday Special, and how random and weird some of the holidays were. Also, how some were so in-your-face that they seemed to be intentionally annoying - and then it hit me. What if the holidays served as a kind of social pressure valve?

All holidays are supposed to be to "release the pressure", as Branch sings in the final song, but since the trolls are supposed to live in a happy, non-violent society, what happens when they get on each other's nerves?

It occurred to me that some of these “holidays” would be a great way to work off your anger at someone. Glitter-palooza - throw glitter in someone's face! Shock-A-Friend Day? Bleepy Sound Day? And one that sounded especially out-of-character for trolls - Smacksgiving Day. A holiday where they're allowed to hit each other? And then (of course) hug afterward.

Smacksgiving Day

Poppy stood nearby, looking at the long line that had formed in front of the booth Branch had built as he stood in the open space between the two side counters, which were piled high with frosting-topped jelly-brownies. "You sure you want to do this, Branch?"

He nodded stoically, his dark purple hair catching the sunlight and turning a vivid amethyst. "I do, Poppy. I know I've hurt a lot of trolls, and I'm willing to do whatever it takes to make peace with everyone."

"Well, okay…" She clapped her hands. "You heard him, everyone. Get ready to slap Branch in the face to give him some peace!”

She caught him giving her a ‘that’s not what I meant,’ look, but she simply smiled enigmatically at him.

***

Earlier that day…

“Happy Smacksgiving Day, everyone!” Poppy grinned at the vividly-colored cheeks that turned in her direction. “Ooo, Cooper, both cheeks? Someone’s popular today.”

She felt the sharp slap of a hand on her face and turned to see powder-blue Chenille beaming at her while her pink twin sister Satin put her hands on her hips. “Chenille, we agreed that I could slap her first!”

Chenille gave Poppy a quick hug, then backed away and sneered at Satin. “Oh, slap me!”

“Well…if you insist,” Satin said slyly, and swung the loop of hair that connected them around Poppy.

“Hey!” Poppy struggled to get her arms free as Satin used her as a pivot point, lifting and yanking and spinning the young queen dizzy as the twins squabbled, thoroughly engaged in what was apparently their favorite pastime aside from designing fashionable clothes.

Yodeling a mock battle cry, Guy Diamond made a wild leap for Smidge, who used her hair to zip up to the heights of a nearby giant mushroom. “Too slow, sucker!” her gravelly voice boomed.

Poppy used her magenta hair like a tripod to push her hair-wrapped body high into the air, attracting the attention of dozens of nearby trolls. “Guys, hold up a second! I have an important request to pass on!”

The watching trolls gave her mixed looks of curiosity and wariness. “For real, or is this just a trick to get us into slapping range?” Smidge asked, then shrugged. “Of course, if you need to resort to trickery, I shall have no mercy, but-”

“No, it’s a real request. It’s from Branch.” The twins loosened their hair and Poppy coiled her hair like a spring and bounced up to stand on the mushroom next to Smidge. “Can everyone come here for minute?” she called out to the brightly-colored crowd that had already begun to gather around their queen.

“Let me guess, he wants us to take it easy on him, since it’s his first Smacksgiving Day and all,” D.J. Suki suggested calmly. 

Many of the nearby trolls nodded their heads understandingly, smiling at the thought of the brave young troll who had given them all refuge in his well-stocked bunker and then left to help the princess on a rescue mission that ended up including the lives of every troll in the village.

“It figures,” Smidge began scornfully, but Poppy shook her head.

“No, just the opposite. He wants us to be hard on him.”

“What?” exclaimed a dozen trolls, with Guy Diamond’s oscillating tone rising above the general confusion. The crowd broke into a gabble of conversation, through which Poppy waited patiently while more and more trolls arrived.

When the majority of the village had gathered, she raised her hands and clapped then over her head. “Okay, listen up, everyone! Yesterday Branch asked me to let everyone know that he wants to make up for being such a buzzkill for most of his life. He’s offering to let anyone who wants to slap-hug him to go see him at the booth he’s setting up in the village square.”

“You mean he’s just going to stand there and let people slap him?” sentimental Satin asked her with wide eyes.

“Where’s the sport in that?” Smidge wrinkled her forehead.

“That doesn’t sound like much fun. It sounds like…punishment,” Cooper said slowly. “The bad kind, not funishment.”

“Poppy,” Biggie said carefully, his face creasing as he tried to understand. “Do you want us to …punish… Branch?”

The crowd gasped and Mister Dinkles mewed. “Oh my gad,” Smidge said, her eyes so huge they threatened to take up half her face.

“Noooo way!” Guy Diamond trilled indignantly. “We don’t punish. That’s not the troooll way!”

“No, no, no!” Poppy rapidly waved her hands from side to side. “It’s not – Well, I think he – I think Branch feels really bad about how mean he’s been to people over the years.”

“Why doesn’t he just apologize? We’d forgive him, wouldn’t we?” D. J. turned to look at the crowd and many of them nodded or smiled or murmured assent.

Poppy carefully noted that not everyone seemed to agree. Some trolls had a harder time forgiving and forgetting than others, including one special troll in particular who sometimes made her heart ache with sadness for him. She’d spent years trying to get through to him, and now that he was finally opening up a little, she was getting a better sense of who he was and how his mind worked. And how to finally soothe his heart.

She spoke up. “But this is Branch we’re talking about. He doesn’t think like other trolls. He takes things too seriously, and he has a tendency to feel responsible for things that maybe aren’t really his fault.” She felt the corners of her mouth turn down as her voice went a little husky. “And then he punishes himself for them.”

By the looks on their faces she knew her friends understood that she was referring to how he’d refused to allow himself to sing after his innocent childhood song had attracted the attention of the bergen that had eaten his grandmother in place of little Branch. Grief and guilt together had kept him gray and guarded for twenty long years, until the love and forgiveness Poppy and her friends had given him after his heartbreaking confession had finally begun to heal his heart. He’d smiled at her, a real smile free of sarcasm or artifice, a smile she did everything she could to bring out so that he would never fall back into the grayness.

At the uncharacteristically somber look on their queen’s face, the crowd’s chatter died down. Poppy smiled reassuringly down at everyone, explaining, “So we wouldn’t really be punishing him, we’d be helping him feel less guilty.”

“Ohhh.” The ripple of understanding caused bright smiles to spread through the crowd.

Smidge shrugged. “Fine by me. Colors or no colors; he’s still such a weirdo, but if it makes him happy…”

“Be gentle, everyone,” Poppy cautioned, watching hair of every color of the rainbow sway as they all nodded.

