Thinking about a princess!reader x jester!fredweasley who can’t get enough of his girls pussy. (Pt.3!!!)
(OHHH MYYY GOODDD I CANNOT BELIEVE HOW MANY PPL HAVE BEEN BEGGING ME TO GET THIS OUT! Well it’s finally here! I hope everyone likes it. 🩷🩷)
He grunts softly above you with every slow, wet, needy, slop- slop- slop- of his hips against yours.
The two of you have been at it for nearly an hour. He was feeling..particularly risky tonight, having found out about your father’s plans on marrying you off to a duke in the south. He was half-way down the hall to your room when he had overheard the meeting..his blood had never ran so cold so quick..
You’ve been bent over your desk for the better part of half an hour now- after moving from your bed to your chair- now here. His pants on the floor around his feet, your red dress pushed up, just above your ass with your panties ripped and thrown to the side.
His hands hold your hips with a bruising intensity- forcing you back against him harshly against his thrusts as he moves himself in and out of you- and he’s sooo deep- god, you swear you feel him all up in your guts.
He’s given you orgasm after orgasm tonight and you’re not sure how many more you can take. You have no idea what’s gotten into him but you’re surprisingly delighted by it..he’s normally so..soft with you. Today? He practically jumped on you the second he got in.
Your hands grab onto the edge of the wood in front of you, whimpering and moaning at the pure pleasure his pulsing hot length is giving you. He leans over your back- his weight pushing your body further against the desk, his thrusts slowing slightly, making you gasp as he rasps into your ear-
“Ssshhh..you never know who could hear us and walk in, princess- you don’t wanna get caught. Right? You know what happens to us both if we get caught. If you get caught with your favourite fool?”
The sound of his scratchy voice makes your eyes close as you put your head against the wood beneath you, his words of warning barely getting through to your cock-drunk brain.
God- you can feel that glorious heat in your tummy burning up at just his voice- it would be so embarrassing if you weren’t all fucked out and used..
“F-Freddie…” You babble, subconsciously grinding back to try and speed him up again- he lets out a disappointed tut, one of his gloved hands going to the back of your head to gently pull it up slightly.
“I’ll move again, don’t worry. But you’ve gotta be good and quiet for me.” He mutters, his other hand going to your hip. With every noise he makes your twitchy, desperate, clit- the same one he’s been abusing relentlessly for awhile now -only throbs harder.
You let out a small, chocked, sob- “please- please, please- I’ll be quiet-” he smirks and tilts his head down to push his nose against your neck, taking in how good you smell- how your body feels pressed right against his…and not some duke from the south.
“Ssshhh, sweetheart, please..” he kisses a small spot below your ear then the bottom of your cheek before he suddenly gives you a particularly harsh thrust, making your entire body, and the table, shift forward. “Please be good for me, for your foolish boy.”
“Ngh- Freddie-” You moan out, lips parted and eyes glossy. You’ve never felt anything quite like this..so..raw- so..much. “C-can’t- can’t take m-much more-”
“Yes you can.” He thrusts again- you gasp. “I know you can. I know you better than anyone-“ Another thrust. “In this-” Another, harder, thrust, one that you swear makes you see stars- “fucking castle.” You let out a louder, very risky moan. “Don’t I?” He pauses once again. He’s teasing you- god, he’s fucking messing with your head.
“Why’re being so mean?” You sniffle, hips jerking against his- “say it.” He growls into your neck almost..possessively, ignoring your cry.
You nod quickly. “You know-” your voice catches in your throat- “You know me better than anyone.”
“Good girl..” He leans back up- his left hand moving to your ass to give it a harsh squeeze and the other goes to your thigh. “Good- now say your mine.” He whispers huskily.
“I’m yours.” You say immediately. You say it so quick because a part of you knows..it’s true. You are his.
At your words, he picks up speed, the intent incredibly obvious now- he’s panting, whining and oh-so jealous. “Yeah- yeah, your mine..fuck- mine.” You pant, nose scrunching up and your lips parting as his hips move faster once again and he hums into your skin. “Good girl.”
Your eyebrows furrow and your mouth opens as he suddenly hits that spot, the spot that makes you wanna scream. “O-oh!” You smack the table to stop yourself from being too loud. That did something for you oh. heavens that really hit the spot.
He lets out a quiet moan as he shoves himself further into the crook of your neck, biting down gently on your skin to stop himself from being too loud. You struggle to breathe as your -nth orgasm hits you at last- and he can only bury his length as deep as he can..
He stills for a couple of seconds, breathing heavily against you, his face still pressed against your neck.
He’s silently hoping, praying, that you’ll refuse this..dukes hand in marriage, that he’ll be enough to make you say no- and maybe even take him instead..
“God, Freddie.” Is all you can muster, you are utterly and completely wrecked. You’re useless right now- nothing but fredfredfred in your mind..
He leans back and slowly slides out of you, making your breath hitch- “f-fuck..” you mutter, practically going limp against the table.
“You okay, sweetheart?” He gently grabs your waist, slowly lifting you up against him as he turns you to face him, looking over your face and neck. You smile, half-dazed, at him as you nod.
“I’m…shit- I’m incredible.” You lean in and kiss him, your arms moving to wrap around his neck as you press your chest against his.
He smiles into the kiss and leans back after a couple of moments, awkwardly leaning down to pull up his pants- “I’m glad you’re happy.” He says playfully, buckling his pants with one hand as he leads you by the dip of your back to your bed across the room, wanting to make sure you don’t fall-
“I’m very happy.” You mumble, leaning into him as you walk with a slight limp…which makes him smirk smugly to himself with a pleased look on his face.
He unties your corset expertly and helps you step out of your dress as you get to your bed- he throws the covers out the way as you lie down, sighing softly as your head meets your feather stuffed pillow. “Why..don’t you stay?” You whisper, watching as he pulls the cover back over your bare body.
‘Because the maids would catch us..tell your parents and I’d be hung, you cast aside to be a spinster.’ Is what he thinks..but he doesn’t say it…he’s too scared to- because he knows that, when he does, it’ll all become just a little bit too real for him.
“Because we could get caught.” He leans down and kisses your forehead before he leans back and looks at your face for a couple of seconds…
“I know but…you could sneak out before they get there.” You whisper but you know for a fact it would never work.
He scoffs. “I wish.” He smirks and winks as he leans back. “I will..see you next time, princess.” He walks towards the door. You watch as he leaves…a sigh leaving your lips as he closes the door behind him. A sigh leaves his own lips and he thinks about you- with another man, a duke- nonetheless…
The thought haunts him for the rest of the night..
(TY FOR ALL THE LOVE. I DID THE FIRST ONE AS A JOKE NOW I HAVE PPL BEGGING FOR NEW PARTS?? AND IM ALREADY STARTING PART 4??!! INSANE. 🩷)
"Why don't you just email him all the details later?" Danny asks, stopping next to Ms. Clance and with the most bored expression he could muster.
"It's not like he didn't read over my file when you guys first asked him to foster me," Danny adds, lifting his brow at Mr. Wayne to see if he'd go along.
"Right, you can just send me an email with your concerns and advice later. I've read his file, I know what I'm getting into," Mr. Wayne confirms with a smile. Looks like it was option two, then, the guy just really didn't want to listen to Ms. Clance complain about Danny for who knows how long.
Ms. Clance blushes, but still wavers, glancing over at Danny with a frown.
"If none of the other kids managed to drive him insane, I doubt I will," Danny goads, rolling his eyes. Someone snorted behind him, a whispered "chandelier, and you have no room to talk," going ignored.
Ms. Clance huffs, her face turning even redder as she clutches his files closer to her. After a moment, she sighs and pulls out some papers, finally relenting, "Fine, just sign these, and he's all yours."
Mr. Wayne flashes her another bright smile, accepting the papers and signing wherever she indicates with a flourish.
"Now then," Ms. Clance remarks, "As I'm sure you already know, either I or someone else will be stopping by occasionally to check that Mr. Fenton is getting the care he needs. If we find things are not up to standard, we will reclaim custody of Mr. Fenton and relocate him somewhere else. If either of you has questions, you have my number and can contact me at any time."
She shuffled her papers one more time before handing Mr. Wayne a business card. Mr. Wayne took it with another smile and tucked it into his pocket, where, if he was anything like Danny's parents, it would stay for the next seven weeks and be forgotten about.
"Sounds good, Alfred will escort you out. It was a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Clance."
Danny's social worker blushed one more time before allowing Butler Man to guide her to and out the door.
It was silent for a moment, as they all watched the door slowly close behind the two.
"Did you actually drive that guy insane?" Blondie blurts, twisting to look at Danny with wide sparkling eyes.
"I already told you," Danny huffs, "the guy was already insane."
"Well, yeah, but," Blondie huffs, blowing a strand of hair out of her face as she bounces on her toes again, "she was making it such a big deal, you've got to have done something."
Danny waited a moment, just watching her fidget. The others were watching him closely now, too, even Mr. Wayne.
"It's not my fault," Danny began, tightening his hold on his bag, "How was I supposed to know that setting up a speaker in the vents with random phrases on loop would make him crawl into the walls?"
"I, what?" Eyebags asked, tilting his head to the side. Blondie smiled, clearly amused now that she had her answer.
"The guy was already whispering to the shadows. What's wrong with making them answer him back?" Danny huffed, shuffling his feet back so he wasn't standing directly in the middle of the group.
Danny didn't see what was so bad about it. The guy was treating him like crap, and the social workers weren't listening to him. So, Danny, just... moved the timeline along a little faster than it would have occurred previously.
Danny didn't make the guy crawl into the walls; he would have ended up doing that anyway. Danny just needed people to see that the guy needed help more than Danny needed to stay there.
So, the speaker in the vents, it was.
"Right, and what's this about injuries?" Mr. Casual Mcgee asked, crossing his arms and trying to look stern.
Danny rolled his eyes. Honestly, if they wanted answers this badly, they could have just snatched his folder from Ms. Clance when she wasn't looking.
"I snuck out, made it across four state lines, and ran into my parents, who no one told me got bailed." Correction, he ran into his parents AND about seventy mutated ghost animals that Vlad released to hunt him down. He was still mad about that, actually; he had just wanted to hang out with Jazz. But nooooo. he just had to find out Vlad bailed his parents, and fight both them AND the ghost animals.
"No one told you?" "Your parents?" and "How did you make it across four state lines without getting caught?" filled the foyer in a loud explosion of noise.
Danny blinked, turning slightly to the Kid, who was now on the ground floor but still not anywhere close to joining them. The two dogs wagged their tails when Danny made eye contact, but stayed where they were. Trained then, but for what?
Choosing to ignore the others, Danny answered the Kid's question, "It's not as hard as people think, you just have to be fast enough. I figured I had about two hours before anyone noticed I was gone and planned my route around that. I wasn't worried about being tracked; it's not like I was trying to hide where I was going. I just wanted to get there without getting stopped."
The kid frowned, tossed his answer around for a moment, nodded his head, and then asked, "And where were you going, and from where?"
