Tim Laflour oneshots

Tim has a panic attack

Hello Hello Hello! I'm back in the workroom. This one is going to be a little more blue than usual. ⚠️Mentions of panic attacks!⚠️. I promise you guys though, that the next story is going to be a cheerful one!

☆Request from!: onlyposersfuckingdie☆

Enjoy and please type down in the comments what you'd like me to write next! ☆

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Everything was going swell. You and Tim were cuddling on the couch watching an ice hockey game, Tim's arm was no longer wrapped around you but it didn't seem to matter, right? You stretched your arms since you didn't particularly know what was going on, but it didn't matter since you preferred watching Tim react to the tv.

Speaking of which, he didn't say anything for a while. You assumed it was because he was focused on the game, but you weren't that big of a noob to miss that his favorite team scored. Something's up. His leg was shaking and you could literally hear him breathing. You looked up at him and that's when you saw it. Tim was sweating, his hands were trembling on his knees and he blinked a few times as if he was about to faint at any moment. Tim was having a panic attack.

"Hey, Timmy it's alright. I'm here." You'd rub his arm, causing him to lean into your embrace and stuff his face in your shirt. You could feel the heat from his forehead. You'd stroke the short blonde waves with your fingers, murmuring soft comforting phrases like "It's okay. I've got you. I love you. Don't worry."

"What're five things you can see?" You'd whisper in his ear, causing him to look up at you in a confused manner.

"The cabinets, the TV, t-the..." Tim would choke up, going back to hugging you.

"It's okay, take your time Timmy. No rush."

"...The remote, my hockey stick, and you."

"Awesome! Four things you can feel?"

"My jeans, your hair, your shirt, and Prince Edward." He'd shift uncomfortably, causing you to grin. He was already feeling slightly better.

"Perfect, now three things you can hear?"

"You, the washing machine, t-the..."

"You're doing a great job, Timmy, you can do it."

"The match." He'd say, almost as if he was letting out a ball of stress. His shoulders dropped and his breath no longer quickened. It had something to do with the hockey game!

"Right, you're almost there. Two things you can smell?"

"Your shampoo and your laundry detergent." Tim would murmur, going back into your arms for comfort. He closed his eyes as he lay on your stomach, you peck his lips.

"One thing you can taste?"

"Your chapstick." He grinned up at you, there was your sunshine. You both sat in silence for a little while, until you popped the question.

"Was the game not good? I thought your team was winning?"

"S'not that...It's just that I worry that I'll not be as good as them, and you know I wanted to be an ice hockey player for a living."

"Ever since you discovered was ice hockey was, I remember."

You both sat in silence, Tim playing with the ends of your hair.

"You do realize the team you're rooting for hasn't scored more than twice, right?"

"Hey! Don't disrespect the legends like that." You raised your hands in defense of his attack.

"I'm just saying! If you can score 6 times in the games you play and they," you motioned at the TV "can't even go a minute without losing the object-"

"The puck." He corrected.

"Let me finish. Then you have all of the chances to be great champions like them, or even better!"

Tim pondered for a minute. I mean, it's not like you were wrong, he just grew up to always doubt what he does whether successful or not. But hey, if his girl was saying that he had a chance, then he had a chance.

"I guess you're right."

"I don't guess, I know."

"Right. 'Course you do." He'd give you a peck on the cheek.

"Wanna watch something else?"

"Please."

You let the silence settle for a moment.

"Clueless?"

"Get out of my apartment."