the house set fire to my heart (Whip It, Bliss/Pash, R)
Title: the house set fire to my heart
Author: aphrodite_mine
Recipient: librelivre, who, based on her requests, is totally awesome.
Fandom: Whip It
Pairing: Bliss/Pash
Rating: R
Word count: 1,100 (and late!)
Disclaimer: The characters belong to the novel Derby Girl and the film Whip It, the title is a lyric from a Bat for Lashes song.
Warnings: Derby violence. Second person. Language.
Note: Thanks to Maia for the beta and read-through.
Summary: There are no tears in derby, but there are lots and lots of feelings.
--
Four whistles three times, a rough yell--”Take a knee!”--and the entire warehouse goes silent. You shove the asshole in front of you, knowing this isn’t good, needing to see. When the low murmur starts up, you see her--Bliss is just ahead of the pack, holding her helmet, her body curled up into itself. The rest of the team, the Hurl Scouts, have taken a knee, but the visitors, the Candy Strippers, don’t look happy. No one else is down.
Bliss’s gotten this far without any real injuries. You’ve seen the bruises and cuts, of course. Someone had to help her into the bath when her legs were too stiff. And she was proud, like any blossoming newbie, of the nebular shapes blooming across ass and thigh. One, from Maven’s hard hitting, was as big as the span of your hand. You measured, more than once, and then touching the spot more out of habit than anything else. But since that bout against the Holy Rollers, back when she was just a newbie, you don’t think you’ve seen Bliss just lie there like this. You’re trying not to worry. Trying.
“Somebody play!” shouts a drunken fuckhead across the track, and you’re this close to losing your shit, jumping the bar, and bashing his head in--him and any bystanders, but he is quickly hushed by the nearest roller girl. And that doesn’t mean the adrenaline subsides, so you shove the asshole again, feeling something well up inside. Bliss would kill you if you interrupted game play, managed to get on the track, go to her. Even if she is hurt. There’s a thing called sanctity of the game, and at times like these you just don’t fucking get it.
The medic at her side looks serious, but that’s pretty much their job. You close your eyes, almost--fuck--praying, and you’ll never tell Bliss about this because she’ll either laugh in your face or give you that look... the one she gave you when you knew that she would like White Hot Passion Tea better than regular Green Tea, and you can see the look now, and it makes you want to squirm all over again, though this is hardly the time or place.
--Except apparently, it is. Because you would do anything (well, a lot) to not be here, to have this not be happening, and to just be home, in a few hours, kissing away Bliss’s derby stench in the shower. Your hands, moving over every part, feeling for new bruises, for tenderness. Moving slow.
You hear a moan, and hope to Rainbow-Loving Jesus it comes from your memory and not suddenly clear from the track floor, somehow over the low, fuzzy murmur of the crowd.
The louder they get, the more anxious you grow, hopping from one foot to the other, hugging yourself. Hot Tub Johnny (Bliss told you his nickname, and you were even invited to an after party, once) even starts up a low stream of commentary, mentioning some sponsors. You want to kick him in the balls. Course, then he’d need a medic too.
A rush of noise--a reaction, your eyes fly open. Bliss is on her back, and her expression reads pain. Oh, hell no. You have a feeling that whoever is responsible for this is not only going to have to answer to you after the game, but a whole team of angry girls. Only a game, sure... but fuck with the jammer? Fuck with Babe Ruthless?
You don’t remember how you got there, but you’re at the rail. And the only option now, really, is to climb over it. Bliss will just have to get over it.
A shout comes up from behind you--several shouts in fact--as you try to find purchase on a surface that is most definitely not meant for climbing, let alone in flip-flops.
“The fuck!”
“Get down!”
“That chick is wasted!”
“Nice ass!”
--a nice ass that was halfway out of your cargo pants at the moment you flipped over the rail, tumbling down the banked track. Incredibly graceful, really. A subtle tug and you’re free to rush, helter-skelter to Bliss’s side.