"Home, I started in New York." Danny explains, rocking onto his heels for a moment before continuing, "Hopped between Cabs for a while, then hitched a ride from anyone willing to stop. Managed to hop on the side of a train traveling in the right direction and then walked the rest on foot. It took some time, but I did manage to get home before anyone managed to catch up, unfortunately."
"Unfortunately?" Mr. Casual asked, frowning down at him.
"Yeah, what is this? An interrogation? You guys haven't even introduced yourselves." Danny snarks, stepping back again so he has them all in his line of sight. They didn't make it easy, considering how spread out they all were, but he managed.
"The young man is correct," Mister Butler Man interjects, the door closing and locking behind him as he joins the group once more. Looks like Danny was correct. They locked the door when not expecting someone to leave, which means he’ll have to remember to either get a key or a copy. That or just pick the lock again. He’s slowly getting better at that, but it takes time, time he probably won't have.
"That would be my fault," Mr. Wayne chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. "You can call me Bruce, if you want. Whatever you're comfortable with. And this is Pennyworth, my Butler. And my Kids-"
"Dick!" Mr. Casual cuts in, smiling brightly at Danny.
"Tim," Eyebags adds, leaning back and watching Danny's reactions.
"Stephanie, but call me Steph," Blondie blurts, "and this is Cass!" She pulls Gray into her side, making the quiet girl smile fondly at her, then wave cheerfully at Danny. Danny waved back.
"Duke," The normal one added, gesturing at the kid still standing away from them all, "and that's Damian." The kid scowls, getting a snort out of Dick, "He's kind of antisocial, so give him a little time to get used to you."
"I am not antisocial, Grayson. I just dislike talking to others who are not worth my time," the Kid, Damian, seethes.
"Mood," Danny agrees, shrugging when Tim raises his eyebrow at him. Kid had the right idea, too bad not everyone agreed.
"Right, now that introductions are done and out of the way, would one of you like to give Mr. Fenton a tour around and show him his room?" Mr. Wayne asks, still smiling that stupid fake smile.
"It's Danny," Danny huffs, "and you really don't have to keep up the act, I can just tell your face is starting to hurt."
Dead silence, then Cass raises her hands and signs, 'I'll show you around, if you want.'
"Cool," Danny shrugs, making his way over to her side as she turns and starts walking.
Yeah, he was going to get really annoyed here, wasn't he?
summary: you force yourself to give it another go with sidney, it's good for all three of you
request: yes!!
word count: 6.4k
a/n: okay i have a feeling these gonna be so many more parts to this story which i don't even mind, requests include a family halloween costume, a wedding, the olympics, if you guys wanna read those too pls lmk! and also special thanks to angel @glitteryturtledeer who has been such a pillar in the ideas for this story... enjoy guys there will be so much more to this story :) also double upload day one!
part one | previous part | part three
—
Your phone sits at the bottom of your bag like a living creature, like it’s trying to claw its way out and demand your attention. You refuse to look at it. For eight straight hours you refuse. You take your daughter to the park, pushing her on the swings while she kicks her legs out like she’s trying to launch herself into the stratosphere. You cheer for her. You clap. You smile. You even laugh when she insists on “teaching” another kid how to slide properly. Through all of it, the phone stays buried.
You go to the grocery store next, letting sweet girl pick fruit based on color instead of what you might actually need at home. She chooses strawberries because they “taste pink,” and blueberries because they “look like little sneakers,” and you let her because it’s easier to say yes right now. She sits in the cart playing with the buckle, giggling while you pretend not to think about how your eyes keep drifting to your bag.
Then the movie. Something animated, something with talking animals and glitter explosions, something she’s already seen twice this week. She curls up at your side, humming under her breath. Halfway through, her head drops onto your lap and her breathing evens. Exhausted. Sweet and tiny. Safe. You carry her to her bed once the credits roll.
You should get up and do something productive. The laundry basket is overflowing. Dinner is not going to make itself. There are crumbs on the counter and probably some on the ceiling because that’s just how motherhood works. You should move.
You don’t.
You just sit there in the quiet of your living room with your daughter sleeping down the hall and your guilt pushing at your throat. Eight hours. Eight hours of silence you chose. Eight hours of thinking too much and solving nothing. And you cave. You reach for your bag. Your fingers hesitate on the zipper. Then you pull the phone out and hold it.
You unlock it. Sid’s message sits at the top of the screen like a warm hand you pushed away.
Sidney: Hey. Just wanted to say I’m really sorry about that video going around. I didn’t know someone was filming us. I don’t post about my personal life, ever, and I should’ve thought about that more. I hope you’re okay.
Sidney: Text me if you want.
Sidney: Or if you don’t. Just yeah. I’m sorry.
Still, you don’t answer. Not yet.
You scroll down to the text from your daughter’s father.
Him: Is this you? Really classy, Y/N.
It’s the screenshot. The thumbnail. The grainy video. You feel your stomach begin to ache as you stare at it. He doesn’t call. He doesn’t ask about her. He doesn’t reach out unless he senses you’re doing better without him. And this bullshit phantom concern makes anger warm your whole body.
You don’t answer him either.
You check your texts with Michelle and—God bless her—she has the exact energy you expected.
Michelle: Y/n answer the man. He didn’t do anything wrong.
Michelle: You’re spiraling babe. Take a breath.
Michelle: It’s not his fault someone filmed. He probably feels horrible.
Michelle: Seriously. Text him. Or I will text him AS you and traumatize both of us.
She’s right. You know she’s right. You’re the one who froze. You’re the one who panicked. You’re the one who let fear sit heavy on your tongue. Sid deserves better than silence. You return to his message thread. It still sorta hurts your chest to look at it, but it’s a different kind of hurt now. A vulnerable one.
You finally start typing.
You: Hey. I’m sorry for the delay. I just needed some time to get my head straight.
You pause. Delete. Rewrite.
You: I promise I’m not ignoring you. Today was just a lot. I’ve never had something like this happen before. Being filmed. Having strangers talk about me. I got scared. I’ve got a whole child to protect and you’ve got a whole career to protect and I panicked a little.
You breathe out.
You: But none of it was your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong. You didn’t know. And I’m okay. I just needed a minute to breathe.
Your thumb hovers. Then you send it. His response comes quickly. He must’ve been near his phone. He must’ve been waiting. He must’ve been worrying.
Sidney: You don’t ever have to apologize for needing space. I get it. And I really mean that.
Another bubble appears.
Sidney: I didn’t realize someone was filming. I should’ve expected it. I’m sorry it put you in a weird spot. I hate that it made you uncomfortable.
Then:
Sidney: If you want, we can figure out how to avoid places like that. Or I can handle things differently next time. Whatever you need.
And then, after a couple of seconds:
Sidney: I really liked spending time with you. I don’t want this to scare you off.
Your lips curve without your permission because he’s so… good. So gentle. So thoughtful. So careful with you in a way you’re not used to. He’s not brushing your feelings aside or making it about him. He’s just present.
You respond.
You: It didn’t scare me off. It scared me for a minute. But not off.
You: I liked spending time with you too.
You hesitate for half a heartbeat before adding:
You: And there can be a next time. If you still want one.
His reply is instant.
Sidney: I do.
Another bubble pops up immediately after.
Sidney: More than you probably realize.
You bury your face in your pillow for a second because what the hell is this man doing to your nervous system?
Your phone buzzes again.
Sidney: Is your daughter having a good day?
You smile before you even type.
You: She’s napping. She had a big night with Michelle. I’m honestly afraid to ask what they got into.
Sid sends a laughing emoji.
Sid: Tell her I hope she enjoys the high quality ice cream I chose.
Your chest warms all over again.
You type back:
You: She’s going to freak out.
Sidney: I’m really glad you texted
Sidney: I kept checking my phone like some teenager waiting for a crush to text back. Please don’t tell the guys. I’ll never hear the end of it.
You: Oh I’m absolutely telling them. First chance I get. I’ll make a PowerPoint presentation.
Sidney: Don’t. I bruise easily.
You: Emotionally?
Sidney: Everywhere. I’m delicate.
You snort loudly enough you have to cover your mouth so you don’t wake your daughter.
You: You’re like the opposite of delicate. You’ve literally broken teeth on the ice.
Sidney: Yeah but that’s hockey.
Sidney: This is different.
Sidney: This is you texting me.
Sidney: Way more high stakes.
He doesn’t give you time to recover.
Sidney: Also, you calling me “not delicate” feels like a challenge.
Sidney: I’ll have you know I can be very soft.
You raise an eyebrow at the screen.
You: …Sidney.
Sidney: What?
Sidney: I didn’t mean it in a dirty way but now I’m kind of wishing I did.
You curl into the couch cushion, biting your lip.
You: Behave. My kid is asleep in the next room.
Sidney: I am behaving.
Sidney: This is me behaving.
Sidney: Imagine if I didn’t behave.
You: Don’t tempt me.
You can almost picture him smiling at his phone too.
Sidney: You flirting with me right now?
You: Maybe.
Sidney: Good.
Sidney: Because I’ve been flirting with you for months.
You blink.
Months.
You: Since the gear shop?
Sidney: Since the moment you told me that goalie mask wouldn’t fit me.
Sidney: Best thing anyone said to me that day.
You laugh softly.
You: You looked ridiculous holding it.
Sidney: I looked amazing holding it.
You: Okay calm down.
Sidney: You’re the one who started insulting my very real athletic needs.
You: You bought a mask for a six-year-old.
Sidney: Exactly. That’s tough-guy shit.
You shake your head, cheeks warm.
You: You really kept thinking about me after that?
He replies almost immediately.
Sidney: Yeah.
Sidney: Didn’t expect to.
Sidney: Didn’t mean to.
Sidney: Just did.
You: I kept thinking about you too.
He sends nothing for ten seconds.
Sidney: Good.
Sidney: Makes me feel a little less crazy.
You sigh happily into a pillow.
You: How’s your day going now?
Sidney: Better now that you’re talking to me.
Sidney: Skate was rough though.
Sidney: The guys chirped me all morning.
You: Why?
Sidney: I was smiling too much.
Sidney: Apparently that’s suspicious.
You: They’re right. It is suspicious.
Sidney: Wow. Betrayed by the woman I’m trying to woo.
You stare at the word woo.
You: Woo??
You: You’re wooing me??
Sidney: Well, I was trying to be subtle but since you’ve outed me…
Sidney: Yes.
Sidney: I am wooing you.
You: How’s that going for you?
Sidney: You tell me.
You take a second to think because if you answer too fast he’ll know he’s already in your bloodstream.
You: Pretty good so far.
Sidney: Just “pretty good”?
Sidney: Not “amazing”?
Sidney: Not “life-changing”?
Sidney: Not “earth-shattering first date of the century”?
You: You’re ridiculous.
Sidney: You didn’t say no.
You: Goodnight, Sidney.
Sidney: Oh come on don’t do that to me.
You: Fine. The date was really, really great.
You: Happy?
Sidney: Ridiculously.
Sidney: I’ve been pacing around my kitchen like I’m thirteen.
You cover your face with your hands and groan into them because you are supposed to be a grown adult, not someone kicking her feet over a hockey legend texting her like this.
You: What are you doing right now anyway besides wearing a hole in your kitchen floor?
