hey there, just wanted to drop in and say; this if is amazing so far! it is itching a scratch in my brain that i didn't even realize was there.
a RO reaction question; whose dragging mc off the ice if they do something absolutely reckless post injury; like really pushing the limit on what their body can now handle?
( and how do they go about doing so, soft, gentle or full of toss over shoulder energy. )
thank you so much for making another awesome story! :)
Oooo I like that one hehe, honestly I'm gonna say Mikhail, he'd definitely toss you over his shoulder.
And also I'm so glad you like it, thank you so much!. I'm always so unsure about my stories but getting feedback like this honestly keeps me going!💖
Lol I couldn't help myself, so here's an example:
The edge catches wrong.
It’s small, but you feel it—sharp enough to throw you off for half a second. You push through it anyway, resetting, forcing your weight back into place like nothing happened.
You don’t get far.
He’s already over the barrier.
No warning. Just the sound of his skates cutting straight toward you, fast and direct.
“Mikhail, I’m fi—”
You don’t get to finish.
His hand is at your back, the other under your knees, and you’re lifted clean off the ice in one smooth motion. No room to argue.
Your breath catches. “Put me down—Mikhail—”
“Stop talking.”
Flat. Irritated.
He doesn’t slow. Doesn’t look at you. Just carries you across the ice like this is a problem he’s already decided to deal with, and you’re just making it harder than it needs to be.
You push at his shoulder.
He doesn’t budge.
By the time you reach the benches, your protests are thinner, more out of habit than anything else.
He sets you down with a firm drop.
Then he’s in front of you, already kneeling, already reaching for your laces.
“Mikhail—”
“Enough.”
Low. Final.
His hands move quickly, pulling the laces loose with sharp, efficient tugs. You reach down, catching his wrist.
He stills.
Looks up.
Close.
There’s clear annoyance there—brows drawn, jaw tight—but it’s not just that. Something else slips through, something he doesn’t bother to hide so much as ignore.
“You done?” he asks.
You hesitate.
His gaze lingers for half a second, then drops back to your skates as he pulls his hand free and keeps going.
“You’re not getting back on,” he says, clipped.
“I’m fine.”
A beat.
He exhales through his nose, unimpressed.
“Right.”
The lace jerks tighter as he yanks it loose.
“Because that looked real stable.”
The first skate comes off.
When he moves to the second, his grip shifts—still firm, but slower now, his fingers brushing your ankle before tightening again. Brief. Unintentional.
He doesn’t comment on it.
Doesn’t pull away either.
“You want to wreck your training, that’s your problem,” he mutters, not looking at you. “You’re not doing it in front of me.”
The second skate comes free.
He doesn’t stand right away. Just stays there a second longer than necessary, one hand braced against the bench beside you, close enough to block you in without actually touching you.
“Sit on your ass and rest,” he says.
It's clear he won't let you go until he's satisfied you've rested enough.