She catches your eye immediately, after you end up on the receiving end of several glares from roller girls on both teams. “Pash,” she groans, “You totally aren’t allowed up here.”
The medic touches her side, and Bliss curls up. “Okay, yeah--that’s where it hurts.”
You take her hand, unbidden, and don’t squeeze--just touch her. She is warm. You never minded the wrist guards, or the sweat, or the glory. “I’ll take you wherever you need to go,” you tell her, eyes on hers. Her hair is matted down from her helmet, and her uniform is damp.
She must really hurt, because she agrees. Lets you ease her to her feet, skating off the track between you and Bloody Holly, who works as a nurse during the day, amicably waving to the crowd, who cheer her off. “I got it from here,” you tell Holly, once you reach the parking lot, not wanting to take another girl away from the game.
“Okay,” you turn to Bliss, who looks near tears, “I have some rules for the rest of the night.”
“Are you serious?”
If there’s anything you understand, it is that there are no tears in derby, and if Bliss is going to uphold that rule, she needs some levity, fast. From somewhere inside, you dig up a vampire voice, or some approximation thereof. “As the grave.”
Okay, she cracks a smile.
“Rule one: You are not allowed to think about tonight’s game until Maggie calls you later with the score, and you know she will.” You hold up a hand to refute any protests. “Rule two: You tell me exactly what, where, and how much it hurts. Rule two part B: You allow me to doctor and pamper you until fully healed.”
“And what if I would like to play the part of the doctor?”
“After you are fixed.” A harsh, but necessary ruling.
“You are such a mean wife.” Bliss winces as she gets in the passenger seat. Her Hurl Scouts uniform rides up and you can see a fresh bruise starting to form on her thigh.
You lean against the car door, suddenly weak, like you are the one who has been circling the track. What if she’s broken a rib? What if she can’t play? What if she has to go to the hospital? What if--
“Third rule. You’ll hurt less if you go to your happy place. So, you gotta do that, okay?”
Bliss is made from better stuff than most people. More solid. More true.
She reaches out a hand and touches your cheek, your chin, your nose. “Pash, I’m already there.”
Author: aphrodite_mine
Recipient: librelivre, who, based on her requests, is totally awesome.
Fandom: Whip It
Pairing: Bliss/Pash
Rating: R
Word count: 1,100 (and late!)
Disclaimer: The characters belong to the novel Derby Girl and the film Whip It, the title is a lyric from a Bat for Lashes song.
Warnings: Derby violence. Second person. Language.
Note: Thanks to Maia for the beta and read-through.
Summary: There are no tears in derby, but there are lots and lots of feelings.
--
Four whistles three times, a rough yell--”Take a knee!”--and the entire warehouse goes silent. You shove the asshole in front of you, knowing this isn’t good, needing to see. When the low murmur starts up, you see her--Bliss is just ahead of the pack, holding her helmet, her body curled up into itself. The rest of the team, the Hurl Scouts, have taken a knee, but the visitors, the Candy Strippers, don’t look happy. No one else is down.
Bliss’s gotten this far without any real injuries. You’ve seen the bruises and cuts, of course. Someone had to help her into the bath when her legs were too stiff. And she was proud, like any blossoming newbie, of the nebular shapes blooming across ass and thigh. One, from Maven’s hard hitting, was as big as the span of your hand. You measured, more than once, and then touching the spot more out of habit than anything else. But since that bout against the Holy Rollers, back when she was just a newbie, you don’t think you’ve seen Bliss just lie there like this. You’re trying not to worry. Trying.
“Somebody play!” shouts a drunken fuckhead across the track, and you’re this close to losing your shit, jumping the bar, and bashing his head in--him and any bystanders, but he is quickly hushed by the nearest roller girl. And that doesn’t mean the adrenaline subsides, so you shove the asshole again, feeling something well up inside. Bliss would kill you if you interrupted game play, managed to get on the track, go to her. Even if she is hurt. There’s a thing called sanctity of the game, and at times like these you just don’t fucking get it.