Sidney: Ice bath.
You: Why would you text me in an ice bath???
Sidney: Because I’m dedicated.
You: Dedicated to recovery?
Sidney: Dedicated to you texting me back finally.
You clutch your stomach because this man is going to kill you.
You: How cold is the water?
Sid: Cold enough that any sex jokes you make right now are going to be scientifically accurate.
You wheeze.
You: Wow.
You: Tragic.
Sidney: Be nice to me. I’m vulnerable.
Right as your cheeks start heating again thinking about what to say, you hear soft footsteps down the hall. A sleepy rustle. A tiny yawn. Sweet girl tumbles into the living room, curls flattened on one side, clothing wrinkled, cheeks warm from sleep. She waddles over and immediately crawls into your lap like she’s returning to her charging dock.
“Mama… why you smilin’ like that?” she mumbles into your shirt.
You laugh softly, brushing her curls back. “No reason, baby. Just happy you’re awake.”
She curls tighter into you like a cat claiming its spot. You kiss the top of her head, inhaling the warm smell of her nap.
“Oh,” you say suddenly, “I almost forgot. Mama’s friend got your ice cream for you.”
Her head snaps up so fast you’re shocked she doesn’t pull a muscle. “Where?!”
“In the freezer,” you laugh. “Do you want some?”
“Yes!! Yes please!! Right now please!!”
Your good mood is contagious. You stand with her attached to your hip and take the pink ice cream out of the freezer. She wiggles down, grabs a spoon and waits.
You scoop a little into a bowl. She gasps.
“It’s really pink, Mama.”
“I know,” you tease.
She shovels a spoonful into her mouth, gives you a sweet “mm!”, then pauses mid-bite, tilting her head like she’s thinking very deeply.
“I saw the flowers,” she says.
You blink. “You did?”
“Uh-huh. On the table. Right there mama.” She nods sagely. “They’re pretty. Very fancy.”
You fight a smile. “Yeah, they’re beautiful.”
She taps her spoon against her bowl thoughtfully. “It’s good he got you flowers. ’Cause you like flowers.” A pause. “And I like flowers. Auntie Michelle says he’s good. She said he's very nice and will get me more ice cream!”
She starts going on about how Michelle told her that "Coach Sid" is the grown up friend who took you to a special grown-ups dinner. She now knows what a date is. You start laughing because what else can you do? This child. This child is out here issuing romantic approval like she’s the goddamn CEO of your love life. You're really going to have to talk to Michelle about boundaries. Sweet girl is becoming too much like her.
“Oh really?” you tease. “So… Mama can invite her friend over?”
She lifts her chin, five-year-old authority radiating off her. “Yes. I ’pprove.”
You snort. “You approve?”
“Yes.” She takes another bite. “He can come.”
You swear this kid is going to run the UN one day. Once she’s fully absorbed in her ice cream, you finally pull your phone back out, your heart fluttering at your own ridiculousness. You text Sid.
You: Breaking news: pink ice cream was a hit.
You: Also, apparently you chose the correct flowers because they were classified as “very fancy.”
You: And you officially have approval to come over.
You: From the boss herself.
He answers almost immediately.
Sidney: Oh thank god.
Sidney: I’ve been trying to impress her since the moment she tried to high-stick a dummy at Little Pens.
You can’t believe he remembers that.
You: She’s serious about hockey violence.
Sidney: I respect that about her.
You roll your eyes even as you smile.
You: Congratulations. You passed the daughter test.
Sidney: Huge relief.
Sidney: Was sweating it.
Sidney: Didn’t know if the ice cream was enough to earn my place in the kingdom.
You snort.
You: The kingdom???
Sidney: Listen. She’s in charge. We both know it.
Sidney: We’re just two people trying not to piss off a tiny dictator.
You laugh loud enough that your daughter glances up, suspicious.
“Mama why are you laughing?”
“Grown-up conversation, baby.”
She narrows her eyes like she thinks you’re getting away with something.
Your phone buzzes again.
Sidney: Speaking of impressing royalty…
Sidney: I may or may not have gotten tickets for tomorrow’s game.
Sidney: For you and her.
Sidney: If you want them.
Sidney: If it’s too soon, we can pretend I never sent this.
You: Tomorrow??You: We… just saw each other.
Sidney: Yeah.Sidney: And I want to see you again.Sidney: And I want your daughter to see a game.Sidney: And maybe I want to look into the stands and see you two there.Sidney: Is that okay?
It’s not too much. It’s just… more than you expected. Still, your girl gets the final say. You look down at her. She’s licking the last bit of pink ice cream from her spoon, happy and messy.
“Baby?” you say softly. “Do you want to go to a hockey game tomorrow?”
Her eyes widen.
“A real one??”
“Yes.”
“Like… with big guys? And real sticks? And the loud buzzer? And maybe popcorn??”
“Yes, all of that.”
She slaps both hands to her cheeks. “Mama we have to go! We GOTTA Go. We gotta go right now!”
You laugh. “Not right now. Tomorrow.”
She starts bouncing on her toes. “I wanna go! I wanna go to the big game! I wanna see them skate as quick as me!”
“Okay, okay!” you say, shushing her so the neighbors don’t think a small animal is dying. “We’ll go.”
She hugs your waist fiercely, curls brushing your stomach. “Best Mama ever.”
You melt. Fully. Completely. Into a puddle on your home.
You pick up your phone with fingers that tremble just a little.
You: Okay.You: We’re in.You: She’s screaming and running around the living room right now.You: So I guess that answers your question.
He sends back:
Sidney: Perfect.Sidney: I’ll leave send you the tickets.Sidney: And tell her that the guys are excited to have her in the building.
You laugh again, shaking your head.
You: You’re ridiculous.
Sidney: Yeah but you’re smiling.Sidney: So I’m doing something right.
You: Maybe.
Sidney: “Maybe” my ass.Sidney: I can practically hear your smile.
Your daughter comes back over to hug you again. She presses her cheek to your hip and looks up at you with big eyes.
“Mama,” she whispers, eyes widening, “I have to make a sign.”
You blink. “A sign?”
“A real sign. Like on TV.” She presses both hands dramatically over her heart. “It’s… important.”
Before you can answer, she takes off in that five-year-old full-speed shuffle, the one where her feet slap the floor but somehow she doesn’t fall. She disappears into her room and returns thirty seconds later dragging an overstuffed plastic bin that she should not be strong enough to lift.
“Mama, help! It’s stuck!”
You laugh and help her pull it the rest of the way. It spills open with a rainbow explosion of markers, construction paper, glitter glue, stickers, pompoms, two googly eyes for reasons unknown, and a bunch of half-finished crafts that look suspiciously like Michelle’s influence. She plops onto the rug and spreads everything out.
“I’m gonna make the best sign,” she declares, grabbing a pink marker. “It’s gotta be big so everyone can see me.”
“I’m sure they’ll see you, baby.”
She shakes her head, curls bouncing. “No. They gotta see my words. That’s how they know I’m their best fan.”
You smile like an idiot because she’s painfully cute, then settle beside her.
Sweet girl draws big squiggly letters and double checks with you every two minutes how to spell something important like PENGUIN or FRIENDSHIP or BRACELET.
Finally she lifts the sign with a proud little grunt.
“Mama look!!!”
It says:
HI PENGUINS! LETS TRADE? BRACELET 4 PUCK? With several hearts, the number 58 in a star, and three stick figures that vaguely resemble men in helmets.
“It’s perfect,” you say, smoothing her hair back. “They’re going to love it.”
She smiles, but then freezes again, her mind spinning with more ideas.
“Mama. I need a bracelet.”
“You have bracelets, baby.”
“No.” She shakes her head hard. “A trade bracelet. For the players. So they know we’re friends.”
Ah. The universal fan culture. Trading bracelets like it’s currency.
“And Mama,” she adds gravely, “you hafta make it. ’Cause you make the best ones.”
You snort at that. “I’m the designated bracelet maker, huh?”
“Yes. You make it pink. And sparkly. And strong so they don’t break it.”
You grab the bead kit, sit cross-legged on the rug, and work while she supervises you like a tiny CEO.
“No Mama, more pink.”
“Not that pink, the other pink.”
“Mama that bead looks weird put it back.”
“Oooooh add a heart!!”
“And a star because stars are bright.”
You’re halfway through when she leans into your side like her body simply got tired of being upright.
“This is gonna be the best day ever,” she whispers.
You kiss her forehead. “Yeah, baby. I think it will be.”
Once the bracelet is finished, Sweet girl gasps right in your ear.
“Mama it’s beautiful.”
“You did most of the designing.”
Her little chest puffs up, pride radiating like a furnace. “I’m gonna trade it with a hockey guy.”
“I bet he’ll be very lucky.”
Then… she gets that look.
The dramatic one. The over-the-top, thinking-hard, I-am-a-five-year-old-on-a-mission look.
She grabs your hand. “Mama. We gotta pick my jersey.”
You follow her to her room, try not to laugh as she flings open her tiny closet with the seriousness of a fashion icon preparing for her runway debut. She goes on her tiptoes, arms stretched high, grabbing two hangers. Her Crosby jersey And her Letang jersey. She holds them both out like she’s comparing priceless art.
“Mama… this is very, very hard.”
“I know,” you say, because this is Serious Shit.
“I love Sid,” she says, clutching his jersey to her chest. “He’s nice and he skates so fast and he got me pink ice cream.”
“He did,” you say, cheeks warming.
“But Kris had the hair.” She dramatically flips her own curls. “And the number. Fifty-eight is a strong number.”
You nod solemnly. “It is.”
She stares at them both for a long moment. Moves them left. Moves them right. Squints. Tilts her head. Sighs like life is simply too difficult.
Finally she declares, “I choose BOTH.”
You laugh. “Baby, you can only wear one.”
“Oh.” She thinks. “Then… Sid!”
She hangs it proudly on her door knob like a trophy, steps back with her hands on her hips, and nods in satisfaction.
“Mama,” she says softly, “I’m gonna look so beautiful.”
You crouch down and cup her cheeks. “You’re always beautiful.”
She scrunches her nose. “I know!”
Fair enough.
All that excitement drains her energy fast.
“Mama?” she says, rubbing her eyes. “Can I go to sleep so tomorrow comes faster?”
Your heart melts.
“Of course, baby.”
You give her a quick bath. then brush her teeth while she hums some loud, unidentifiable tune through the toothbrush. Once she’s in fresh pajamas, she pulls two books from her shelf.
“Mama read BOTH.”
“Baby, they’re long.”
She holds them closer to her chest. “But… hockey game tomorrow.”
You narrow your eyes. “Is that your argument?”
“Yes.”
…It works. Of course it works. You read both books. She interrupts every page with commentary. You give her one kiss, then ten more because she always asks for “just one more” until you lose count. She finally falls asleep curled on her side, clinging to her Crosby jersey like a stuffed animal. You stand there for a moment, brushing a hand through her curls before heading to bed yourself.
Game day is like Christmas morning for your five-year-old. You wake up to the sound of tiny feet slapping against the hallway floor, followed by a gasp, followed by a door creaking open.
“Mama! It’s game day!!!”