“Well, of course we will,” Cooper said reassuringly. “He’s our buddy!”

“Princess Poppy, what if we can’t think of anything to be mad at him for?” one of the children asked.

“Oh, you don’t have to do this. Branch just wants to give people a chance to speak their minds. If you’re not mad, it’s all good,” the rosy queen said cheerfully.

***

Most of the trolls satisfied themselves with a gentle slap to his pale aqua cheeks - which quickly became deep lavender, although Poppy suspected it was mostly due to shame rather than blunt force trauma.

Each of the gathered trolls also aired their grievances. The troll queen wasn’t sure how many were genuine and how many had been dreamed up by those trolls who felt it their duty to help lighten the burden of the brave young troll who had literally brought back the light inside all of them, but a few were so obviously fake that she slapped her forehead and groaned. She hoped he wouldn’t notice.

"You told me my singing was off-key!" "Electric blue and orange do SO go together!" "You ruined three of my parties with your bergen-warnings! Even though you turned out to be right in the end, you never apologized for those other times!" “I hate cupcakes!”

Poppy raised an eyebrow. How is that Branch’s fault?

"I'm so sorry," he said to each troll. “Please forgive me.”

How could you not forgive that sad little face? Poppy felt her heart flutter and brought her hands up to cover her chest, smiling with loving empathy at the former recluse with sincere sky-blue eyes who was so determinedly doing what he thought was right, even though his method for doing so made more than a few trolls scratch their heads.  

Branch had a soulful, troubled look that made many of them pause, mentally comparing the woebegone face of the handsome aquamarine troll with the sour, hostile gray face that was all most of them could remember. The face that all of them had witnessed gain its long-lost colors right in front of them. The face that had literally brought them all back from the awful gray pit of numb despair, touching them all with his gentle compassion, his tender hope, and his passionate devotion to their beloved princess.

No one doubted that Branch was deeply in love with her, and watching the two of them now, with Poppy standing so protectively near him made most of them feel any remaining animosity for the young troll drain away, replaced by a warm, fuzzy feeling that was much preferred by the happiest creatures in the forest.

"Of course I forgive you," each troll replied. The hugs that followed were invariably warm and affectionate, and Branch was glad to receive every one.

“Would you like a jelly-brownie?” he offered. “They’re made from my grandma’s recipe.”

Poppy stood nearby with clasped hands, so proud of him she could hardly contain herself. When the last troll had gone, she looked at his puffy lavender cheeks and giggled. "Well, no one can say now that they're still mad at you after this. How long did that take, an hour?"

He shrugged, not wanting to say anything through sore lips. She gave him a sympathetic smile and took his hand in hers. "Come on, let's go put some cold compresses on your face."

He looked down at their clasped hands and fought to control the smile that wanted to torment his sore face. Instead he squeezed her hand, glad that she had not seemed to want to join the line, in spite of all the grief he'd given her over the years. Still, ever cautious, he decided to make sure. "Poppy?" he mumbled. As she turned to him, he shifted his grip to her wrist and held her hand up in front of his face.

"Oh." For a moment Poppy seemed to consider it. It was Smackgiving Day, after all. She twisted her hand out of his grasp and he closed his eyes, tilting his cheek up in silent offering.

Nothing happened for a long moment. He opened his eye a crack to see her giving him a loving smile, and then her hand loomed in front of his face and he reflexively closed his eye. Something made contact with his face, but rather than the sharp sting he had become accustomed to, her touch was gentle, soothing, a caress that slid down his sore face and under his chin, her fingers teasing his downy skin in a way that sent tingles right down to his toes. He pulled in a deep breath and his hands clenched as he held himself still, content to remain like that as long as she cared to touch him.

He remembered the look in her eyes, and smiled slightly despite his tender face, almost sure that the love he’d seen there was more than just friendship-love, but happy to see it there all the same. As long as she loved him there was a warmth inside him, a sense of connection, driving back the dark desolation that had once made him avoid all contact with others.

He dared not open his eyes, standing there in rapt pleasure until finally her hand moved away and he opened them to see her giving him a gentle, thoughtful look. "I guess I don't feel like it this year," she said in answer to the question he’d forgotten he’d asked. The pink queen smiled wryly. "In fact, this is probably the first year I haven't felt like slapping you for all the rude things you've said.” Her voice went husky, a sure sign that she was feeling emotional. “I’m so proud of you, Branch."

He felt a surge of warmth at her praise and his cheeks hurt as the smile he was trying to contain widened. Made bold by her touch, he held up his large hand and reached toward her, making contact even as she automatically winced in anticipation, scrunching her eyes shut. Then she seemed to realize that he was only cupping her cheek gently and giving her a soft look to make his message clear.

"You neither, huh?" She placed her warm hand over his, closing her eyes and pressing her face more firmly into his hand. She took a deep, slow breath, smiling dreamily, then opened her eyes and pulled his hand away to clasp it once more. "Come on, let's go before someone else spots you." She grinned as she led him away, and he was more than willing to follow.

***

Author’s Note:

Thanks to eva-93 for her timely comment that got me thinking of revising this fic to include a good reason for the other trolls to cooperate. When I first got the idea for this fic I had seen the Holiday special but not TTBGO, so I hadn’t yet seen the Creek Week episode about the trolls’ attitude toward forgiveness.

Speaking of trolls and forgiveness, we know Branch and even Poppy finds it hard to forgive. And while we know Poppy’s friends forgave Creek in TTBGO after a simple apology, we don’t know if all the other trolls did. The majority of the village trolls were only captured due to Creek’s betrayal. Poppy, Branch and the others were spared that experience, of looking up at Creek, sitting on Chef’s shoulder like an evil demon with the same serene smile they’d once admired. Considering how terrified the rest of the villagers all were of the bergens in the first episode of TTBGO, even though they’d danced the whole night with them during the movie, I think it’s reasonable to believe that not all trolls can forgive so easily.

Did you catch the Doctor Who reference? The fourth doctor offers people “jelly-babies”. I couldn’t resist, lol.

#broppy dreamworkstrolls trollsholidayspecial

[phantasticlizzy]

One can never have too many warm and fluffy comfort/caring fics, especially dan comforting/caring for phil

sorry for the long wait love! hope you like it :)

Lay It On Me

Summary: ‘Most of the time, he didn’t think about it much, at least not in a bad way. He liked to analyze those dreams the day after, sitting with Dan on the couch and telling him about the monsters that hunted him the night before. Monsters that seemed quite silly in the day light, ridiculous even. And they would laugh about it and Dan would call him a spoon or a spork with a fond smile and that would be the end of it.

