#I really really love setting myself up for failure uh?

[mwolf0epsilon]

Me: You know what? To heck with it! I'm writing a horror themed version of the Umbara arc because of this one tiny detail that's been on my mind that could very easily lead into some Alien type shenanigans. Brain: Oh! Sounds festive. Ok, to begin with we need to design the creatures for this feature, which means cracking open all your refs of the beasts they're based off of. Plus re-reading all fics that have to do with this mutual's OC you're gonna be writing with, just to make sure you haven't forgotten all the details of their intricate personality and thought process. Oh and also rewatching the entire story arc you're about to rewrite into a sci-fi horror themed one instead... Me: Brain: Brain: Well go on! Don't just sit there! Me: WAH! -starts sketching and reading-

[brother-emperors]

ANTONY: if Caesar doesn't set Sextius Baculus up in a house worthy of Lucullus for all that he did, I'll kill him myself.

so the fun thing about the Caesarians is that there is. weird stuff happening in there. a lot of focus seems to go towards non Caesarian dissent, specifically with the conspiracy of Cassius and Brutus, but there's like. stuff going on in Caesar's own camp that's very Intriguing.

There's a couple places where you can see some clear points that would be grounds for a conspiratorial falling out between Caesar and Trebonius, but from the way that Trebonius tries to seduce Antony over to conspiracy, I wonder if there was a secret third thing that was going on since Antony turned him down but. didn't snitch intriguing!

anyway, all of this is to say that this means I get to invent some shit. like, I'm drawing comics which is already invention, but this is one where I get to really start throwing stuff into the narrative soup because it has to set up three different character arcs (Trebonius, and then Antony twice)

(in theory, this would be explained in the story itself if I did the entirety of the Gallic Wars out as a comic. which I have not done because I do not want to draw horses. I wanted to fuck around with some panel layouts and not draw a single horse, so now I will provide the context and revisit this in the future)

Antony's comment about Trebonius running himself into a grave has to do with the Caesar's Gallic Wars have a lot of men doing a whole lot for Caesar that has me going. hey. hey guys. uh.

specifically, Sextius Baculus:

The War for Gaul, Julius Caesar (trans James J. O'Donnell)

and the closing comment from Antony is playing on several things: romans claiming gods on their family tree (see: Legendary Genealogies in Late-Republican Rome, T.P. Wiseman for more on this) and then divinization arc of Caesar and Octavian. Antony himself will later be taking part the same kind of god-association that has prompted his disdain in this scene

At any rate, when Antony made his entry into Ephesus, women arrayed like Bacchanals, and men and boys like Satyrs and Pans, led the way before him, and the city was full of ivy and thyrsus-wands and harps and pipes and flutes, the people hailing him as Dionysus Giver of Joy and Beneficent. For he was such, undoubtedly, to some; but to the greater part he was Dionysus Carnivorous and Savage.

Plutarch, Antony 24

and the second layer of thematic fun: Antony's later relationship with his soldiers is something similar to what Caesar had with his here, but ultimately: decayed. Antony's love affair with his military makes his failure to lead well at the end a worse betrayal. at some point I'll talk about Antony's Tormentous Military Nightmare and cite some academic sources, but Linda Bamber's description of the final tragedy of Antony and his men lives in my head rent free

Cleopatra and Antony, Linda Bamber

where's the fun in doing identity focused tragedy if you don't become unrecognizable to yourself later on! isn't that right mark antony

ko-fi⭐ bsky ⭐ pixiv ⭐ pillowfort ⭐ cohost ⭐ cara.app

[destinygoldenstar]

Ninjago Dragons Rising Season 2 - Is It Good Or Nah?

So, I'm late to the party, aren't I?

Well I've had so much work that I think I'm having an existential crisis. So I had to wait till I had a free day to watch this season because I wanted to watch it with my GF.

We got to Episode 6, and then what did my boss do?

Slap me in the face with long work hours several days of the week.

I feel like I'm in a spiral of work after work after work with no purpose to life besides failure cause I can't trust myself to be capable at anything-

ANYWAY. We finished it now.

You know what the insane part about the season is? That it got the show trending on Tumblr.

That's an INSANE level of hype right there.

So I seriously had to ask myself "What the actual f**k happened in the show that caused THIS much hype?!"

So... here are my thoughts on the season.

SPOILER WARNING

Okay, so this may be a factor of my judgement, but due to my schedule, I was forced to watch only 6 Episodes one day, and then the last 4 Episodes today. Keep that in mind.

When it came to the first half of the season, was it good?

Yes. Obviously.

Was it living up to the insane level of hype?

Uh... not really for me??

Now, don't take that as a negative. This season is still REALLY good.

After the first season took awhile to get started as it needed to set up its characters and this new world, it makes sense for this season to throw the punches immediately.

The season gets started with its main plot right away with Ras immediately putting his plan into action, and by Episode 2, it's very clear the threat level he opposes and it's believable that we should be intimidated by what he wants.