She launches herself onto your bed, already fully dressed in what can only be described as Peak Hockey Child Chaos: long-sleeve shirt under her kid-sized Crosby jersey, her favorite jeans, one sock already falling off, her curls sticking straight up in the back like a baby bird.
You laugh into your pillow. “Sweetheart… it’s seven in the morning.”
“I KNOW!” she beams, climbing onto your stomach. “It’s TODAY! We’re going to the arena! We’re gonna see!”
You brush her curls back, your heart already soft. “Let me fix your hair first.”
She gasps in fake offense. “Mama, my hair is BEAUTIFUL.”
“It is,” you agree, pulling her into your lap, “and it’s also trying to escape your head.”
You detangle her wild curls, add her favorite butterfly clip, and she turns her head every two seconds to admire herself in the mirror.
“Now I need glitter freckles,” she insists.
“Not yet,” you say. “If I do them now, they’ll fade before the game.”
She squints. “Hmm. Okay. But lots later.”
“Lots later,” you promise.
Breakfast is waffles and a hot chocolate with too many marshmallows because she’s vibrating with excitement before you’ve even left the house. She keeps kicking her little legs under the table, humming, wiggling, grinning with her whole face.
“Mama,” she whispers, “do you think Sidney is ready for me?”
You choke on your coffee. “I’m sure he’s doing his best.”
She nods. “Good. ’Cause I’m ready for HIM.”
Oh god.
“Baby, you’re going to make him nervous.”
Her eyes widen. “Good.”
By evening, she’s practically levitating. She packed her little backpack. Jersey straightened six times. Sign double checked. Bracelet secured with tape so she doesn’t lose it. She has black and gold glitter freckles on her cheeks. She keeps tugging your hand, bouncing on her toes like her bones have been replaced with springs.
You’re pulling on your coat when your phone buzzes.
A message from Sid.
Sidney: Make sure she’s at ice level during warmups. I want to get her a puck.Sidney: And don’t tell her, I want it to be a surprise.
You reply:
You: You’re ridiculous.You: But okay.
He replies:
Sidney: I’ll take that as a compliment.
The arena is already a little bit loud when you get inside. Sweet girl never lets go of your hand—her tiny fingers gripping yours like she’s anchoring herself so she doesn’t float into the rafters. She looks around with eyes twice as big as usual.
“Mama, it’s… huge.”
“I know, baby.”
“And loud.”
“Yup.”
“And smells like… pretzels.”
You laugh. “Definitely pretzels.”
You stop at concessions because she begs—no, negotiates—her way into popcorn and a candy “for the trade.”
“They need snacks too, Mama. Playing is hard.”
You nod. “You’re very thoughtful.”
She beams.
Warmups are already starting when you reach ice level. You lift her onto your hip and she presses her sign to the glass. She wiggles in place, eyes darting everywhere.
“Mama! I know him!!”
She points at a player from Little Pens who’d laughed when she fell over her own stick. She waves at him like he’s her kindergarten best friend.
You grin. “That’s right. You skated with him.”
Her cheeks flush pink. “He’s bigger on the ice.”
Then:
“Mama! He’s coming…Sidney is coming…ohmygosh–ohmy!”
You laugh because she’s shaking like a leaf. Sid skates his pregame circle, then loops near your side of the glass. Sweet girl pounds her tiny palm against it. He glances over, sees her sign, and lifts a hand to give her a small wave. Your daughter makes a noise so high-pitched only dogs six miles away can hear it.
“He waved at ME! At me. Me specially. Me!”
“Yes baby, I saw—”
“I might explode.”
Please don’t, you think.
Then she sees the one. #58. Kris Letang
“Wow! It’s him…”
You cover your mouth to hide a laugh. “Yes baby, that’s Kris Letang.”
“He’s beautiful,” she whispers.
Kris skates over, glancing between her sign, her bouncing curls, and your expression. He points to her sign, nods approvingly, taps the glass with his glove… and flips a puck up and over the boards for her.
The puck lands in your hand despite her best effort to catch it. You hand it over to her.
“A puck! I think thats for me!”
“I know, baby, I know. Say thank you!”
She tries. She really does. But it comes out as, “thankyousirthankyouyouresoprettybye!”
Letang chuckles, taps at her sign again.
She tugs your shirt urgently. “I have to do the trade. I promised.”
The candy and bracelet are already in her tiny fist, wrapped together. She throws it with all her might… which is not much. It almost reaches over. A taller fan beside you laughs kindly, picks it up, and tosses it over. Letang catches it, inspects it, looks at her like she’s the cutest thing he’s ever seen, and gives her a thumbs up. Your daughter nearly passes out.
When warmups end, you carry her back to your seats because she refuses to do anything but look at her brand new puck. Poor Sid, he couldn’t make the trade now Sweet girls new bestfriend is one of the other guys on the big three.
Every step, she keeps whispering:
“Mama… I got a puck.”
“Mama… I traded.”
“Mama… they waved at me.”
“Mama… I think I’m famous now.”
She settles into her seat, legs swinging, puck clutched so tightly you’re genuinely worried she might fuse with it.
“Mama?” she asks quietly.
“Yeah, baby?”
“I love hockey.”
You kiss her temple. “I know.”
“And I love you.”
Your throat tightens. “I know that too.”
“And… Mama?”
“Mhmm?”
“This is just the first hockey place.” Her eyes sparkle like she’s staring straight into destiny. “We still have all of them left.”
You laugh, heart aching in the best way. “We sure do.”
She grins, proud, brave, believing in a world full of possibility. But then she remembers where she is and locks onto the ice the second the puck drops. Fully invested. Fully insane in the cutest five-year-old way possible. You barely get your coat off before she’s tugging your sleeve.
“Mama which one is Sid again??”
You point. “Number eighty-seven, baby. Right—”
“Sid!” she squeals, loud enough some from at least three rows turn to look.
You shush her gently, laughing. “Inside voice, sweetheart.”
“I can’t help it,” she whispers, still loud as hell. “He’s right there.”
And she does this every thirty seconds.
“Mama point to him again.”
“Mama I lost him where did he go.”
“Mama he’s so fast.”
“Mama look he’s so fast.”
“Mama does he see me?”
“Mama what if he sees me and falls down ’cause he gets surprised???”
You choke down a laugh. “Baby, he’s a professional. He won’t fall down.”
She squints. “I could make him fall.”
Oh, she has your confidence. God help the world. The first time the Penguins score, she startles so hard she physically leaps off the seat and grabs your arm like a startled kitten.
“What was THAT.”
“That’s the goal horn, baby.”
She blinks. “I like it. Do it again.”
You snort. “Tell them to score more, then.”
By first intermission she’s grilled you with more questions than a drunk philosophy major.
“How is the ice still ice?”
“Why do they smack each other on the head?”
“Do they get time-out?”
“Does Sid get time-out?”
“What if they fall and break the ice?”
“Why is that man in a little cave?”
“What does offside mean?”
“Mama what is a Canadian?”
You can answer as best as you can.
But then, blessedly, the little girl sitting next to her leans over and goes, “I like your hair clip.” Sweet girl gasps. Instant soulmates. By the end of the intermission they’re showing each other the glitter on their cheeks, comparing jerseys, and taking turns with her puck. You exchange a look with the other mom, both of you silently agreeing your children now share a brain cell.
Second period comes and she asks for nachos.
“Mama, I need energy for hockey.”
So you share an order, and after one bite she fans her tongue dramatically.
“Mama they’re spicy.”
“You asked for ‘extra cheese and jalapeños.’”
“Well I didn’t know they were fire.”
You try so hard not to laugh that you nearly choke on a chip.
Third period hits and your little rocket begins fizzling, her body tired but her soul refusing to give in.
She leans heavily on your arm. “Mama… my eyes wanna close but I’m not gonna let them.”
“You can sleep if you need—”
“No.” She shakes her head violently. “I gotta see the whole game. All of it. Every part.”
Her head eventually tips onto your shoulder, her grip on her puck unrelenting, her lashes fluttering as she fights sleep. By the time the players clear the ice, she’s barely awake, she’s merely a tiny, warm, limp baby koala clinging to your neck as you carry her out with the slow-moving crowd. Her head nestles into your collarbone, breath soft and even, puck clenched in her hand like she’s prepared to fistfight anyone who tries to take it.
You buckle her into her car seat still asleep. She stays that way the entire drive home, her little hand twitching every so often like she’s dreaming about slapping hockey pucks into outer space. You carry her into the house, tuck her into bed, gently pry off her shoes, and smooth her curls back. She doesn’t stir. The puck never leaves her hand. This was her dream day. And honestly… you kind of get it now.
You step into the quiet living room, finally taking a breath. Your phone buzzes.
Sid.
You bite your lip without meaning to.
Sidney: So…Sidney: Did you two have fun?
You exhale, smiling before you even reply.
You: We had the BEST time.You: She was obsessed.You: You might’ve created a monster.
Sidney: Good. Hockey needs more tiny monsters.Sidney: Especially ones with glitter freckles.
You laugh.
Sidney: Second question:Sidney: Did I live up to expectations?Sidney: Or do I need to skate faster next time?
You grin.
You: She said you were “skating so good.”You: So I think you’re safe.
Sidney: Whew.Sidney: I spent the whole night trying to impress her.SIdney: Really stressful.
You roll your eyes fondly.
Then:
Sidney: Although Sidney: I’m a little hurt that Tanger beat me to the trade.Sidney: My own teammate.Sidney: My own guy.Sidney: Betrayal at the highest level.
You snort, covering your face.
You: Please. You didn’t even get close.You: She saw 58 and her brain left the building.
Sidney: Unbelievable.Sidney: I bring pink ice cream.Sidney: I wave during warmups.Sidney: I set up puck retrieval.Sidney: I text you like a gentleman.Sidney: And she still picks him.
Tragic. Poor Sid.
You: To be fair, he’s known to have the hair. She has an attachment.
A pause.
Sidney: Is that what I need to compete now?Sidney: Long hair?Sidney: Flowing locks?Sidney: Should I start conditioning more?
You: Please don’t.
Sidney: That sounds like you want me to.
You shake your head at your phone.
Another buzz:
Sidney: In all seriousness though.Sidney: I’m glad she had fun.Sidney: I wanted tonight to be good for her.Sidney: For you too.
You: It really was.You: Thank you.
He replies immediately.
Sidney: Anytime.Sidney: And I mean that.
You chew your lip.
You: She fell asleep with the puck in her hand.
Sidney: Yeah?Sidney: That’s adorable.Sidney: And also slightly concerning.Sidney: Protect your walls.
You snicker.
You: No joke. She might throw it at me tomorrow.
He sends a laughing emoji, then:
Sidney: Did you have fun though?
You freeze for a moment, your heart going stupid and soft.
You: Yeah.You: I really did.You: I get it now.You: Hockey’s actually kind of addictive.
Sidney: Careful.Sidney: Once it gets you, it doesn’t let go.
You smirk.
You: Like certain hockey players?
There’s nothing. You to wonder if you pushed too far.
Then:
Sidney: Some of us are very persistent.Sidney: Especially the ones who like hearing you laugh.