But sometimes, the dreams were different.’_______________________

Phil has a nightmare and Dan is there for comfort

Words:1516

read on ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12942786

He didn’t wake up with a jolt like he usually did after a nightmare.

He woke up slowly, gradually. Could feel his body leave the stillness and haze of unconsciousness before opening his eyes to a dark room.

His muscles were tense and stiff and he could still see the details of his dream in front of his eyes, like maybe he was still there, maybe it was all real.

He was no stranger to restless nights and bad dreams. He always had an overactive imagination, always had hard time shutting his brain up, even while sleeping. He’s dreams tended to be stressful most nights and sometimes even plain horrifying.

Most of the time, he didn’t think about it much, at least not in a bad way. He liked to analyze those dreams the day after, sitting with Dan on the couch and telling him about the monsters that hunted him the night before. Monsters that seemed quite silly in the day light, ridiculous even. And they would laugh about it and Dan would call him a spoon or a spork with a fond smile and that would be the end of it.

But sometimes, the dreams were different. Sometimes it wasn’t that easy to separate the dream world from the real one, to wake up and know it was all okay now because the nightmare was over.

It usually was a different variation of the same dream. Sometimes about his parents or brother, sometimes about his friends, sometimes about Dan.

Sometimes it was because of a car crush, sometimes because of an illness, sometimes with no explanation at all. But he never got used to it. Never knew how to handle to loss, no matter how many nights he’d experienced it.

When he was a kid, he used to sneak out of his room on nights like this and creep into his parents’ bedroom, watch them sleep and try to count their breaths in his head, making sure they were alive and well.

Sometimes he would go to Martyn’s room, and Martyn would wake up because he was a light sleeper and call him a creep for watching him sleep but would never fail to lift up his duvet and let him stay in his bed for the night, let him put his finger on his neck to feel his steady pulse, just in case.

But it has been years since he’d done that. Years since he left his childhood home and build himself a home of his own. Years since he had to leave his bed at night to find comfort.

He looked to his right, staring at the human shape lump under the covers next to him. He could see a bit of Dan’s face, hair messy and covering most of it from view. Under the faint light from the window Dan’s skin looked a little too grey, a little too familiar in the worst of ways, and Phil could feel his insides squeezed by an imaginary fist. It was all still too vivid.

But Dan’s chest was rising and falling and Phil could hear the sound of his heavy, deep breathing in the silence of the room and logically, he did know it was all just a dream.

But still, his heart was racing and he could feel grief settle deep in his core, feeling the pain of his dream self. Because even though it wasn’t real, he still felt it, and that was real enough for him.

He reached out to touch Dan’s cheek, to move the hair from his forehead and feel the warmth of his skin under his fingertips, so different from the cold feeling that was still so vivid in his memory.

Dan stirred, smacking his lips and turning a little to Phil’s direction, but Phil’s chest still felt heavy and tight.

He needed to see Dan’s brown eyes looking at his, hear his sleepy voice. He needed something, anything, because he knew it wasn’t real, knew that Dan was next to him. He was alive and well and he could hear the air going in and out of Dan’s slightly ajar mouth and it wasn’t real.

But, what if it was?

“Dan,” he whispered quietly, because even though he wanted to wake Dan up it still felt wrong to disturb the quite of the night.

Dan moved again, mumbling something incoherent that sounded a lot like “piss off,” but Phil wasn’t sure. Always so grumpy when he woke up.

He let his hand glide from Dan’s cheek to his bare shoulder, inching closer and rubbing Dan’s upper arm a little to get him to wake up.

“What time is it?” Dan grumbled, swatting Phil’s hand away from him and burying himself deeper inside the duvet.

Phil looked at his night stand, finding his Phone and squinting at it to try and see without his glasses.

“4: 30.”

“PM?” Dan suddenly jolted, looking at Phil with round eyes, and Phil couldn’t help but giggle, feeling some of the tension seep away from his body with the sound.

“No, AM,” he answered, hearing Dan’s exaggerated moan and watching his body physically deflate.

“Why the fuck are you waking me up at 4:30 AM?” he asked, already closing his eyes again, but not moving from Phil, which made Phil’s heart swell a little.

“Just had a bad dream,” he said it casually, shrugging his shoulders a little, but he knew Dan would get it. He always did.

He didn’t feel bad for waking Dan up. They’ve been together long enough, were there for each other through all of it and he knew for a fact Dan would never be mad at Phil for needing him.

Dan’s eyes opened again and looked at Phil through a sleep haze. He was close enough that Phil could see the small creases around his eyes and the soft of his lips even without his glasses and he could still feel how much it hurt to lose this.

“Do you want to tell me about it?” Dan asked and his voice was soft now, sympathetic, and he reached out and put his hand on the back of Phil’s head, letting his blunt fingernails scratch at his scalp absentmindedly.

And something about this casual touch made Phil feel like he was about to break down completely. The way Dan’s hand found its way to his head even in his sleepy state, the way his fingers knew what to do and how to touch exactly the way he liked it, exactly the way that always helped calm him down when he was upset, made all his emotions rise to the surface and threaten to leak from his eyes.

“Not really,” he managed to say, and his voice wasn’t stable and he could feel his insides turning again because even though it was a dream the feelings were still real, and there was no point in downplaying it in front of Dan.

Dan let his hand slide from his head to his back, pulling to get him closer. Phil went willingly, eagerly, settling in the crook of Dan’s neck, letting his cold nose nuzzle against the warm skin, breathing in deeply the scent of sweat and sleep and Dan.

Dan tangled their legs together, nudging his knee in-between Phil’s and wrapping him in both his arms tightly, holding him close.

Phil could feel one of Dan’s hands wandering on his body, going from his back to his shoulder and then down to his hand, taking it and guiding it to his chest, flattening his fingers above his heart and holding it there.

And Phil couldn’t stop the small watery laugh that came out of his lips, because Dan knew him so well it was almost ridiculous. He knew him so well that Phil didn’t have to tell him what his deepest, darkest fears were anymore. Didn’t have to explain what his worst nightmares were about.

Sometimes, they could help each other silently, gently, without the need to explain what was wrong or apologize for being a burden. They both learned to accept the other’s help long ago, welcoming it and seeking it in times of need.