Even though in Episode 2's fight, while AMAZINGLY choreographed, I was just screaming at the screen "HIT THE PERSON HOLDING THE GONG."

Like seriously, more than one of the characters in this fight can use projectiles with their powers AND they have a blaster in the Bounty, and the show never says that Ras has some sort of armor defense preventing him from getting blasted. He's literally standing out in the open. And the gong is clearly what's giving Cinder power. So HIT THE PERSON WITH THE GONG.

GOSH.

Anyway, that's not important. What's important is that this season's fight choreo is genuinely AMAZING. I am obsessed with the way the camera moves with the characters in these fights you have no idea. I was genuinely blown away by the last episode's fight in particular. But more on the ending later.

What also shocked me was how BRUTAL some of the stuff that happens here is, which caught me off guard.

I mean, Episode 2 has Euphrasia getting ambushed and crashed off the Cloud Kingdom with clear injuries, and Wyldfyre getting her leg SHATTERED. Like, WHAT?! HOW OFTEN DOES THAT HAPPEN?!! (Even though the latter's healing was unrealistic. Like, it would realistically take months for an injury like that to heal. Not a critique, just saying.)

Ras body slams Jordanna at one point. He puts Arin in a CHOKEHOLD. And also beats him up so brutally... like OMG this guy does not mess around.

The Fear Cave Trial also REALLY got me tripping. Not only was it such a visually appealing moment, but it also, as the same suggests, showed several character psyches that were insane.

Except Kai for some reason. That's gonna drive me NUTS until I get an answer. WHAT DID HE SEE-?!

Then we get to the dragon mentors, and...

Yeah the season kinda loses me in the middle.

Don't get me wrong, I love the character bits here as much as anyone. But with how dyer they made the threat of Ras before, Ras and his forces take a backseat in the middle portion of the season and we're mostly just sitting at these training grounds talking. And for four episodes of it? It's a little grating, even if it is important.

The middle is mostly where most of my issues with the season stand. And here's where I get all my negatives out of the way:

Like I said, because this season is so long, there's an awkward pause in the conflict on the dragons plotline to learn this Rising Dragon Technique. Which I wouldn't mind if it wasn't FOUR EPISODES of it.

With the exception of the attack at the Land of Lost Things ONCE, Ras's army doesn't go after the ninja at all. I can kinda get the dragons group since they didn't have Bonzle, but he has to know that they ARE a threat, right? They're obviously trying to figure out how to stop you.

And even with the group that has Bonzle, what they NEED, the forces that go after that group is the Administration and the one off magician man villain, the former really didn't need to be in this season even if it was for a compelling Jay cameo, and the latter has overstayed his welcome at this point and I just rolled my eyes when he showed up on screen.

I'm all for Cole being a badass as much as the next guy, but WHY this magician man, who at this point, is so disconnected with the main antagonistic forces that he serves no purpose?

Why not, I don't know, use this screen time instead to explain what in the world happened with Cole when he left?

Seriously, the first season had this huge cliffhanger with Cole's character and him going after Wu's ghost. I wonder what's gonna happen to him and what he's gonna find out-

Oh. He's just back.

That to me is a huge disappointment. What was the point of him leaving the Lost Family in the first place if this journey was basically nothing? He doesn't even talk about it! COME ON NOW.

Also I think Zane should get slay pass on the Administration guy that called him equipment. What do y'all think?

I don't like Egot. Or whatever his name was. He's very condescending and cryptic and talks down to his only hope of the world being saved. But I think I'm supposed to dislike him for it, and there's gonna be more of his characterization revealed later, so don't take this one as a critique. The female one is great though.

The sorceress lady was... a choice in the narrative. My one critique for the ending was the potion shenanigans. Not because they were bad, but because they just felt so out of place among everything else. Like, "Oh, this finale is too dark and intense! We need to occasionally cut to wacky shenanigans with this sorceress's magic to prevent kids from feeling too much dread!"

I don't know, for me, I would've placed this stuff with the Administration instead, and instead have the group fight Jordanna, lose, and have her get away and flow that to Arin getting to her. Especially since the Administration posed such little threat to them and they even say such.

(I also have a theory that this sorceress is Wyldfyre's birth mom. I have no evidence to back this up besides "They both have red hair and similar facial structure")

With Cloud Kingdom getting taken over and Euphrasia captured, I thought she would have more of a role to play in this since this is, you know, her HOME and she's their guardian.

But nope. She does next to nothing up until the very end and plays prisoner and waits for the ninja to save her.

For gosh sake girl, you're the master of wind. FLY.

And finally, my last critique, Cinder.

Yeah I'm sorry, I'm not buying this character so far. Not that I don't think he'll have anything to do in the second part, but for how threatening he was in Episode 2, that threat level kinda vanishes in the middle and only comes back at the end. He does next to nothing and we learn nothing about him other than "He likes power". Jordanna is probably more unlikeable, but at least she has conflict going on with Ras and her magic, and she still serves more of a role in the plan besides being a foot soldier.