Oh.
Oh hell.
Your face heats up.
You: You’re insane.
Sidney: You say that.Sidney: But you keep talking to me.
You sink into the couch, smiling like a fool.
You: Maybe I like talking to you.
Three dots pulse at the bottom of your screen.
You wait.
And then:
Sidney: Good.Sidney: Because I like talking to you too.SIdney: A lot more than I should probably admit on a postgame adrenaline high.
You laugh quietly, heart pounding in your chest.
You: How much is “a lot”?
His reply comes fast:
Sidney: Enough that I’m already thinking about when I get to see you again.
Your fingers hover over the keyboard.
You: Yeah?You: When do you want that to be?
You hold your breath.
Sidney: Soon.Sidney: Preferably before I have to pick a fight Tanger for stealing my favorite five-year-old’s attention.
You burst into laughter, burying your face in your sleeve.
God help you.
~
You tell yourself you are not becoming a hockey person. You tell Michelle this. And Lauren. And your daughter. And yourself again in the mirror. You repeat it like prayer, like affirmation, like denial in its purest form. And then you buy the full-season Penguins streaming subscription at 1:17 in the morning.
For your daughter. Obviously. For her new passion. Her new hobby. Her developing athletic identity. Her dreams of visiting every single arena. Totally reasonable. Totally logical. Totally motherly. Except for when Michelle catches you watching a replay of a game on your lunch break at work.
“Wow,” she says, leaning on your cubicle wall. “Look at you. Hockey Mom Supreme.”
You nearly drop your fork. “It’s for sweet girl.”
“Right,” she nods, dead serious. “The five-year-old hockey historian.”
You glare. “She likes watching him. I mean… them. The team. The whole team.”
Michelle stays quiet, but her eyebrows climb so high you think they might detach from her face.
“It’s educational,” you insist. “She’s learning the sport.”
“Sure,” Michelle says, trying not to smile. “And you just happen to rewind every shift Sid takes. Because that’s where all the… educational value is.”
You feel your entire soul betray you by blushing.
“Shut up.”
Michelle bursts out laughing. “Mama, you’re gone. Absolutely gone.”
You grumble, stabbing your food. “I resent that.”
“You resent how true it is.”
You do. Deep down. Because the truth is Sid texts you good mornings with little comments about his breakfast, and he texts you goodnights after films and meetings, and he starts sending you photos of things he thinks you’ll laugh at. A crooked tape job. A dent in his garage where a teammate of his backed into something years ago. His cat wearing his sunglasses.
He calls you sometimes too. Not just texting. Late-night calls. Quiet calls. He tells you about practice, about the chirps he’s getting from the guys.
“Geno told me to stop smiling so much at my phone,” he mutters one night. “Said I look suspicious.”
You snort loudly. “Do you?”
“No,” he lies. Badly. “Maybe. Apparently.”
“And why would you be smiling so much, Sidney?”
He groans. “Don’t do that voice. I can hear the smirk.”
“I don’t smirk.”
“You do. I’ve seen it.”
And you smile like an idiot, alone in your kitchen, while your daughter sleeps with her hockey puck tucked under her pillow.
Michelle, being Michelle, decides her new life mission is to give you and Sid time alone. She schemes. She bribes. She rearranges her schedule. And she drags Lauren into it too.
Now your life has structure:
Tuesdays: Sweet girl and Owen have “homework club” even though neither of them actually have homework.
Fridays: “Playdates” that suspiciously last hours.
Weekends: Michelle showing up with a duffel bag like she’s kidnapping your daughter for an adventure.
All so you and Sid can talk, or go out, or simply exist in each other’s worlds. And the ridiculous thing is… it works. Sid picks you up after practices for lunch. He brings you coffee. He shows up in that stupid hat and hoodie combination that makes him look like an undercover model. He kisses your cheek sometimes. He reaches for your hand sometimes, like he keeps remembering it’s allowed.
He never pushes. Never assumes. Never steps too far into your space unless you meet him there. And your daughter… god. She adores him. She knows him as Coach Sid from the Little Penguins. As #87. As Mama’s friend. But you want her to know him as… more. One day.
You imagine her showing him how to play knee hockey her way. You imagine him teaching her to tape her stick without making a mess. You imagine her running across the living room yelling, “Sid look!! I scored!!” You let yourself imagine.
Tomorrow you’ll watch another game. Because of your daughter, obviously. Definitely not because you want to see him smile after he scores.
summary: The morning after is all aching ribs and tension she doesn't understand. She keeps trying to leave, to not be a burden, and Oscar keeps gently insisting she stays. When he finally confronts her with her words back to her.
warnings: descriptions of a car accident's aftermath (whiplash, shock, pain medication, etc.), mentions of needing to use the rest. needing help (very brief and vague i promise)
word count: 3.3k
part one | part two | part three
You woke up to sunlight and pain.
The sunlight was streaming through what looked to be familiar windows. The pain was instantly everywhere—your neck, your ribs, your head, places you didn't even know you'd hurt yesterday. Everything that had been muffled by adrenaline and shock had come back with startling clarity.
You tried to sit up and your ribs screamed at you. You froze halfway, breathing through it as slowly as you could without causing the pain to flare again.
"Hey, hey, don't move."
You turned your head—slowly, because that hurt too—and Oscar was there. He was in the armchair next to the couch, still wearing yesterday's clothes. His hair was sticking up on one side and there were shadows under his eyes.
You were on Oscar's couch.
Right.
The hospital. The accident. Oscar bringing you here.
"Did you sleep?" you asked, trying not to sound as guilty as you felt. The words came out raspy, croaky and low after heavy sleep.
He shrugged rather politely before sugarcoating the truth.
"F’course. Slept some."
Of course, now you definitely felt guilty. Before you could find a way to apologize that wouldn’t end up with Oscar scolding you about not needing to apologize, he stood up and crossed over to the couch.
"How do you feel, hm?"
Still blinking slowly, you answered,"I feel fine. Not too bad, actually."
He raised an eyebrow, his expression deadpan as he waited for you to tell him the truth. Of all the people in the world, Oscar Piastri was likely one of the very few who could see through you like that. "Mhm, try again."
"I'm fine," you repeated, insisting and this time you even committed to sitting up. Your body protested every inch of the way but you managed to get yourself upright, even if you had to pause at the end to breathe through the spike of pain in your ribs that felt not unlike what being stabbed with the literal sun might feel like.
By the time the room felt less fuzzy again, Oscar's hands were hovering near your shoulders like he wanted to help but didn't know if you'd let him.
"See?" you gritted out, teeth clenched as you attempted to give him a reassuring smile. "Better than fine."
"Right,” Oscar sighed, rolling his eyes. Still, he didn’t move from your side. Instead, he resorted to asking a different question. "D'you need to use the bathroom?"
You did, desperately, but the bathroom felt very far away, and your legs may or may not have felt like jello. "I can manage."
"I- Okay."
Instead of arguing any further, he stepped back and you stood up.
Or, well… you tried to.
Your legs were shaky and when you put weight on them, suddenly everything tilted sideways. Before you could even process that you were falling, Oscar caught you in an instant, hands firm on your waist.
"Ah, there we go, I've got you," he spoke quietly, as if this was some secret he'd keep safe so you wouldn’t have to feel embarrassed by needing him to save you. Had it not been for his quick reflexes, you’d likely well made a fool of yourself by crumbling to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. Yet you could still fill the warmth of familiar hands holding you up, holding you near.
Was he always standing this close?
"I'm fine, I just—" You tried to pull away but your legs weren't cooperating and his hold only tightened, insistent.
"Stop saying you're fine."
"I am fine."
"You can't even stand."
"I'm standing right now."
"Because I'm holding you up!"
There was something sharp in his voice. Not anger, exactly – frustration, maybe.
"Just let me help."
"I don't need—"
"Yes, you do." His eyes were so tired. "Please. Just let me help."
Your throat went tight. Eventually, reluctantly, you nodded.
Once he was certain you weren’t going to yell at him for it, he helped you to the bathroom, patient and careful as only he could be, and waited a respectful distance away from the door. When you were done, he was right there again, helping you back to the couch even though you insisted you could walk on your own.
You couldn't, really. But you didn't want to admit it.
After you were comfortable in your spot on his couch again, he disappeared into the kitchen and came back with water and your medication and toast that looked just as sad as last night's.
"You need to eat before you take these," he instructed you.
"M’not hungry."
You really didn’t make things easy. Still, he only sighed good naturedly.
"Don't care."
With a dramatic roll of your eyes, you ended up taking the toast. Careful eyes watched you eat it. All the aching everywhere had every bite feeling like you were trying to swallow sandpaper, but you got it down because he was looking at you like if you didn't eat he might actually lose it.
"Happy?" you drawled sarcastically when you were done. If it didn't hurt to breathe too hard, maybe you’d even curtsey.
"Thrilled," he replied, equally sarcastic if only to hide the small smile that threatened to appear on his face instead. Making sure he had the correct dosage, Oscar handed you the pills with a glass of water.
Once you’d finally forced yourself to swallow them down, he took the glass back and you sank into the couch cushions. As much as you’d hoped that would magically dissipate all your aches and pains, everything did still hurt. It wasn't even just the injuries – your neck was stiff from sleeping wrong, your ribs ached with every breath, your head was pounding. It took genuine
Oscar sat on the coffee table in front of you, close enough that his knees almost touched yours.
"What hurts?" he coaxed softly.
"Nothin’."
Oscar tried his very best not to sigh audibly. He’d learned quite some time ago that the slightest sign of frustration only motivated you to apologize more, which was kind of the opposite of what he wanted.
"I– Stop lying to me."
"I'm not—"
"You are."
His voice was quiet, but there was steel underneath it.
"You're sitting like your ribs are broken and even I can tell you haven't turned your head properly once since you woke up. So tell me what hurts."
You looked away from him. "Everything! Everything hurts. Happy now?"
"No."
He stood up and disappeared down the hall.
You closed your eyes and tried to breathe.
This was stupid.
You shouldn't be here. You should be at home where you could suffer in private and not make Oscar watch you fall apart. Something quite like guilt curled tighter in your chest.
He came back with a heating pad and extra pillows. The sight was so soft, so full of thought and care and all the other stuff that might make your heart all mushy in your chest.
"What– What are you doing?" you managed to ask.
"Er, helping?"
He plugged in the heating pad.
"Lean forward."
"Osc—"
"Please lean forward?"
Eye still wide in awe of just how much one person could care, you adjusted your body as he’d requested you too, and he arranged the pillows behind you so when you leaned back your neck was actually supported. Then, he had the audacity to drape the heating pad over your shoulders.
The warmth helped immediately.
You hated that it helped.
"Better?" he hummed.
"You, uh, don't have to do all this."
"I know that…? I was asking if—"
"No, Osc. M’serious. You've– You’ve done enough. I can just—I'll call someone to pick me up. You need to sleep or eat something that’s not toast—."
He sat back down on the coffee table and looked at you like you'd said something incomprehensible. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he looked genuinely hurt, like you’d somehow brought that sad puppy look onto his face. He looked… sad.
"You… think I'm gonna let you leave?"