Phil could feel Dan’s steady heartbeat under the palm of his hand, could feel the rise and fall of Dan’s chest and could hear the soft huffs and puffs of air in his hair, could feel soft lips pecking the top of his head again and again until his body melted against the warmth of Dan’s body.

He would still think about this dream tomorrow. Maybe even think about it for the next few days. Those dreams had a tendency to stay with him long after he’d woken up, settling somewhere at the back of his head and bothering him at the least convenient moments.

But for now, he’d let himself be lulled back to sleep by the feeling of Dan’s hand drawing patterns on his back and arm and shoulder and hope that in the morning they’ll wake just like this,

Warm and wrapped up together and pressed closely and alive.

#phan #phanfiction #hurt/comfort #nightmares #mandanmand #phantasticlizzyfics

[bedlamsbard]

Part three of the reluctant roommates AU concept!  Backbone base ‘verse; as usual, please remember that my concept writing is deliberately not titled, chaptered, or betaed.

Previous: Part 1 Part 2

About 6.6K below the break.  Please note that I generally don’t do content advisories; you can see the previous installments for advisories there.

*

He’s a Jedi.

It was Hera’s first thought when she woke up the next morning, before she was even really awake. She lay in her bunk with her eyes still closed and turned the revelation over in her mind, getting comfortable with it before she had to process it or deal with it in any way.  This is a test for him, not for me.

Maybe for her too, but that would come from the ISB’s side, not the Inquisition’s.  She wondered whose idea it had been to assign them together; she would be surprised if anyone in the Inquisition knew of her existence, except maybe the Inquisitor who had tested her back at the Spire. She assumed that individual Inquisitors tested so many people, cadets and prisoners alike, that remembering one terrified Twi’lek girl was beyond them.  The Inquisitor must have been one of the ones that had been caught, presumably in prison, like her.

Hera knew what had been done to her to turn Cham Syndulla’s daughter into an Imperial officer, and some days she was still deeply ashamed of it.  She didn’t know what the Inquisition had done to turn a Jedi Knight – or an apprentice, more likely, he wasn’t that much older than she was – into an Inquisitor. From the way he had flinched from her –

She knew what that would have meant with anyone else, even another Imperial officer.  Hera knew that in at least one way she was lucky, and knew from rumor that one or two of the other nonhumans in the service weren’t, or at least weren’t in the same way.

She put a hand over her eyes and opened them, letting a little light trickle in between her fingers. She hadn’t slept with the lights turned all the way up, though they hadn’t been at their lowest level (or just her small nightlight) either.  It was, she knew, stupid for a Twi’lek to be afraid of the dark, but after the Spire’s tendency to turn on and turn off the lights in her cell at random intervals Hera couldn’t bear complete darkness.

He had said he had been on missions before, but only with his master, not on his own – not operating as the only Inquisitor present, at least.  Hera didn’t know if it took as long to train an Inquisitor as it did to train an Imperial officer, but she suspected not.  It was obvious to her that no matter how long he had been an Inquisitor he still thought of himself as a Jedi first.

Back at the Imperial Academy, and again at the ISB Academy, they had always been taught that no matter how good you thought you were, if you thought there was a Jedi out there, the first thing you did was retreat and call the Inquisition.  They were too dangerous for ordinary beings (ordinary humans, the instructor had said first, then corrected himself when he had remembered Hera was in the classroom) to handle.

Hera briefly considered and discarded the possibility that he had been lying about being an Inquisitor for some reason of his own.  Not only was it not the sort of thing that no one in their right mind would lie about, but she knew better than anyone else in the Imperial service what it looked like when someone was forced into it.

Her mind touched on that phrasing, then flinched away.  Hera had had a choice and she had made it.  If sometimes she was ashamed of it, then there was nothing she could do about that. Agent Beneke would have kept her in prison forever; she had been certain of that at the time.  Or worse.  She knew what happened to pretty Twi’lek girls in the Empire; Agent Beneke had been clear about that too, though not until after she had already been in the Academy.  He still brought that threat up at odd intervals, as if to keep her on her toes.

He’s a Jedi, she thought again.  That should have terrified her even more than knowing he was an Inquisitor had.  But Hera remembered Jedi from the Clone Wars, at least a little.  Her father had trusted at least two Jedi.

Not that Hera could trust her father’s experience in any way.

Hera had slept dreamlessly, which could have just been exhaustion after her past few days of poor sleep, but maybe not.  She was still frightened of him – she had to be honest to herself about that – but not to the extent she had been.  At this early hour she wasn’t really bothered to sort through her feelings about why.

She yawned and sat up, then made her way down the ladder and got dressed on autopilot, trying to blink sleep out of her eyes.  Habit made her wrap her lekku, concealing her markings, even though she didn’t always bother if she and Chopper were alone on the Ghost; she didn’t want the Inquisitor to see them, even if the chances he would know what they meant were low.  She didn’t know how much of her conversation with the Pantoran he had overheard the previous evening.  Even before then he had known enough to ask about her clan.

As she made her way into the galley, she was thinking about caf – however the Inquisitor had made it had been considerably better than she ever did – and a little wistfully about the fish-shaped stuffed pastries she had seen in the market yesterday.  She didn’t expect to find the Inquisitor sitting at the galley table, his head pillowed on his arms.  He jerked upright when the door slid open, his expression startled.

Hera stared at him. He had clearly been crying, though his face was dry now; his eyes were red and swollen, and there was a crease on his cheek where the fabric of his sleeve had pressed into it.  For an instant he met her eyes, then his gaze slid away and he said, “I’m sorry.  After yesterday, I couldn’t – I couldn’t be in a room with the door closed, even unlocked.”

Hera blinked at him. “I understand,” she said, because she had days like that too.  She admitted, “I have to sleep with a light.”

He looked at her again, then scrubbed the heels of his hands across his face in an obvious attempt to clear the sleep from his eyes.  He didn’t look like an Inquisitor, just a weary, grief-stricken young man with scars on his face.

Hera started to say something, then hesitated, thinking about the ISB surveillance on the Ghost.  Finally, she said, “Do you want to get breakfast in the market?  I saw a pastry stall I’d like to try.”

The Inquisitor’s expression was confused.  Hera raised her gaze briefly to the ceiling, hoping he had been with the Empire long enough to understand what she meant by that.  After a moment he nodded and slid out from behind the table.  “I’ll get my coat.”