And... yep. That's all my critiques for this season. Which all seem pretty minor.

You know what this season is real good at? Characters.

As though that wasn't obvious already.

I did NOT expect Bonzle to play any major role at all, I thought she was just gonna be the dry and cynical side character. But no. She has a history. She has a life. She has emotions. All of which REALLY shine through at the end when you hear her voice have more range in it. The VA killed it. I ended up feeling so bad for her.

Especially considering what happens to her.

They're also not even hiding it anymore with Geo x Cole. They're just NOT. I love them and I hope we see more of their relationship in the future.

I genuinely don't understand the critique of "Geo is so selfish referring to him as Cole's family when it's obvious Cole has other people in his life."

Well no shit, you ever heard of a character flaw?

But it's also a completely understandable flaw. You guys aren't forgetting the part where Geo was abandoned for being a mixed race, right? Of course he's gonna cling to someone as compassionate and encouraging as Cole.

The Jay cameo was nice. I expect him to play no role in this season, but it's really compelling what they showed and I was satisfied with it.

Lloyd's conflict was handled very well in my opinion.

What's it called when it's PTSD, but it's about future events rather than past events? Foresight Traumatic Stress Disorder? FTSD? Yeah let's go with that.

For a kids show that glosses over trauma, (That's not a Ninjago problem, that's a kids show problem), it was really refreshing for them to not do that for once. It's actually explored and talked about and Lloyd is given advice on how to cope with it, and he freezes up in panic attacks when these visions happen and-THANK YOU. THANK YOU FOR NOT IGNORING HOW HARD SOMETHING LIKE THIS IS.

Seriously, as someone who is going through stuff like this, minus the magic element, it spoke to me a lot. It really shows that this show grew up with me, and I both love and hate that.

I do think this sort of arc is going to hit hard for adults much more than kids.

Are kids constantly terrified of the future and getting paralyzed with these fears and finding it difficult to cope with the traumas that is time and human life?

No?

Kai is also a standout in this, especially towards the end. This is by far the best Kai has been in a long time in terms of quality. I love how one of his most significant flaws gets addressed here, that being his overreliance on himself and his own abilities over the others, who he feels responsible to protect.

And the way he grasps with that and learns to let loose like he did as a child back in the old days through what he loves the most, that being his family. And the flashbacks with him and his sister. And the whole sequence of him learning Rising Dragon - AUGH ITS SO GOOD.

How poetic is it that the character most devoted to family since childhood is only cocky and angry because of his own desire to be the one with power to keep them safe, gets power by letting that go, being a kid again, and joining the same roots as his own family?

AND THEN HE GIVES UP HIS LIFE FOR THEM-

And finally, Arin.

Oh you poor sweet, sweet child.

First of all, yes, I am completely subscribed to the theory that the show is building up Arin turning on the ninja and becoming a villain. It's all there. It all fits. The amount of times they say how sweet he is as though that's gonna get lost. The dragons, the creators of the world, the gods basically, telling him he's not good enough. Ras confronting him. Sora's stunt even after she's been the most encouraging of him, like the BETRAYAL there. It's all there. And I will be posting my theory scenario on this don't you worry.

BUT, I don't think that's the route they're gonna go. Kids show and all of that. They wouldn't do that to one of their main characters. Unless you're Star Wars. At most I think Arin will be tempted by Ras's master's power in an episode and even do it, but then with the power of love and friendship, it'll get fixed.

So instead I'd rather say that Arin, by far, has the BEST power crisis arc of the entire show so far.

I LOVE that he doesn't get powers. That's something the original show would've done. I LOVE that he doesn't figure anything out in the end and his inner doubts get proven correct. That's something the original show would not have the guts to do.

I liked Arin in the first season, but he didn't interest me too much. Mostly because Sora had the lion share of focus in the first season. Here though? He might just take the crown for THE most relatable character. And I both love and hate it so much.

Like, seeing everyone else succeed in mastery while you can't even figure out your own thing. You get told you have a natural talent and a lot of potential and that you're good at a lot of things, only for that to be put to the test in the real world and you end up letting everyone down. Even when your loved ones encourage you that you are good enough and you're special in your own way, you can't get those voices out of your head and you mess up again and again and again to try and meet the world's expectations. Then those in charge tell you you're not good enough and wasted potential. Then you try everything out in the real world anyway and you FAIL, and those that doubt you and your own insecurities get proven correct as you're left a broken mess of a young child who doesn't know what the hell they're doing-

I'M IN THIS SHOW AND I DON'T LIKE IT.

I probably love Sora more as a character, but I will admit I grasp towards Arin more right now. Sora's a great trans allegory in a world that hates trans people. But I'm not trans so I relate to it a bit less. Arin's a great autistic allegory in a world that doesn't know how to help autistic people. And I am autistic so I relate to it more. That's just a me situation.

I am so invested in where Arin's story goes from here. Evil or not.

So yeah, the season was good, but didn't completely live up to the insane hype, which, to be fair, is a high bar.

UNTIL THE LAST FOUR EPISODES.