"I can't stay here forever."
"....You've been here for eight hours."
"Still."
"Still what, exactly?"
There was that sharpness again.
"You have a concussion. You can barely walk. Where exactly do you think you're goin’?"
"Home?"
"By yourself?"
"I'll figure it out!"
"No."
It was flat, final.
"You're staying."
"Oscar—"
"I'm not arguing about this."
He ran a hand through his hair and it stuck up worse than before.
"Why're you fighting me on this?"
"Because I'm not your responsibility!"
The words came out louder than you meant them to, and Oscar went very, very still.
"Is… Is that what you think?" he asked quietly.
"I—"
Suddenly, the sound of your heartbeat was loud and the air in the room was much thinner, causing a strange tightness in your chest.
"It’s just… You have your own life, you know? Like, your own things to deal with. You don't need to be stuck taking care of me."
"I'm not— I’m not stuck."
"But you are. You woke up every three hours last night.There are actual, literal bags under your eyes because of how tired you are. You—"
"I wanted to." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "D'you understand that? I wanted to be here. I want to help. Why's that so hard for you to accept?"
You didn't have an answer for that.
Oscar was watching you, waiting, and you couldn't find the words. Your head was pounding and everything hurt and you were so tired of hurting.
"I just don't get it," you confessed finally. Your voice sounded small even to you, tentative. "I don’t get why you'd, uh, want to."
Something shifted in his expression, confusion tinged with hurt. "What?"
The look on his face… You couldn’t bring yourself to meet his eyes. It was almost like your words were hurting him somehow, and you couldn’t possibly understand how. Nothing you were saying was meant to hurt him. You were only trying to tell the truth.
It took a deep breath for you to find your words again.
"This. All of this."
You gestured vaguely at the pillows, the heating pad, him.
"Putting up with me. I don't—I don't understand, I can figure out why you'd go through all this trouble."
"It's not trouble."
"It is though! Like, objectively it is. You could be sleeping right now. Or– Or you could be doing literally anything else. But instead, you're here watching me like I'm gonna break and I just—"
You had to stop because your voice was cracking.
"I don't. get. why."
Oscar was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was careful, precariously balanced on a single, invisible point.
"...You really don't know?"
"Know what? Don’t know what, Osc?"
He looked at you like he was trying to solve an equation. Then he sat back and there was something almost helpless in the way he said his next words
"You told me I'd make a good boyfriend."
Your brain stalled out, short circuiting in real time. "What?"
"Last night. You said I'd make a good boyfriend. That whoever dates me would be lucky."
Oh god.
You'd said that. You'd actually said that out loud.
"I was—that was the pain meds talking. I didn't mean—"
You could feel your face getting hot.
"That was– It was just a compliment. Like, I was just saying you're a good person, that you—"
"Right."
Amber brown eyes were still watching you with that same careful expression.
"...Just a compliment."
"Yeah. I mean, you know, it’s—"
You were stumbling over the words.
"You’re, like, weirdly good at taking care of people. Like me for example – you bring me toast and add the exact right amount of butter. You remember when I'm supposed to take my meds before I even remember that I need to take them, because you won’t let me be in the slightest pain for even a second. You watch Finding Nemo with me like it’s the first time every time. That's just facts. It wasn't—I wasn't trying to—"
"You said I'm always like this," he continued quietly. "With you."
You remembered that part too, now. The shape of it. How his hand had felt around yours.
"Well. You are."
It came out defensive.
"You're always doing stuff like this. Helping with things. Being there. I was just—it was an observation."
"An… observation," he repeated.
"Yeah."
"Okay."
He nodded slowly, and there was something in his face you couldn't read.
"Can I make an observation?"
You nodded, wary.
"You're scared," he spoke carefully.
"I'm not—"
"Not of the accident. Of this," he gestured between you. "Of letting someone take care of you. Of needing help. Of—"
He paused.
"Of what it might mean if I want to be here."
Your heart was doing something complicated in your chest. "Oscar, I…”
"I'm not a good boyfriend to just anyone," he whispered, and his voice was so gentle it made your throat ache. "I'm good at taking care of you because it's you. I wake up every three hours because it's you. I can't—"
He stopped, dragged a hand over his face.
"I can't watch you hurt and not do everything I can to fix it because it's you."
Oh.
Oh.
The heating pad was warm on your shoulders. The apartment was quiet. You could hear your own heartbeat.
"Oh," you finally whispered, a breath more than anything else.
"Yeah."
His smile was small and a little bit broken.
"Oh."
You were staring at him and he was staring back and the whole world had just tilted on its axis.
"I didn't know," you mumbled stupidly.
"I know you didn't."
The smile Oscar wore was some tragic cross between heartbroken and smitten. It made you want to cry.
He leaned forward again, careful, like he was approaching something that might bolt.
"But now you do."
"Now I do," you echoed softly.
His hand moved like he was going to reach for yours, then stopped. "Is that okay?"
Is it okay.
Is it okay that Oscar — Oscar who'd come to the hospital the second they'd called, who'd stayed all night, who looked at you like you were something precious — was sitting here telling you that it was you, it had always been you.
"I told you you'd make a good boyfriend," you blurted out. Your voice sounded strange. "I meant it. Even with the pain meds. With the— I meant it."
His breath caught, hitching audibly. "...Yeah?"
"Yeah."
And then, because your brain was still foggy and everything hurt and you couldn't seem to stop talking, even more words tumbled out of your mouth.
"I think I meant— I think maybe I was talking about me. Like, whoever you date? I think I wanted—"
You couldn't finish, but you didn't have to. Oscar's face did something that made your chest feel too full, like all the feeling, all the– the this could somehow overflow and pour out of you and into space between the two of you.
"Come here," he said quietly.
"I am here."
"Closer."
You shifted forward and immediately regretted it when your ribs protested, but then Oscar's hands were on your arms, steadying you, and he was so close you could see the exact shade of worry in his eyes.
"For the record," he started, "I don't wanna date just anyone."
"No?"
"No."
His thumb brushed against your forearm, soft and deliberate.
"Just you. If that's— if you want—"
"I do want," you blurted out before you could even think about it, because Oscar looked terrified and you couldn’t stand him feeling like that and you needed him to know. "Oscar, I want."
The smile that broke across his face was like sunrise – soft and tinged pink, radiant and full of promise.
"Okay," he breathed.
"Okay," you echoed, your face splitting into a matching grin. When it came to Oscar, you couldn’t help it, and you didn’t want to. The scrunch of his smile and those adorable buckteeth and that floof of his hair made the butterflies in your stomach flutter all the way into your chest. It made your mind short-circuit, made your heart skip, made you do all the tooth-rotting, sickeningly sweet things only Oscar could bring out in you.
The sound of his voice interrupted your daydreaming.
"But you're still staying on this couch until the doctor clears you."
You couldn’t help the giggle that slipped out, even when it hurt your ribs. Right now, you really didn’t care. "Okay."
His smile only god wider.
"And you're gonna let me take care of you."
"Mhmm."
"And you're gonna stop trying to convince me you're fine when you're clearly not."
You almost nodded, before you stopped yourself. "Hmm, that one might take some work."
Oscar’s expression was so horribly lovesick you couldn’t fathom how you never noticed it before.
"I've got time,” he hummed, his hands still on your arms, warm and steady. "I've got all the time in the world."
Your eyes were burning again, but for a completely different reason than last night.
"Can I—"
You gestured awkwardly between you.
"Can we— I was wondering if—"
"Kiss?" he supplied smugly, and there was something almost teasing in his voice now. "You wanna kiss me?"
"Yes,” you blushed, suddenly shy when everything you didn’t know you wanted was just within reach. “But I don't think I can move without something breaking."
Oscar laughed, soft and fond, and leaned in to close the distance himself. His hand came up to cup the side of your face, careful of the bruise on your cheekbone, and when his lips touched yours it was gentle, tender.
Like you were something that might shatter.
You wouldn't shatter. Not with him holding you like this.
The kiss was everything you could have imagined and more. It wasn’t fireworks so much as it was an all encompassing pleasant thrum that began from your lips met his and spread until it consumed you whole. The warm weight of his lips on yours, the gentle brush of his hand steading your waist, the scent of him — just everything — had you uncertain whether the kiss was breathing life into you or stealing your breath away.
Whatever it was, you hoped it’d keep happening forever.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours and you were both breathing like you'd run a marathon.
"That okay?" he asked, equal parts smug and tentative. Only Oscar could manage to be both at the same time, you thought.
"Better than okay."
"Good."
He pressed a kiss to your forehead then, before carefully guiding you back against the pillows.
"Mhm, now rest. Doctor's orders."
"You're not a doctor," you yawned, before settling in just so you could look at him some more. As pain meds began to kick in the edges started to grow hazy, your mind fought against sleep because you were almost afraid that this would all turn out to be some dream.
Oscar’s fingertips barely grazed against your skin as he brushed a lock of your hair out of your, tucking it behind your ear.
"Boyfriend's orders, then."
Your heart tripped over itself.
"Boyfriend?"
His ears went pink, but he didn't back down. "Yeah. If you want."
"I do want," you assured him, and you'd never meant anything more.
He settled back onto the coffee table, close enough to touch, and picked up his phone. Probably setting an alarm for your next round of medication.
He’d only just thought you’d fallen asleep when–
"...Oscar?"
"Hm?"
"Thank you. For… all o’ this. For bein’ here."
He looked at you and there was so much in his expression — affection and exasperation and something softer than both.
"Always," he replied simply, like it was the easiest promise in the world to make.
You believed him.
a/n: sorry for being mia. brain was being a bitch, but i wrote this and it made me feel a little better. hopefully this can make you feel a little better too <3
Summary: Bucky Barnes x fe!Reader -> When a mission goes wrong, Bucky gets his Dog Tags back.
Disclaimer: This is part three for one and two. Mentions of serious injuries, blood and being hospitalised. Angst, bit of fluff here and there, hurt/comfort, Bucky stays by reader's side. Sam giving Bucky his own reality check, platonic!Wanda, swearing. Left kinda open ended in case I decide to write part four? Not Proof Read.
Bucky stared down at the dog tags in his hands, his thumb rubbing back and forth over the blood stained letters. He had to take a deep breath before the tears started flowing again.
You were meant to be on a simple recon mission. You’d done them a thousand times. Maybe you’d come back with a bruise or two, but you still came back.
This time, his phone had rung throughout his room just as the clock turned 4:00 am. An agent had found the tags on her person. They knew they weren’t hers, but they were definitely someone’s.
Bucky had gotten to the hospital in under an hour. You’d still been in surgery by the time he arrived, but the nurses had brought out your personal belongings in a large plastic bag.
Your clothes; blood stained to hell. Your Shield issued weapons were empty of bullets. Whatever had happened, you’d emptied your clip, plus your three backups. Your knife lay at the bottom of the bag, stained with blood, too.
Bucky couldn’t work out if it was yours or someone else's. But he did know one thing for certain. The blood that lay splattered over his tags, as he pulled the chain from the bag, was yours. You never wore them outside of your uniform. You kept them close to your chest. It couldn’t be anyone else's.