Hera went back to her cabin to get her jacket and her blaster.  She met the Inquisitor coming out of his cabin in the corridor, his face briefly fixed in concentration as he pulled his hair back with a tie – it was just barely long enough for that.  Neither of them said anything until they were down in the hold, where Hera told Chopper to stay with the Ghost again, a prospect he met with vocal protest and declarations of boredom.

“You’re always bored unless you’re getting into trouble,” Hera told him. “Deal with it.  And don’t get into trouble.”

He grumbled with her and rolled back into the ship.  Hera barely managed to hop off the Ghost’s ramp and join the Inquisitor on the docking bay hold before Chopper raised the ramp behind her. “Stop that!” she shouted at him, which was met with a round of irritated beeping that abruptly cut off as the ramp closed.  She turned back to the Inquisitor, trying to hide her smile – probably why Chopper had done it, since he usually didn’t mess with her to the extent he did with everyone else.

She turned back to the Inquisitor to find him watching her with interest.  His gaze darted away quickly when he saw her looking at him. Hera started to speak again, then hesitated, remembering that spaceports usually had security cams in their bays – often with sound, it was true, but there was no need to take chances.

They left the spaceport in silence and turned towards the market they had gone to yesterday, passing a pair of patrolling stormtroopers on the way.  Hera saw another pair near the entrance to the market, but they didn’t seem to be doing anything more sinister than looking out for pickpockets and keeping the trickle of early morning traffic under control.

Hera got an assortment of pastries from the stall she had seen the previous day, delighted to find that they were fish-shaped waffles filled with a variety of fruits or nut butters, with little cones of a honey-like sweetener for dipping or pouring. While she was getting those, she sent the Inquisitor to the market’s caf stall; he came back with two paper cups of caf and a paper bag filled with powdered sugar and some kind of fried sweet dough.  They went over to one of the small round metal tables by a gurgling fountain and sat eating and drinking in silence except for the splashing of the fountain, sharing the food between them.  When they were down to the last waffle and the dregs of their caf, Hera wiped her sticky fingers on a paper napkin and raised her gaze to the Inquisitor.

He was watching her warily, but started to look aside.  Hera said, “Don’t.”

His gaze went back to her. “Do you want more caf?”

“Maybe later,” Hera said. She was sitting so close to the fountain that she could lean over and dip her fingers in, getting the last of the honey and powdered sugar off them.  She dried them on the napkin, listening to the fountain; it reminded her of the Syndulla townhouse in Lessu, the Court of the Seven Fountains.  She turned her memory determinedly away from that.

She had picked this table because of the fountain, and not because she could easily clean her hands. It was noisy enough that any conversation they had would be covered up by the sound of splashing water.

The Inquisitor looked at it too, keeping his gaze on the water instead of her. “Yes, I am,” he said eventually, his voice so soft that Hera could barely hear it. “I was.”

His expression was a little panicked in a way that Hera recognized.  Technically speaking, it was illegal to be a Jedi; beyond that, they had no legal rights and were considered non-persons by Imperial law, legally dead and unable to marry, hold property, or sign a binding contract.  They could be injured or killed with impunity, though the Empire preferred that the nearest Imperial officials be told so that the Inquisition could deal with them.  Even if she hadn’t been an ISB officer, Hera could have drowned him in the fountain right now and walked out without having to worry about punishment.

If he hadn’t been an Inquisitor.

She just nodded, then pushed the remaining waffle over to him, since he had been eyeing it and Hera was full.  He picked it up, broke it in half, and offered her the tail; Hera shook her head, smiling briefly.

“How long?” she asked him.

He frowned in thought, his lips moving silently as he tried to count.  Finally he said, “What year is it?”

When Hera told him, he grimaced and said, “Three years.”

“Five for me, counting the Academy.”  She wasn’t going to count the Spire in that.

He met her gaze for an instant, then looked down at the waffle halves in his hands.  He put the head down on the folded paper bag they had been using as a plate and picked at the tail he was still holding.

“What were the braids last night?” Hera asked gently. “That you –”  She hesitated over what to say next.

He put the tail down, the grief on his face suddenly so open and so raw that Hera had to look away. “They’re padawan braids – the beads are for species who don’t grow hair.  They –”  He stopped, as if the enormity of what that display meant had undone him. “Padawans are – were – J – apprentices, learners.”

Hera felt the blood draining from her face. “Children?”

He nodded.  After a moment he touched a finger to the spot behind his right ear and said, “I cut mine off after – after.  That many – there –”  He flattened his hands against the table, but Hera could see him shaking. “I know everyone in the Temple died, but there would have been cohorts on learning expeditions, or on their Gatherings, or –”

“There’s an old temple on this planet, isn’t there?” Hera asked. “Maybe they were just scavenged –”

“They’re not kept. There’s a ceremony – when you’re Knighted –”  He was talking in jerks, as if he couldn’t bear to think about it for more than a few seconds at a time.  “They’d have to be taken from a living person.”

Hera didn’t say anything for a few moments, giving him time to recover.  When he had stopped shaking, she asked, “What about the other artifacts there?”

He shook his head.  “I can’t tell.  A lot of the temples have – had – been around for centuries, even millennia, and I’d only been to the Coruscant temple and the Ilum temple before – before.  They might have come from the temple here.”  He looked down at the remains of the waffle in front of them; he’d shredded it in his distress.  “I’d like to visit the temple here to make certain.”

“It’s still standing?” Hera said, surprised; she thought most of the Jedi temples had long since been razed.

“I’m not sure.  I couldn’t find files on it one way or another at the Crucible – at Inquisition headquarters.  I was told that it had been cleared, but that doesn’t mean the physical structure was destroyed.  And it’s possible that there were parts of it that were hidden and that the Inquisitors who cleared it didn’t find at the time; a lot of the old outpost temples are – were – like that.”

Hera nodded. “Where is it?”

“North of here, a little to the west.  It’s not on any maps, but I should be able to find it.”

Hera eyed him. “You don’t have to be in the pilot’s seat, do you?”

For an instant the corner of his mouth quirked in something that was too fleeting to be called a smile. “I can tell you which way to go.”  He sighed and drank the remainder of his caf, then pushed the waffle shreds together and dumped them back in the paper bag.  “We’d better leave soon if we want to get there and back before the first auction tonight.”

*

They took the Phantom instead of the Ghost, which predictably ignited another round of protests from Chopper, whom Hera left behind to keep an eye on the ship. Something about this op had her uneasy other than the Inquisitor’s presence; she didn’t want to leave the Ghost unattended.