And then all of a sudden, I AM SHOCKED AND SHAKEN TO MY CORE.

These last four episodes are an absolute emotional roller coaster that left me shaking and screaming the whole time.

I actually SCREAMED at multiple occasions.

I actually screamed so many times watching this that I am now HOARSE.

THAT'S how hard it hit me.

The story goes from 0 to 100 the moment the Blood Moon shows up. Which was what the whole season was building up to. And it did NOT disappoint.

The race to try and protect Bonzle. The intense visions and paralysis Lloyd suffers from. Ras and the army coming back to the plot to be absolute powerhouses. The last episode of DREAD the entire time to desperately try to stop this ritual.

HUMAN SACRIFICES?! AM I WATCHING A KIDS SHOW RIGHT NOW?!?!

I was begging for Arin to succeed at getting Bonzle to safety, even though I knew he stood no chance against Ras. "Come on Arin! You got this!! YOU GOT THIS, SWEETIE!!"

And then Ras just goes to TOWN on the poor boy and taunts his utter failure, which HURTS SO BAD MAN.

The entire fight with the army, Cinder, and Ras. The destruction of the mechs which knocks them unconscious for a bit. Kai figuring out Rising Dragon again when his family gets put in danger. The way Nya avenges her brother afterwards.

When Bonzle was getting morphed back into spell form, BEGGING, I was begging too.

But they still do it!

And KAI?!?!

I couldn't even process what happened other than me screaming. From the moment Ras alluded to sacrificing Kai against his consent, I was screaming "NO. DON'T DO IT."

AND THEN THEY SACRIFICE HIM.

LIKE HOLY GOSH THIS FINALE DID NOT MESS AROUND.

I predicted a while back, in the first season actually, that Kai was gonna get sacrificed at some point. Who's laughing now? I DID NOT WANT TO BE RIGHT.

Like, usually in Ninjago the character would be willing to sacrifice themselves for the others. But here? This is without Kai's consent at all. Ras might as well have killed him right here.

It definitely felt that way with the way the others react and BEG for his safety. The way Nya avenges him.

And Kai giving up his shot at escape for the sake of his family? BRO. WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY

It hurts even more when you realize that when the Merge happened, Lloyd was ALONE thinking only he survived. He only gained hope again because of his reunion with Kai. His beloved surrogate brother!

AND NOW HE'S GONE.

NYA AND LLOYD LOST THEIR BROTHER.

WYLDFYRE LOST HER SURROGATE FATHER.

THEY THINK HE'S BASICALLY DEAD.

BRO. THAT'S SOUL CRUSHING.

And then Sora?! Why you gotta betray Arin like that?!

The most encouraging friend towards Arin, the person who held onto hope and praises for him the most, betrays that hope and doesn't trust him enough to get the winning blow himself. Then LIES about it.

GIRL. WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!

That's going to be SO compelling once that gets outed. Like, morally, that was messed up and she was definitely in the wrong, BUT it led to the best possible outcome for them at the moment. They WON because she did NOT believe in Arin's abilities. Which only proves that the doubts about Arin's said abilities are correct.

And I have a gut feeling she's gonna learn Spinjitsu on top of that. And once that happens... double ouch.

Again, Evil Arin Theory.

I really hate to say it, but this reminds way too much of Arcane. If you know what I'm talking about.

I am totally imagining a situation similar to that in my head, that being a rescue mission for Kai, they decide to leave Arin out of it because of the lack of faith in him, he tags along anyway and he ruins their plan and Kai stays trapped there, Lloyd and Sora lash out on him for it, and before they can apologize they get thrusted back by something and Ras and Ras's master find Arin and take him in-

Again, I'll make a post about that.

The finale was by far the best part of this season. It has been a long time since Ninjago has made me HOARSE from being too invested.

That has not happened to me since Sons of Garmadon.

Because, yeah, I actually have NO IDEA where any of this is headed. How are they gonna save Kai and Bonzle? Why did some of Lloyd's visions not come true? What in the world is going on with Ras? Will the Administration help with that? Will the source dragons help with that?

What I probably do know is that Part 2 of this season is going to turn this into the best Ninjago Product since Tournament of Elements. Maybe even top it depending on my rewatches if my problems are still problems.

So... yeah. Good or Nah? Good. Obviously.

The hype is a little overblown to me, but it still deserves the hype.

[ladytabletop]

Game Roundup 2023 - Part 1

So I made it a mission to read through the games I've gotten in various bundles in the past. And it's uh... an undertaking.

But! I've read a lot of cool games and encountered a lot of new concepts.

For reasons (namely that I have a few thousand games) I am not going to mention every game in these posts, just ones that caught my attention for one reason or another. And in keeping with my reflection on ratings earlier this year, I'm going to refrain from critiquing the stuff I mention here - I may say "this one isn't one I'd personally play" or "there was some unpolished stuff in here", but I'm going to focus mainly on the positives and why the game grabbed me.

So, here we go!