Bucky had left a message at Hill’s desk, as well with Sam explaining what had happened. What he knew, at least. Hill was sending someone to the mission base to find out more.
“Mr Barnes?”
Bucky took in a deep breath as he stood up, clasping the tags in his palm. Maybe if he squeezed tightly enough, he’d be able to feel you.
“Yes.”
“Your wife is now out of surgery. We’ll be keeping her under observation for the foreseeable, but once she’s situated in a room, you’ll be able to sit with her.” The Doctor told him.
Bucky just nodded. “Do you know what happened?”
“I know it’s not common, but I’ll bring you her more detailed medical chart.” They told him. “There was too much extensive damage to talk about off the top of my head.”
Those words hit Bucky in the chest, harder than anything else had ever done.
“But she’ll-” Bucky couldn’t bring himself to talk.
The Doctor just nodded. “She’s going to need a lot of physical therapy. Thankfully nothing broke within her legs, but the damage to her muscles will make her training a lot harder than it should be for a while.”
Bucky nodded.
“But she’ll be okay.”
“Thank you.”
The Doctor nodded. “Thank you for the tags.”
Bucky was a little confused as he followed the doctor’s finger, pointing to his hand. The dog tags? Why was she thanking him for the dog tags?
“If your wife hadn’t been wearing them, we wouldn’t have known who to contact.”
Wife.
Bucky felt himself chuckle inside. If you were awake and could hear the doctor now, you’d have probably made some disgusted eye roll and comment over being even associated with him.
“Oh, yeah.”
The Doctor smiled. “I’ll come and get you when she’s ready.”
“Thank you.”
She just nodded with another soft smile before walking away. Twenty minutes later, he was being walked down the hallway where he stood outside of your room for ten minutes before opening up the door.
You had at least a dozen wires hooked up to you, aside from the standard hospital gear. Bucky just stared at the monitor for a while, watching your heartbeat print onto paper.
Eventually, he sat in the chair beside your bed and looked at you. In that moment, he’d give anything to have you yell at him. Cuss him out, threaten him, roll your eyes…anything.
“They…” Bucky cleared his throat, looking down at the tags in his hand. “They told me you should still be able to hear me…and that talking helps. I know you’re probably mad it’s me who’s here, but you can’t blame me for this one, doll.”
A weak chuckle escaped Bucky’s lips as he looked from his hand and to your sleeping frame. “They think we’re married, by the way. Mostly because of the dog tags they found on you. I’ve…I’ve got em’ right here. They’re safe. You’re safe, doll. Just…just kinda need you to wake up soon. Maybe tell me to piss off. Not that I’d leave you anyway, but that’s kinda our thing, right? Fighting?”
Bucky went silent for a while as he looked at you.
“I need you to fight me, sweetheart.” Bucky told you. “So you’ve gotta mend and pull through all of this. Whatever happened out there in the field…that’s not the end of your story. It can’t be. I won’t let it.”
Bucky could hear your voice in his head. “You’d don’t have a choice in it, Barnes.”.
Bucky told you a few more things, like how he’d called both Hill and Sam. He told you that he’d text Wanda, “She’ll get it once she lands. I’m sure she’ll be flying through that window soon.”
But, eventually, he stopped talking. He just let the sound of your steady heart fill the room. It was proof you were still alive. You were still here.
On the days where Bucky couldn’t sit with you, Wanda took his place. Or Kate. Or Sam. On the odd occasion, Joaquin sat with you. Bucky had walked in on plenty of PowerPoint presentations of how his suit was better than Sam’s old one.
But when he did sit with you, his mind would wander to memories of you and him. Like the training room when he’d told you he knew you had his dog tags, or when he’d helped you when you got hurt a few months back.
But one stuck out to him in particular. Plenty stuck out to him as time ticked by, but he was reminded of this one as he looked at the side table beside your bed. Your knife lay on top, still in its protective covering.
Less than three weeks before you’d landed in hospital, Bucky had been training with you.
The main noises being made were grunts. As you hit his chest, as he knocked your legs down, as you twisted his arm, as he flipped you onto the mat, as you kicked his legs from beneath him, as you both rolled across the mats before you landed on top, trapping him in place.
“Give in yet?”
“Do you?”
You were about to question what he meant, but then you felt it. Cold and sharp; he had your knife, again. But this time, it was pointed against your side.
“What?” You hesitated for a second and looked away. Bucky took his opportunity.
In two simple moves, you were on your back staring up at him with your own knife gently pressed against your skin.
“Give in.”
You groaned and rolled your eyes at his glowing smirk. “Yes. Fine. Now get off me.”
Bucky chuckled and stood up, lowering his hand down to help you up. At first, you swatted it away. But he held it out again, “Come on.”
Reluctantly, you accepted it and he helped you stand. “You’re focusing too much. Too in your head. You need to relax.”
Bucky flipped the knife over in his hand so he was pinching the sharp blade. He handed it over to you and you swiped it up. “Thanks.” Your voice grunted a little before you placed your knife back in its place.
“You know, if you wanted to, you could train with me more often.” Bucky offered as he walked away. “I know you and I are…whatever we are. But I have training that isn’t exactly found in a Shield manual.”
“I’m fine.” You said, avoiding looking at him as he stood with his back to you. You had stared at him in this fashion one too many times. It was only a short time before someone caught you doing so. Even worse if it was Bucky.
“It’s not an issue. Hell, we don’t have to even talk-”
“I said I’m fine.” You didn’t mean to raise your voice when you spoke to him. You regretted it instantly. You sighed. “Look, I know you mean well. And, thank you. But I’m okay.”
Bucky watched you, over his shoulder. You walked away from the mats, grabbed your water bottle and sat down on one of the opposite benches.
“What is it?”
“What?”
“Do you have a problem with me or something?”
You sighed. “Bucky.”
“I get you and I don’t exactly get along-”
“I don’t have a problem with you,” you cut him off. “I just-”
You gave a short sigh. There were so many reasons why it wouldn’t work if he was the one to train you. He wouldn’t know it, but you’d become more distracted by him. And for some reason it was written into the heavens that if you and Bucky spent more than ten minutes alone together, things in the air started to get…close. Too close.
But the main thing was your undisclosed feelings for the super annoying, massive pain in your ass, super soldier. The longer you spent around him, so close to him, the harder they were getting to manage.
It was only a matter of time before he figured out the truth.
“I just don’t think it’s a good idea. Can we just leave it at that? Please?”
Bucky watched you for a moment before nodding. “Okay. Forget I ever mentioned it.”
You just nodded.
Later that evening, Bucky had been with Wanda. And he’d been avoiding the topic of you ever since he walked through the front door.
“Did something happen between you two?” Wanda just flat out asked him.
“No. Nothing happened.”
“You’re sulking, so I know something happened.”
Bucky shrugged. “She just doesn’t want my help. I’ve tried being nice. But she’s just so…her. It’s annoying.”
Wanda nodded. “Yeah, I’m gonna need more information than just…you not handling your school boy crush very well.”
“I don’t-” Bucky shut his mouth as he whipped his head around to look at Wanda. “I don’t like her like that.”
“Doesn’t like who?” Sam asked as he walked through the door.
“Bucky. Not liking Y/n.”
Sam just barked a laugh as he opened up the fridge and put his groceries away. “Ha! That’s a bullshit lie if I’ve ever heard one.”
“What-”
“Bucky,” Sam was practically laughing. “You’ve had a crush on her for god knows how long. I don’t know what twisted bullshit you both have going on that prevents you from talking like normal human beings, but even I know you saying you don’t like Y/n is nothing but a complete and utter bullshit lie.”
Bucky looked at Wanda for backup but she seemed to be on Sam’s side.
“You know, maybe if you…I don’t know…talked to her rather than fight her-”
“She fights me!”
Sam just looked at him. “You fight each other.”
“Maybe you should just try and talk to her,” Wanda told him. “Might just clear a few things up.”
Sam sat down on the arm of the chair. “You’ve had feelings for her for a long time, Buck. Maybe it’s time you did something about it.”
Bucky just sighed.
“How long have you guys been married?”
Bucky hadn’t noticed the nurse walk inside to your hospital room, at first. “Sorry?”
“I’m sorry to ask,” she apologised as she changed out your IV and drew some blood. “It’s just…I’ve seen a lot of couples pass through these doors and I’m yet to see ones with a connection like yours.”
Bucky sat up. The nurse could read the confusion on his face from a mile away.
She just stepped to the side and pointed at the print of the heart rate.
“See these spikes here?”
Bucky nodded.
“These are from when you’ve been with her. It’s good they’re going up. It means she’s recognising her surroundings. At the very least, the people in it. You’re healing for her.”
Bucky just looked at your still sleeping frame. He was helping you heal?
He was helping you heal?
He was helping you heal?
He was helping you heal?
The nurse smiled again. “How long have you two been married?”
“Not long,” Bucky answered. “But we’ve…we’ve known each other for years.”
The nurse smiled. “Who made the first move?”
Bucky thought for a moment. “She did. She saved my life.”
And you had.
You’d been one of the new agents placed with the team. In the middle of a forest, Bucky had noticed every tripwire save for one. As something came flying over head, you’d swiped his legs from underneath him and pinned him down.
“You’re welcome,” you whispered.
That had been the first time Bucky had met you. It had also been the first time he’d looked you in the eyes. He could have happily drowned there and then. Which scared him. More than he knew what to deal with.
“And now you’re here saving hers,” the nurse smiled. “I’ll be back in about an hour. Is there anything I can get you? Blankets, pillows?”
Bucky shook his head. “No, I’m okay. Thank you.”
“She’ll be okay, Mr Barnes.”
Bucky just nodded and watched as the nurse left. As he turned his head, that was when he noticed your chart. They still kept you as Y/n Barnes. Nobody, including Bucky, had bothered to correct them. If anything, it meant Bucky still learnt about your injuries and your healing process.
It also meant he got access to stay with you for as long as he wanted. Which, if he didn’t have to work and if Sam didn’t come and drag him outside every few hours, he’d stay the whole time.
It was a month or so more before you finally woke up.
When Bucky had gotten a text from Joaquin telling him to get to the hospital quickly, he’d dropped what he was doing and came running down the hallway of the hospital ten minutes later.
“What’s happening?”
“I-I don’t know.” Joaquin told him. “I was just holding her hand and she moved. Like, she squeezed my hand.”
“What?” Bucky moved past Joaquin and to your side, leaning his hand on the side headboard.
“Y/n? Hey, doll? Can you hear me?”
Bucky held your hand in his. Nothing happened. “I know you don’t like me all that much, but if you can hear me, can you try and squeeze my hand?”
Again, nothing.
Bucky looked at Joaquin.
“I didn’t dream it.”
Bucky looked back at you. For a split second, he pushed some of your hair from your face. “Doll, if you’re awake, please. I just need you to squeeze my hand.”
Again, nothing.
Until there was something.
“Go and get a nurse.”
“On it!” Joaquin practically flew out of the room.
It all happened in a matter of seconds. Joaquin had been talking to you, telling you that you were gonna be okay. Then you heard Bucky’s voice which was quickly followed by a rough hand gently holding onto yours.