The medic at her side looks serious, but that’s pretty much their job. You close your eyes, almost--fuck--praying, and you’ll never tell Bliss about this because she’ll either laugh in your face or give you that look... the one she gave you when you knew that she would like White Hot Passion Tea better than regular Green Tea, and you can see the look now, and it makes you want to squirm all over again, though this is hardly the time or place.
--Except apparently, it is. Because you would do anything (well, a lot) to not be here, to have this not be happening, and to just be home, in a few hours, kissing away Bliss’s derby stench in the shower. Your hands, moving over every part, feeling for new bruises, for tenderness. Moving slow.
You hear a moan, and hope to Rainbow-Loving Jesus it comes from your memory and not suddenly clear from the track floor, somehow over the low, fuzzy murmur of the crowd.
The louder they get, the more anxious you grow, hopping from one foot to the other, hugging yourself. Hot Tub Johnny (Bliss told you his nickname, and you were even invited to an after party, once) even starts up a low stream of commentary, mentioning some sponsors. You want to kick him in the balls. Course, then he’d need a medic too.
A rush of noise--a reaction, your eyes fly open. Bliss is on her back, and her expression reads pain. Oh, hell no. You have a feeling that whoever is responsible for this is not only going to have to answer to you after the game, but a whole team of angry girls. Only a game, sure... but fuck with the jammer? Fuck with Babe Ruthless?
You don’t remember how you got there, but you’re at the rail. And the only option now, really, is to climb over it. Bliss will just have to get over it.
A shout comes up from behind you--several shouts in fact--as you try to find purchase on a surface that is most definitely not meant for climbing, let alone in flip-flops.
“The fuck!”
“Get down!”
“That chick is wasted!”
“Nice ass!”
--a nice ass that was halfway out of your cargo pants at the moment you flipped over the rail, tumbling down the banked track. Incredibly graceful, really. A subtle tug and you’re free to rush, helter-skelter to Bliss’s side.
She catches your eye immediately, after you end up on the receiving end of several glares from roller girls on both teams. “Pash,” she groans, “You totally aren’t allowed up here.”
The medic touches her side, and Bliss curls up. “Okay, yeah--that’s where it hurts.”
You take her hand, unbidden, and don’t squeeze--just touch her. She is warm. You never minded the wrist guards, or the sweat, or the glory. “I’ll take you wherever you need to go,” you tell her, eyes on hers. Her hair is matted down from her helmet, and her uniform is damp.
She must really hurt, because she agrees. Lets you ease her to her feet, skating off the track between you and Bloody Holly, who works as a nurse during the day, amicably waving to the crowd, who cheer her off. “I got it from here,” you tell Holly, once you reach the parking lot, not wanting to take another girl away from the game.
“Okay,” you turn to Bliss, who looks near tears, “I have some rules for the rest of the night.”
“Are you serious?”
If there’s anything you understand, it is that there are no tears in derby, and if Bliss is going to uphold that rule, she needs some levity, fast. From somewhere inside, you dig up a vampire voice, or some approximation thereof. “As the grave.”
Okay, she cracks a smile.
“Rule one: You are not allowed to think about tonight’s game until Maggie calls you later with the score, and you know she will.” You hold up a hand to refute any protests. “Rule two: You tell me exactly what, where, and how much it hurts. Rule two part B: You allow me to doctor and pamper you until fully healed.”
“And what if I would like to play the part of the doctor?”
“After you are fixed.” A harsh, but necessary ruling.
“You are such a mean wife.” Bliss winces as she gets in the passenger seat. Her Hurl Scouts uniform rides up and you can see a fresh bruise starting to form on her thigh.
You lean against the car door, suddenly weak, like you are the one who has been circling the track. What if she’s broken a rib? What if she can’t play? What if she has to go to the hospital? What if--
“Third rule. You’ll hurt less if you go to your happy place. So, you gotta do that, okay?”
Bliss is made from better stuff than most people. More solid. More true.
She reaches out a hand and touches your cheek, your chin, your nose. “Pash, I’m already there.”