Blades in the Dark by John Harper

Yeah, yeah, I know, this game is talked about a lot! But consider me a recent student of TTRPG history outside of d20 systems. I got the chance to play this game for several sessions and read the rulebook cover to cover. The stuff that works, really works. The stuff that doesn't? Bogs the whole thing down. But I find clocks to be such an intuitive mechanic, and downtimes is really a delight to me. There's a whole ton of Forged in the Dark stuff that toggles a bunch of the game's switches on and off to make things more streamlined. Was very glad to read this one.

Lumen by Spencer Campbell (GilaRPGs)

I made it a mission to read SRDs this year. I want to understand the how and why of the games I've been reading: why are they built the way they are, what is accomplished in building them this way, and can I build games this way myself? Spencer has a really solid handle on what he wants his games to do. They're power fantasies with little if any chance for failure. It's not about whether you do the thing, it's about how. I ended up having the chance to meet Spencer at GenCon, and I'm really excited to see Lumen 2.0, which is going to be completely diceless. Power fantasy games aren't my thing typically, but I really appreciate the intentionality of this system's design.

Are My Wings Even? by Sadia Bies

What a lovely, simple game that lets you play dress-up! This one isn't necessarily as polished as some of the others but you can tell it was designed with so much care and personal meaning. I love a tactile game. I love dressing up. This one has so much potential to be really tender. It won't be for everyone and that's okay, but I really adore it.

Sprouts by Julie-Anne "Jam" Munoz

This game came to me in a bundle for Trans Rights in FL, but I actually dug into it when I was looking for RPGs to play with kids. You draw your character on a post-it, and it's just a silly little guy! It has a pretty simple roll mechanic and advises a "get from point A to point B" adventure style, which takes place in actual 3D space in your home, because didn't you know? Sprouts live in your home, like dust bunnies! It's got really great language for children and emphasizes cooperation, and that you can't mess up your drawing - sprouts are sprouts.

The Wildsea by Felix Isaacs

I know, I know, I talk about this game too much! But really, it's been the gateway into other games for me. I think technically I probably read this last year, but I had to brush up for GenCon this year, so I'm counting it. Lots of folks have compared the tracks in this game to Blades' clocks, but they sprang up parallel, funnily enough! It has some definitely shared DNA in its design, and it rewards you for things out of combat more than things in combat, if that's how you want to play. The setting is lovely, the community is lovely, and really it was a joy to read, even as long as it is.

I'll do another of these soon, I imagine.

[eccentric-nucleus]

i'm gonna be talking about the weird porn game stuff i'm working on now, so you know, watch out

so as you may have gathered from my various posts, i've been working on the hell game 2 engine. currently i have events running mostly-correctly from data files, but i don't currently have state & pc data hooked up correctly so i can't actually e.g., test out various different sex scene variations based on the pc's bodytype. given one of the big failures of hell game (the first) was that i never really got complex event interactions working, i should probably think up some multi-stage demo events and get them working early on, so i don't end up repeating the same mistake

anyway as i have been putting this together i've been reflecting on the stuff i was dissatisfied with with hell game. unfortunately for me one of those things was "the sex scenes weren't as parametric as i wanted". hell game tended to break sex scenes down based on fundamental body plan (what i usually call 'bodytype' b/c that's the variable name for it in the code). that was stuff like: biped, centaur, quadruped, naga, snake, and 'other'. that's already a lot of totally-different variations but given i also let people change size there did kind of also need to be at least some size-based changes. but that's even more stuff to write for a single sex scene to have full coverage.

(this kinda thing is why i love to bring up the whole thing about nagas having a thigh gap in TiTS. they didn't want to change the scene blocking for all the doggystyle sex scenes! you can just say "between your thighs" either way!! i mean i get it, just, lol.)

but the other thing with hell game is that it was always uhhh a very early demo. it was basically a collection of contextless sex scenes with demons, and while there are worse things for a game to be, i did kinda have aspirations of, you know, plot, story, named characters that weren't just procgen demons, etc. so one of the things i've been working on currently is a ~design doc~ that covers setting & story details in a concrete enough way that i can reference off it and not end up writing myself into a corner.

and that gets us to the weird porn part of the post. i haven't fully committed to the current setting concept (scifi space station sucked through an interdimensional portal so it's now orbiting around hell, a la your dooms and hellpoints and the like; i feel like i'm maybe being a little too derivative here) so i won't go into too much detail but on the whole there is probably gonna be a more pronounced, you know, horror/grotesque influence. we'll... see how that works given that it is also a porn game

like yeah yeah plenty of porn games are kind of libidinal nightmare realms. coc had the parasitic dick worms. people love gross sex stuff. i feel like i kinda lost touch with a lot of my audience and now i spend more time around, uh, normal people who don't have deeply-rooted fixations. currently the first encounter i have outlined for this is uhhh a reanimated zombie who... lemme just paste the description in

A thing that was once a dead body, overtaken by something new. Its skin is a faded grey and its muscles are overgrown, proportions inhuman: shoulders impossibly wide, arms and legs slabs of striated muscle. It moves with an inhuman gait, as if the thing inhabiting it is still getting adjusted to human articulation.