It would have been easier to let the Inquisitor pilot, but Hera wasn’t in the mood for it; after they left the city the Inquisitor left the jump seats in the back and came up to the front, balancing himself with one hand on Hera’s chair.  He directed her to make minute adjustments to her course; when Hera glanced back at him, she saw that he had his eyes closed, his free hand slightly extended.  She shivered and turned her attention back to the controls.

Eventually she set the Phantom down at the edge of a mountain lake whose blueness was dazzling.  The Inquisitor shook himself all over before he opened his eyes, like a nervous anooba, and regarded the lake through the viewport.

“I don’t see any temple,” Hera said. “I don’t see any – well, any anything except trees and the lake.”

It was very beautiful. They were about halfway up a white-peaked mountain, with tall evergreen trees rising up around them and a steep cliff on the far side of the lake.  When Hera opened the Phantom’s hatch, she started sneezing again immediately and had to dig her allergy tablets out of a pocket. When she had taken them and wiped her streaming nose and eyes, she joined the Inquisitor outside and found him standing with his arms folded, considering the trees, the mountain, and the lake in turn.

Hera looked at the trees, which towered above them.  “These haven’t been cut recently,” she said.  “If there had been a temple here –”

“There’s a temple here,” the Inquisitor said, frowning deeply.  “I can sense it.”

“Well, I can’t see it,” Hera said. “Maybe we’re in the wrong spot –”

“No, it’s here –”  He stopped abruptly, staring at the lake. “Stay here,” he ordered, then took three running steps forward and dove into the water.

“Wait!” Hera exclaimed, but she was too late to stop him.  For an instant she could see a dark shape cutting cleanly through the water, then it vanished. “Blast it!”

She went back into the Phantom to find the rebreathers and double-check that she didn’t have anything in her pockets that couldn’t get wet.  Wincing at the prospect of getting into a mountain lake probably fed entirely by ice melt from the snowpack on the peak, she pulled her goggles down over her eyes, made certain that she had her rebreather in place, and waded into the lake after the Inquisitor.

She had been right. The water was absolutely freezing.

Hera wasn’t a very good swimmer, but she did know how.  The lake bottom dropped off abruptly a few feet beyond the edge of the shore, and Hera anooba-paddled awkwardly for a few moments before she ducked her head under the water, turning on the light she had brought with her when she realized how dark it was beneath the surface.  She swam towards the dark shape that she thought was the Inquisitor, hoping that there weren’t giant water lizards or something equally awful in the lake with her.

It took her longer than she had expected.  She went deeper, too, fighting back her fear of the dark and holding onto her light so tightly that her knuckles ached, though that could have been the cold.  As she finally reached the figure, she realized it wasn’t the Inquisitor at all, but a statue that seemed to have grown up out of the lake floor – humanoid, with long flowing robes and an upraised weapon. It was three times again as tall as her, Hera realized as she swam closer, and then, squinting, realized it was a Twi’lek man in what she recognized as Jedi robes.  Waterweed had wrapped around his lekku and the lightsaber he was holding.  Hera swam past him, and saw the Inquisitor.

He was treading water, illuminated by a sun shaft that had somehow penetrated this deep into the lake. It made him look ethereal somehow, a creature of light rather than flesh and blood.  Hera hesitated, treading water beside the statue, then swam forward. When she came up alongside him, he shot her a startled look.

Hera dug her spare rebreather out of her pocket with her free hand and offered it to him.  She didn’t think most humans could have held their breaths this long without drowning, but maybe Inquisitors – Jedi – Force-users – were different.

He took the rebreather. Bubbles rose up from it after he had gotten it in his mouth, ascending upwards towards the surface of the lake far above them.  He made a shooing motion after them, looking pointedly at her; Hera shook her head and remained firmly where she was, shining the light around them.

They were at the edge of the lake, where it came up against the mountain cliff she had spotted from the Phantom.  Hera played her light over the cliff, wondering what the Inquisitor thought he was doing, then moved it back when it struck sparks from something.

There was a mosaic inlaid into the cliff wall.

Hera squinted at it in the gloom, but while Twi’lek eyes were adapted for seeing in the dark, they were near useless underwater.  Human eyes were slightly better at it, if not ideal either, but she didn’t think that the Inquisitor was bothering to look for a manual release for the door, assuming there was a door at all.  She looked at him instead.

He was looking at the mosaic, his expression very tired and very bleak.  As though aware of her eyes on him, he flicked his gaze towards her, then sighed, sending another stream of bubbles rising upwards.  As calmly as if he was on the shore outside he folded himself into a cross-legged position and closed his eyes, resting his upturned hands on his knees.

Hera wondered if she was meant to do the same, but didn’t see any point in it, so she just stayed where she was, treading water and trying to concentrate on the sunlight above her rather than the darkness all around them.  She hadn’t realized the lake was this deep.

After several minutes, the Inquisitor opened his eyes again.  He lifted one hand from his knees, stretching it out in the direction of the mosaic.

Hera’s lekku twitched at the ripple that ran through the water, then the water shivered around her. There was a low grating noise that seemed to thrum through her bones, then the mosaic in front of them glittered in the beam of her handlight as it began to move, descending downwards towards the lake floor.

Hera squeaked in surprise as suddenly moving water dragged them both forwards, towards the dark maw revealed by the mosaic’s descent.  The Inquisitor caught her with one arm around her waist, keeping her with him as he let the water carry them forwards.  Hera shut her eyes, gripping the handlight so tightly that her fingers ached; right now she didn’t care what he thought about her, she just didn’t want to be looking when it swallowed them.

It took longer than she expected.

She was chilled and shaking when they broke the surface of the water; the Inquisitor fumbled the rebreather out with his free hand and said, “It’s all right – you can open your eyes.”

They were still mostly in the water.  After a few moments where the Inquisitor steered them towards what Hera assumed was some kind of shore or landing – she could feel his legs moving under the water – she managed to open one eye, then another, and wished she hadn’t, because they were in a big dark space and her tiny handlight did nothing but emphasize how big and empty it was.

“There’ll be a light here somewhere,” the Inquisitor told her.  “Come on –”  He swore as he bumped abruptly into some kind of hard-edged stone, then shifted so he could inspect it.

Hera took a shuddering breath, then reached up with her free hand to remove her rebreather.  She shined her light around them, spotting the dim shape of steps beneath the water beside them, leading upwards to a dock or landing of some sort.  “H-here,” she said, her teeth chattering.