And when you finally opened your eyes, you saw him. Standing beside your bed, holding your hand, looking like the world had finally started moving again.
It was a few hours before you came around properly. And when you did, it felt a lot less hectic. Everything was peaceful and quiet. You had time to look around. There was a steady beeping somewhere.
A heart monitor.
You had different wires and tubes sticking out of you. The lights weren’t as bright as they’d been when you’d first woken up.
But the thing that caught your eye the most was the sleeping frame of Bucky, hunched over your bed. Then you felt it. His hand, still in yours.
You tried to squeeze his hand but eventually it hurt a little less and he stirred awake before shooting up.
“Hey, you’re awake. How are you feeling?”
“How long have I been out?”
Bucky answered you honestly. “Almost two months. The damage was extensive. Can you remember anything?”
You just nodded. “I think I blacked out after the building collapsed because I don’t remember anything after that.”
Bucky stood and pressed a button on the headboard of your bed before sitting beside you, clasping your hand in his. If it had been any other time, you would have taken your hand right back.
But in that moment you needed comfort. You needed to feel safe.
You felt safe with Bucky.
But then you gasped. “Shit.”
“What? Are you hurt? What is it?”
You sat up and touched your chest and neck. “Your- your tags. I-”
Bucky just pulled the chain from his shirt. “There’s right here.”
You visibly relaxed but then you tensed as you watched Bucky remove them. “What are you doing?”
A small chuckle left him, “Just stay still, would you?”
“It’s not like I can exactly run away right now.”
Bucky smiled to himself before lifting the chain up and over your head. “There.”
You looked at him, wondering what he meant by all of it. “They’re your tags, Bucky.”
“Maybe,” he shrugged. “But I know they’re safe with you. They always looked better on you, anyway.”
Once Bucky knew you were okay, he’d wiped the rest of the tags clean. He’d been waiting to lay them back on you. He didn’t want to do it while you were sleeping. He needed you to fight him first.
He needed proof you were alive.
That was when the door opened and a nurse walked inside. “You’re awake! I must say, you nearly gave me and your husband a fright earlier. The doctor hadn’t predicted that you would wake up this early.”
You looked at Bucky and whispered, “Husband?”
“Just go with it,” he whispered back.
It wasn’t until an hour or so, when both the Doctor and nurse had left, that you spoke to Bucky again.
“You wanna tell me why we’re married?”
“They found my tags with you. They called me and…”
“You never corrected them?” You’d asked that question a lot calmer than Bucky had been expecting.
“It meant I got to stay with you longer. And that they’d tell me what was going on.”
“You didn’t need to do that, Bucky.”
Bucky was honest with you. “I’m glad they called me first.”
You hand clutched the tags dangling from your neck. “They really thought you were my husband?”
Bucky chuckled. “If anything, the tags made sure you came home.”
In the silence as you and Bucky looked at each other, you felt the coolness of the metal in your palm. His tags had brought you home. His tags had brought him to you. His dog tags made sure you weren’t alone. And something told you Bucky had the same idea.
Which was only confirmed when he attended almost every physio appointment with you.
“How’s she doing, doc?”
The physio smiled as they held their arms up, in case you fell. “She’s doing great.”
“She’s tired and pissed off.” You answered truthfully.
“If it makes you feel any better, I brought your favourite snacks from that store you and Kate found.”
Your hand gripped the two parallel bars as you slowly walked from one side to the other. “How the hell do you know about that store?”
“I asked Kate. She told me.”
As the phyio’s pager went off, Bucky offered to take over for a few minutes to help you. And, considering the medical staff still believed you and Bucky to be married, you’d both decided to just keep the act up.
So, slowly walking beside you in case you fell, Bucky helped you turn around and walk back down the parallel bars.
“How’ve you been feeling?”
“You mean other than tired and pissed off?”
“Yeah.”
“Sore,” you admitted. “Bored. I can’t wait to get back home.”
If Bucky was being honest, he would say the same thing. Even if you did spend more time fighting each other, he missed it. He missed you.
“Neither can I.” The honesty slipped out from Bucky before he could think about any awkward consequences.
You paused and looked at him. “What?” Your voice was a little softer than usual.
“What?” Bucky shrugged. He’d said it. There was no taking it back. “It’s boring without you. I get we might fight the whole time, but without you I’ve got no one to keep my ego in check.”
Bucky earned a laugh from you as you looked away to keep walking. And he laughed, too.
You had to admit. Laughing with Bucky rather than groaning was a nice change.
And it only got easier from there on out. Your groans had turned to laughter, your scowls had turned to smiles and the roll of your eyes had turned to tears of laughter.
And slowly, the same things happened for Bucky, too.
Eventually, the ten minute window you and Bucky spent together turned into twenty, then forty and before either of you knew it, hours had passed.
You were both together and, surprisingly, still alive.
Mr. Kornich presents Anna to Baron Bethlenffi, and the baron basically calls her plain but sturdy, adding that his last wife was (lovely but) so frail she couldn't bear him any children. Anna is shaking and sweating.
Modri is incensed that the baron would be so rude to Anna. It's bad enough she doesn't want this marriage to begin with, and now her intended fiancé is treating her like he's window shopping for an incubator. Truth be told, that's just what he's doing.
Modri makes a fist and moves to punch the baron, but someone steps forward, reaching out a gloved right hand to stop the attack. The mystery man asks the baron to introduce Anna to him.
I'm not sure if it's simply because the mystery man calls Anna "lovely", but Modri seems to fall under a spell. Anna is still nervous, but now she's clutching at her necklace. The baron realizes who has just shown up, and he introduces the man as his consultant, a financial advisor from Vienna.
The consultant goes on to give his name and specifies that he travels around the (Austro-Hungarian) empire and that he assists "distinguished families" with their "sensitive interests". This leaves his position open to interpretation as more than just a financial advisor.
He puts out his left hand now, also gloved, while essentially saying he might be of service (to Modri, Anna, and/or Mr. Kornich) if needed.
He appears to have blond hair, and that's about all I can see. When he states his name and shows his face, we still cannot see either. Is Yana-san covering those up for a reveal later... or has she decided his face and name don't matter, so perhaps she never decided on his assumed name or appearance?
I'm thinking that Anna and the baron's engagement moves forward, since we've previously seen the bloody scene with the flower wreath from her head. They are at a church, so I'm thinking that might have been their wedding ceremony when the demon changes shape (becomes goop) and starts devouring souls.
—In which you find yourself missing your garden.
<<part one, part two, part four>>
A/n: This is probably going to be my last part, but anything after this that is related to this prompt/mini series will be just like stupid little blurbs, yk?
Sighing in relief, you wiped the sweat from your brow. You’d just managed to change the bandages on your leg, and that by itself was a workout.
It was irritating. You felt useless. Your only job was to tend to the garden— but he’d given that to some half pint, half assed little man. You didn’t like that little man, he let some flowers die.
And while having Sukuna’s affections and favor toward you was nice— you missed being special— being valuable for that reason. You knew the garden and everything it needed. No one else knew. No one took care of it like you did.
And while you were glaring at the wall, a pissy pout on your lips, you didn’t notice walking in, only to pause and stare at you. His eyes narrowed and it was like he tried to read your thoughts.
“What’s on your mind, brat?” Sukuna sat down a bowl of meat and fruit— thankfully not human, and just grilled chicken. Sukuna had tried that once, but when you’d figured out what it was— before eating it, you screamed and screamed and screamed at him. It didn’t matter if he threatened you, you were appalled.
Lessons were learned.
You’re not a cannibal.
Blinking from your trance, you look up to Sukuna, eyeing the frustrated frown on his lips. “What’s the matter? Eat.” He poked the side of your head and finally nodded in satisfaction when you did eat.
“You’ve replaced me.” You huffed, before gladly choking down the food. Being critically wounded in the leg would do it to a person. You’ve found yourself much more hungry and thirsty now a days. Maybe it was just having to deal with Sukuna’s energy. Or how he had his fingers or face shoved up your cunt 24/7.
“What are you on about now? If anything, I’ve raised your status. Of course, you’ll almost be as powerful as me when I make you my queen.” He grinned when he heard your heartbeat pick up. Oh he loved knowing the effect he had on you.
“Ok, but, now all I do all day is sit around and watch as your replacement ruins the garden.” You turned away from him, glaring outside the large open window and down at the garden.
“You’re still mad about that?” Sukuna rolled his eyes before wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling back into him as he sat. Your back rested on his chest and his knees were propped on either side of you.
“Yes.” You melted back against him nonetheless. His warmth always had you relaxing into him.
“You don’t want to be my queen?” Sukuna’s voice dropped a level, his eyes turning to a narrow glare.
“What? No. I never said that.” You turned your head to look at him so fast it gave you whiplash. “I just don’t like that some man is touching my garden.”
Sukuna wordlessly raised a brow, looking both amused and unimpressed at the same time.
“Your garden, hm?” Leaning in, he pressed sweet little kisses all along your neck, before promptly biting down on your shoulder, deep enough to actually draw a bit off blood.
“Ow! Hey— that hurts!” You tried to push him off by his forehead, hissing at the sting when he finally pulled away. “You are so mean.”
“You’re the one letting power get to your head. Calling it your garden, human you truly are something.” Sukuna grinned away the wound, happy with the way he could see each teeth mark imbedded into your kiss. The little pricks of blood giving him a level of satisfaction he’d never admit.
“Well— I- whatever.” Scoffing, you crossed your arms and looked back out the window.
“Seeing you so upset over something so trivial is quite amusing.” His arms tightened around you, and your scowl deepened.
“When will my leg heal?” Ignoring his comment, you tilted your head back to peak up at him.
“Hopefully not for a long time. I enjoy having you here like this… having to lean on me completely.” Sukuna just bit into your cheek. Grinning, almost smiling, when you whined and pulled away.
“Stop biting me! I’m going to have bruises everywhere. The servants look at me weird— and your concubines??? Where have they all gone?” You side eyed him, only for him to scoop you up and sit you on a table. Your legs dangling from the table.
“I don’t need them. Unfortunately for me, you’ve infected my brain like a little parasite. Well, humans are parasites, yet you seem to be my favorite.”
“How are you so mean but sweet at the same time?” You sighed, only to glare out the window again.
“You are impossible to please, woman. I will give you the garden, as long as you swear you’ll be my queen once you heal.” Sukuna pulled your face back over to him, his hand coming up to hold you cheeks.
Your eyes widened and a big smile pulled at your lips. “Really?”
Sukuna just sighed and rolled his eyes.
“Then yes! I will.” Pressing a kiss to his lips, only to pull away when he moved to take a step away.
A shit eating evil little fucking smirk on his lips, “of course, if you said no I’d still make you my queen and would flay the earth ‘til you said yes, but I am glad you did.”
You could only roll your eyes, “Anddd you ruined it.” Sighing, you looked down at your leg, before giving him a cheeky grin, “can I have some mango’s, my king?” You teased him.
Sukuna could feel his eye twitch and his cock throb, “and you call me evil. When you heal, be prepared to not walk for another week, woman.” Sukuna pressed a deep kiss to your lips, only for you to smile into it.