There's a squirming thing wrapped around its head, all leathery purple-black flesh. A central mass covers the corpse's head: face smooth, back of the head a mess of overlapping tentacles. It has many long octopus-like tentacles that fan out across its shoulders and back. The tentacles trail down its body, clamped tight to the skin, before they sink into its body across its shoulders, chest, and back, squirming under the skin like gigantic veins. The skin around the punctures is painted with purple-black bruises. Glowing green ichor pulses through its body, pumped into it from its penetrating tentacles, feeding its muscles with unnatural energy. Its skin is a faded grey, streaked with ash, save for where its glowing-green blood flows, forming branching lines of bulging veins that cover its shoulders and chest.

A single loose tentacle extends from its face like an enormous proboscis, tapering in wormlike rings to a squirming tip, slavering shed ichor in gummy lines down its bare chest.

Its cock hangs heavily between its thighs, perpetually bloated and half-hard, with its glowing green ichor visibly pumping through its altered flesh. Its massive, oversized balls churn and lurch behind the fat stalk of its dick, pulsing with burgeoning larvae. Thick, translucent grey pre perpetually spills from its bloated glowing-green cocktip, painting wet smears of fluid down its monstrously-muscular legs.

it talks to you and asks if you wanna get pumped full of squirming zombie larvae so it can reproduce and reanimate more corpses. a lot of the encounter design is very much "what if you could fuck this DOOM monster"

anyway, that's like, normal. that's completely usual actually. having a cop fetish is what's weird and disturbing. okay okay that's just dumb glib moralizing i don't actually think that. but i mean, it is super weird to write stuff like that and then go back into the normal realm where people keep talking about college jocks or w/e.

but before i do much more writing i gotta hammer out the rest of the engine. next up: a lot of variable storage & thinking about how to separate npc data from the events they take part in. that's all stuff that needs to get coded regardless of which setting i go with

[silversiren1101]

Hi Mino! Some questions for you!

Would you ever consider starting a family? How do you feel about getting married, having kids, and potentially settling down?

How do you feel about makeup? Are you any good at putting it on? Do you wear it often?

What's usually on your shopping list?

Hello! Thanks for the ask :3

[Ask from this game: Muse Questions] We'll say she's currently Knight Commander for these rather than her post-canon!

Would you ever consider starting a family? How do you feel about getting married, having kids, and potentially settling down?

Minovae's eyes widen before she chuckles. A hint of sadness laces the sound.

"It's not impossible for a Hellknight to start a family, even as much as it's not... actively encouraged. I mean, the Lictor of the Nail has three daughters who are all Hellknights themselves. There's entire lineages across the Orders, even. But as for me starting a family? That would imply, well, a spouse... or someone that'd be interested in doing such a thing with me at all", she sighs in the delivery of the latter part of the statement. "I'm not sure such a person exists. At least, one I'd want to be with myself."

She seems to have a particular person in her mind, but says nothing further on them.

"I love kids. Always have. I used to..." There's a sadness in her eyes as she remembers a distant past. Her nostrils flare for a moment as she takes a deep, sharp breath before relaxing again. "I had Foundlings. Once. It was... Among the happiest times of my life." She smiles. A slight quivering takes to her lip. "That was a long time ago. My greatest joy. My... greatest failure..."

She sighs. Weary. Hurting.

"I know better than to try again, or want for something not meant for me in this life I've chosen. There is no 'settling down' for me. No wedding dresses. No cradles or bassinets. I'm okay with that. My path is ensuring that choice exists for others, keeping the roaring demons and chaos back from a quiet, safe, and civil life for everyone else out there. I became a Hellknight because I had nothing: nothing to cherish and nothing to lose and nothing to gain either. I have never once expected that to change."

[Words spoken by a woman who has zero idea she does in fact get married and have a child in the future (still no settling down though she's still an active career woman!)]

How do you feel about makeup? Are you any good at putting it on? Do you wear it often?

"What do It think of it? I think of it the same as armor polish or paint: a tool to make something look nice."

She shrugs.

"I don't get much use out of it; kind of hard to with the scales. Getting powder or cream caked up between them is just a recipe for a breakout or some type of infection, and they do a good enough job serving the purpose of makeup anyway", she smirks.

"The only type of makeup I've ever had much luck with is around the eyes: liner, shadow, you know. I don't get much opportunity for it. Contrary to what one Camellia Germ might say, you do not need to put on your sharpest eyeliner before fighting demons every morning. How she hasn't gotten a flake in her eye in the middle of combat..."

"Whatever, that's off topic. What I'm trying to say is that I don't dislike it. Working cases at noble galas and parties after the civil war, I loved getting all dressed and dolled up. I just... haven't had an opportunity or reason to since."

What's usually on your shopping list?

She blinks, violet eyes curious and wide.

"What a strange question. Do you mean in the sense of keeping a house? Because I've never done that, really."