“I’ve got it.”  When he realized she couldn’t get out herself – Twi’leks really had not evolved to deal with cold weather, let alone cold water – he lifted her carefully, carrying her up out of the dock.

Hera managed to push her goggles up, which didn’t help in any way, and sat down heavily on what felt like moisture-slick marble.  She hadn’t realized how cold she was until she was out of the water.

“Are you all right?” the Inquisitor asked worriedly, crouching down beside her.

Hera glared at him. “I’m cold,” she said through chattering teeth. “And I’m afraid of the dark,” she added, clutching her handlight.  It barely illuminated the space around them; something about the room seemed to defy her Twi’lek vision, which wasn’t as good as it probably should have been in the dark anyway.

The Inquisitor started to reach for the lightsaber on his belt, then stopped.  He straightened up again, turning his eyes upwards as if he could penetrate the blackness around them.  “There should be –” he murmured, letting the words trail off.  For a moment he just stood there, his eyes closed, then he lifted a hand.

Far up above them, a spark of light caught Hera’s eye.  She turned her head up to watch, feeling her mouth drop open in surprise as the light seemed to flash from point to point across the top of the room – far, far above them.  The beams of light remained, refracting in a rainbow of colors and illuminated a tall, chimney-shaped space above them that abruptly widened out to a chamber large enough to comfortably park the Ghost in.  All at once it seemed to run down the walls in veins of glass or crystal; the Inquisitor twisted his wrist in a gesture that was simultaneously calculated and casual and Hera had to close her eyes against the sudden blaze of light.

When she opened them again, she gasped.  The Inquisitor was still standing, his hands now hanging at his sides, but she could see the entirety of the chamber.  Massive sculptured reliefs lined the walls of the big round room, hooded figures of a dozen different species, all holding lightsabers whose crystal blades caught and held the light refracted from the crystals embedded in the walls far above them. Half the figures were on the dock; the other half were partially submerged by the water, their blades reflected in the glossy liquid.  The Inquisitor was looking at them with so much longing that it hurt to see, and Hera turned her face away.

After a moment he leaned down to help her up.  “There’s a window up near the top of the chamber,” he said quietly. “If I change the angle of the crystal near the top of the ceiling, then it reflects the sunlight – or the starlight – to the other crystals set into the walls.”

“It’s beautiful,” Hera said, looking around at the chamber again as she turned her handlight off. All of those hooded faces scared her a little, but even if she couldn’t make out their features she could tell that they hadn’t all been meant to be human.  Some were taller than the others, some smaller, some with bulges beneath the carved hoods for horns, montrals, or lekku.  The crystalline lightsabers were all shades of blue, green, and yellow.

“Yes,” the Inquisitor said, an odd note in his voice.  He had taken his hand away from hers as soon as she was on her feet, but he hesitated now, looking at her.  “I can probably dry your clothes for you,” he said.  When Hera frowned at him, he added defensively, “You said you were cold.”

Hera bit her lip, not liking the idea of him using any of his magic tricks on her, then remembered him sitting beneath the water as if he wasn’t more than slightly bothered by not having a rebreather.  And she was freezing.  She nodded reluctantly.

He put one hand out towards her, not touching, and closed his eyes.  Hera flinched, braced for something awful to happen, but all that did was the Inquisitor’s handsome face creasing in concentration.  She didn’t realize that her clothes had dried until she shifted uneasily and heard the soft rasp of the fabric.

“How did you do that?”

He opened his eyes and for an instant looked entirely satisfied with what he had done.

Hera reached out before she could think about it and stop herself and laid her fingers against his sleeve; his clothes were dry too, though for some reason his hair was still damp. He looked down at her hand and she snatched it back hastily.

After a moment, he said, “I told you to stay with the ship.”

Hera tilted her head back to look at him.  She didn’t have to look up that far; he was tall for a human, but he wasn’t that much taller than she was.  “I don’t take orders from you,” she said. “And you came down without a rebreather.”

He shrugged. “I would have been fine.  Probably.”

“’Probably,’” Hera parroted back at him. “If you’d drowned, who would have had to write that report, hmm?”

He gave her a pained look. “I would have come up before then.”

“I’m not comming the Inquisition to tell them ‘oh, he thought he would be fine, but unfortunately, he drowned,’” Hera said archly.

The Inquisitor started to reply, then stopped, wincing. “No,” he said eventually. “I know what my master would think about that.”  He rubbed a thumb over the inside of his opposite wrist, then took his hand away and said, “Since you’re here, we might as well have a look around.”

He gestured at a small dark opening between two of the reliefs that Hera hadn’t noticed before. Hera hesitated for an instant, balking at the idea of going willingly into the dark even with her handlight, then squared her shoulders and followed the Inquisitor.  She didn’t want him to know she was nervous, even though she had already told him she was afraid of the dark.  In a Jedi temple, the shadows felt weightier somehow than they did elsewhere, as if they were watching her.

Her unease grew as they entered the narrow corridor and she clicked on her light.  It didn’t penetrate very far, not more than a few steps ahead of them; Hera knew that it should have illuminated far more space than that.  She couldn’t shake the feeling that the temple didn’t approve of her presence here, as if it knew that she wasn’t a Jedi and that she didn’t belong.

You’re dead, Hera thought grimly at that looming darkness. You’re all dead.  You betrayed the Emperor and you were destroyed for it.  You don’t have any power left.

For her entire career the Jedi had been the bogeyman beneath Imperial beds, though Hera was just old enough to remember when they had been spoken of with awe – albeit grudging – on Ryloth.  She almost remembered meeting the ones who had been on Ryloth during the Clone War, but couldn’t be certain of it.  Her parents had talked about the Jedi; she could have imagined meeting them.

The Inquisitor was, or had been, a Jedi.  Hera should have been frightened of him on those grounds, if not for his being an Inquisitor.

She glanced sideways at him, noting silently that his scarred face was like death.  He hadn’t bothered to ignite his lightsaber or produce a handlight of his own.

“How did you become an Inquisitor?” Hera asked him suddenly.

He glanced down at her, frowning, then said, “I got arrested for grand theft astro by the only local law enforcement in the galaxy that bothers to upload to the Imperial databases, so it keyed the Imperial alerts on me – they’ve got my files from the Jedi Temple on Coruscant.  My master showed up at the police station, beat me unconscious in the captain’s office, and then dragged me back to Mustafar to repeat it until it took.”

Hera said the only thing she could think of, which was, “Local law enforcement is supposed to upload all arrests to the Imperial databases.”