Her tail flicks the air.

"I'm going to assume it's more about stocking up the party before setting out into the Worldwound. In that case--"she extends a hand and begins counting fingers, speaking.

"Healing potions and scrolls, scrolls of Death Ward for shadows and nabasus and bodaks, scrolls of Freedom of Movements also for nabasus--" she mutters under her breath, "hate those fucking things."

"Uh, what else. Scrolls of communal protection from and resist of every elemental damage type, because you never know. Scrolls of Restoration. Scrolls of Heal. Wow- we really do go through a lot of scrolls. Hrm."

She pauses, thinking. "I should talk with the Logistics Council on this... there has to be a cheaper way of keeping us outfitted. Allies we can call on to source us..."

[mllx-anazra]

tis the damn season (part 2) 

Here is part 2 (part one here, also on ao3), thanks for the likes and comment :) I just remembered that Dorothea is the companion song to tis the damn season, so I might use lyrics from this song too!

TW: smut in later chapters so minors DNI, talk of therapy and trauma in later chapters, Eddie Munson is pinning, so is the reader, mentions of asshole rockstar boyfriends, drugs (the old devil's lettuce), explicit references, reader is a Henderson to make my no Y/N rule easier but is a cousin so hopefully it's ""inclusive"" enough?

Part 2: I escaped it too; remember how you watched me leave

"So why the fuck are you back in Hawkins." Jesus, the kid could not even let you catch a breath after you were trying to not combust from the mere touch of Eddie fucking Munson on your finger. 

            "Language, Dusty," you gritted, probably driving from your house too fast. 

            "Spill it, Sparkle."

You chuckled at the use of your surname, covering your entire face in glitter for Halloween three years in a row to be a sparkle fairy until the ripe age of 11 would do that to you. 

As you passed the all too familiar roads, you could not help the sullen sigh escaping your lips. For all his denseness concerning sarcasm, your baby cousin was not too bad at discerning emotions and inner turmoil. 

            "It's not going too well at the label," you offered, turning left on the main road. "Did they repaint the arcade's façade?"

            "No, they did not, and what do you mean, 'not going too well; you're an amazing musician?"

The spirit of Dustin warmed your heart a little. 

            "Well, according to them, I'm an amazing composer, yes, but interpreter not so much. They're giving away my songs left and right to other artists." You tried to keep your tone light, but the reminder of why you came crawling back to Hawkins constricted your chest painfully. The snide comments of the senior managers cut through your confidence like knives. You apparently were too bubbly, too “small town girl”, to charm the Californian crowds, no matter the changes in appearance you had tried over the last years. You eventually reverted back to what you felt comfortable with, keeping some of the ‘edge’ you had gained in California. That also meant taking the backseat of the label, confined in the studios where you slaved away for non-recognizant up and coming pop artists, fearing your failure and trying to set themselves from you as much as they could. 

"But that's okay, I had a hunch; good thing I registered for remote classes of English and Psychology at Purdue."

            "That's BULLSHIT; if they can't see your talent, they must be fucking death of something…." Dustin's eagerness to defend you prevented any additional remarks on his foul language. 

            "I really don't mind the break, Dusty. My creative juices were completely drained. I swear to God if I need to write another syrupy breakup song about ocean blue eyes, I will drown myself in the lake."

The last few cavity-inducing ballads you had to craft made you want to cringe, their repetitive melody and dumbified lyrics (apparently wanting to include mercurial and earth-shattering in a love song was too much to ask from teenage girls) not even matching what you used to write when you were fourteen. Which was saying a lot, considering you could not even sing the word “hand on my thigh” back then without stuttering or blushing, opting for an awkward “aaaah” during the middle school talent contest. The dubious looks of your classmates were still burnt in your retina, but at least now you could laugh about it rather than metaphorically combust. 

            "But Chris, let that happen?"

The mention of your ex-boyfriend, stupid talented older cooler than you rock musician asshole, made you break a bit too violently at the red light, shaking your beat-up Ford too much for it to be unnoticed by Dustin, who squealed undignifiedly.

            "Uh, yeah, he hum, he did," you stammered, completely giving yourself away. 

            "Are you guys…" Dustin started, eyeing you warily as he still clutched the handle atop the door and dashboard instinctively. 

Your tongue clicked, and you responded with what you hoped was a neutral tone, "We broke up. I mean, I broke up with him, so yeah, we're not together anymore. Yeah." God, even your chuckle was awkward. 

How could you convey to your cousin that the charismatic leader of "not like your typical garage band," literally ten years older than you, had planned to ditch you for the newer girl at your label? How could you explain the anguish of seeing a man to whom you poured all your affection, attention, and loyalty for over a year swapping you for a younger, edgier, hotter one, the minute she set foot in the studio? How deep it cut you because you dumbly believed him when he talked about his past, thinking his future was with you, stitching you to his life so intimately you could only blindly open your heart and legs when he said he loved you? How the number of arguments you had only increased, making you question your sanity as you screamed and bellowed and threatened and broke down? And how, to save the last shreds of your pride, you had been the one dumping his ass over lunch with his whole band witness to your falling before he could, the only thing hurt in his eyes being his pride and not his heart. 