“I know,” he said glumly. “Mostly they don’t.  I just got lucky.”  He flicked a glance at her, but didn’t say anything else.

Hera looked down, feeling a blush heat her cheeks.  She didn’t need anyone to tell her that it had been an utterly inappropriate question. It was a testament to the Inquisitor’s good manners that he hadn’t turned the question back on her.

“Why were you stealing a spaceship?” she said eventually.

“I needed to go somewhere,” he said, lifting a shoulder in a shrug. “I’m – I was – usually better at it.” He flicked another glance at her and added dryly, “I’ve broken the habit of stealing ships.”

“I wasn’t worried,” Hera said. “You’d have to get through Chopper first.”

“And on that note, I’ll definitely pass.”

He stopped short as they left the narrow corridor for what Hera could tell immediately was a much larger space, the last word echoing oddly and making her lekku twitch.  Since her handlight still didn’t illuminate more than a few meters ahead of her she turned it down instead, startled by the warm glow of the inlaid marble floor.

The Inquisitor turned his face up to the empty space above them, and the grief on his face was so terrible to see that Hera looked away.

“Can you – see anything?” she asked him uncertainly.  This room had the same quality as the other chamber, where it seemed to repel her Twi’lek vision.

“I don’t need to.” His voice was soft.  After a moment, he looked down at her, apparently read her anxious expression, and made a gesture with his hand.

Light sprang up around the chamber, a big circular room with a vaulted ceiling and columns along the round walls; Hera had looked up, searching for another mirror and crystal construction like the other room, but these lights seemed to be some kind of artificial lighting rather than reflected sunlight. A number of corridors branched off between the columns, dark and unlit.

She looked at the Inquisitor to see him frowning, a little consternation on his face.  “What is it?”

“I don’t think this temple was cleared,” he said. “I’ve been to the temples on Ilum and Devaron – and Coruscant – and I was with the Hunts that went to Bardotta and Jedha.  The Inquisition never went through here.”

“You said this temple had been cleared,” Hera said, looking around.  “There’s no one here, how can you –”

“I can tell,” he said grimly.  “For one, the lights wouldn’t work if the Inquisition had gone through.  For another –”  He hesitated for a long moment, then put one hand out to rest against the pale marble of the nearest column.  “For another,” he went on eventually, “the Inquisition…destroys things. Especially things of the Jedi. Sometimes because it wants to – to take the pieces apart and reuse them somehow, corrupt them, dirty them.”  He looked down.  “Sometimes because all they want to do is destroy, because the idea of leaving anything of the Jedi whole in the galaxy is counter to what they are. Not after – not after.”

He rubbed a hand over his face, then touched the column again.  “This is clean.”

Hera studied his fixed expression, then said, “Who told you that it had been cleared?”

He was quiet for a moment, then said, “The Whip – the main trainer at the Crucible, at Inquisition headquarters, I mean.  My m – the Hunter is in command of Inquisitors in the field, but the Whip controls the Crucible.  He doesn’t like me.”

“Why not?”

“It’s complicated.” He looked away, into the darkness of the corridor opposite them, then his eyes widened a little.  “Unless there’s another entrance to this temple, then the Inquisition wouldn’t have been able to get in at all.  They –”  He swung around to stare back into the corridor they had just come from, where the faint light of the statues and their blades still gleamed dimly at the end of the shadow.

Hera stared at him, puzzled and impatient. “So?”

“The auction might be a feint.  Everything there could be more recent, from the Clone Wars, not from the High Republic. Some of it definitely is.  That sort of thing is interdicted, but it’s not dangerous, it’s just – not something the Empire wants on the market.  The temple –”  He swallowed.  “The Inquisition would want the temple.  But if no one could find it – if no one else could get in –”

“Why wouldn’t they?” Hera asked, trying to keep her voice matter-of-fact and interested rather than annoyed.  She could tell that his distress was real, but she couldn’t work out why he was so upset.

After a moment the Inquisitor looked down at her. “No one who isn’t a Jedi would be able to get in,” he said eventually. “I shouldn’t have been able to, not really, not after – but the fact that I could without difficulty –”  He paused, something unreadable tracing its way across his scarred face.  “The Whip – or my master – might have wanted to test if I could.”

“But you are,” Hera said. “You said that you were a Jedi.”

He flinched.  “I used to be.  I shouldn’t – I shouldn’t still be.  Not the kind that can still get into this temple.  Or even find it.  I didn’t even think about that because I thought it had been cleared.”

With some difficulty, Hera resisted her urge to scream, just tell me what you mean! at him and said, “I don’t understand.  You used the – the Force to get into the temple.  But Inquisitors use the Force too, don’t they? I’ve seen them do it.  Why should it matter whether or not you’re a Jedi or an Inquisitor or a –”  She had to wrack her brain to think of the other Force cults, since with only a few exceptions they were outlawed in the Empire.  “– a Guardian of the Whills or a Dagoyan adept?  It’s all the same, isn’t it?”

He shook his head. “It’s not at all.  It’s –” He bit his lip, thinking, then said cautiously, “You probably think of the Force as – as something anyone can use, like a blaster?”

“Well, not anyone,” Hera said pointedly.  “But if you can use it, then you can use it, can’t you?”

“No.  It’s not like that.  It’s – the best comparison might be programming languages.  Or piloting?”  He looked at her quizzically; she shrugged in response.  He shrugged back.  “Neither of those is quite right anyway.  If you aren’t trained as a Jedi, then you just – the temple can’t be perceived far as the Force is concerned. It’s like it’s…on another level of the Force.  Like how humans can’t see in the dark, but Twi’leks can, because your eyes work differently than ours.”

Hera wished he hadn’t used that example.

“It’s not an exact comparison,” he admitted, “but it’s the best I can think of.  And being able to get in – I shouldn’t – I shouldn’t have been able to.  Like not having the key.  Except it let me in.  And it shouldn’t have done that.  It just – it shouldn’t have done that.”

Hera took a deep breath. She still didn’t really understand, but she was beginning to think that there might not be any way for her to. Maybe it was like every time she had been ordered into the Twi’lek enclaves on various worlds, except that unlike her, he wasn’t supposed to be able to pass.  And he could.

“Do you want to leave?” she asked him.

His face was like death. “We’re already here,” he said, a little blankly.  “We might as well see the rest of it, just to make sure that nothing from the auction came from here.”  He took a shaky breath, his eyes very frightened.  “Then I’ll have to report in.”

#cut scenes and concept writing #reluctant roommates au tag #as always comments are appreciated