You had jumped in the literal getaway car that was your beat-up Ford, jamming all the trinkets you had accumulated in California and your still unopened Hawkins boxes in a trailer, leaving a scalding quitting letter to your former boss desk, and did not look back until the sign indicated that you were back in Indiana. The only persons aware of your itinerary were your aunt and dad, the latter offering a room at his new house in Maryland. You had declined, using your remote degree as an excuse to go back to what you still considered home. You did not want to see the disappointment in your father’s face as you explained to him how unhappy this two years and California had made you, and his impeding guilt following. He was the one encouraging you to leave the state when the occasion presented and chase your childhood dreams rather than stay in the confinement of Hawkins. He did not know that a pair of chocolate brown doe eyes, fumbling hands in the dark, and a slow dance at prom had made you reconsider the label’s offer.

            "We… Looking back, I don't think Chris and I were a perfect match. He, he made me understand that I was getting in the way of, uh, his career. Or something", you opted for, cringing at the scandalized look on your cousin's face “So I, well I called it off preventively”. 

            “Preventively? What are you, an insurance company? I thought you loved the guy, it’s all you could talk about whenever I managed to have you on the phone!”

You groaned. You were not about to have a conversation about your complex feelings to your little cousin, who despite his best intentions did not need to know the intimate details of your romantic life. Especially when it included sex, lust, and the leader of his DnD group. 

            "Honestly, Dusty, I'm not sure anymore. It's been a couple weeks, and I'm glad to take a breather out of that place, and that guy, for a while (you wanted to say forever). But enough about me, how is the beginning of your high school experience going? You're buddies with Munson?"

Now that was a topic you were more interested in. How Eddie managed to not only stay as gorgeous as you remembered, all shaggy brown curls and laughing eyes, smirk, and quips intact was a delicious surprise. The fact he had grown a bit more in his frame, gained a little confidence in his step, and velvet to his voice only fueled the seemingly endless pool of desire the man could ignite in you with just a snap of his fingers. Fuck, his fingers, little bastard had added more rings since your departure, and you wondered if he had new ink too. You would love to map these newer additions with your tongue, getting drunk on his shaky breaths and shivering skin, like you did eons ago in the hidden crevices of the town where you would make each other fall over and over again. Yeah, you had missed Eddie fucking Munson. 

'Eyes on the road, you animal', you chastised yourself. 

            "Yeah, because of Hellfire, duh. How are you two buddies, now that is a surprise. Even Steve seemed taken aback."

            "Well," you chuckled, "it's not like Steve was particularly observant during my last year of high school, Dusty; he was too busy choking Nancy Wheeler with his tongue for that." The look of utter disgust on your cousin's face made you laugh. "I used to tutor Eddie in English and History; he was so bad. But clearly, I was no better tutor because he obviously still struggles enough to be stuck in Hawkins High for six years in a row."

The real reason for Eddie's poor results despite your tutoring was because riling him and seeing how fast and quietly you could get your hands in each other's pants was more fun than the Civil War or Shakespeare. The memories brought what you hoped Dustin would interpret as a fond, not lustful, smile. The kid did not need the trauma. 

            "Psychology and English, uh?" he commented, a bit thoughtful. 

            "Yes. About that, I was thinking of setting up an art therapy group or something; I'll pitch it to Higgins tomorrow. Whaddya think?" This made you sincerely excited about returning to the Indiana hole you had ripped yourself out of, setting up a workshop on how to process feelings and trauma through artistic expression, your lifeline since your Mom's brutal death when you were still in middle school. 

            "After all that happened, Will's disappearance, the destruction of the plant, the Starcourt mall fire… I mean shit Dusty, I still can't believe we lost Hopper."

Your curly cousin remained silent, which was an unusual indication from him. You tried to remain as light as possible, despite the churning of emotions threatening to overflow since you had read the articles on the violent destruction of the mall, and its fallout. 

            "I feel like the Hawkins community has gone through a lot, and an outlet to process and heal could truly benefit everyone, especially teenagers. I hope I can help in any shape or form in that regard."

            "I'm not the one who needs convincing, Sparkle. But I'm glad you're back. Despite, y'know, your shitty label and boyfriend and all."

            "Thanks, Dustibun, and it’s ex-boyfriend. For good." you sincerely said as you affectionately squeezed his shoulder, your aunt's house and second home looming closer. 

She was at the door already, probably hearing the familiar dying noises of your car, cradling a cat that did not look like Mews at all as she waved at you. Upon asking the whereabouts of the old orange cat you were very fond of, Dustin gave you the most unconvincing story you had ever heard him spin. Strange. 

After a bone-crushing hug, warm laughs, easy conversation, and enough boxed leftovers to keep you well fed for a week, you went back into the junk you called vehicle, both physically and mentally exhausted. 

You rummaged through your tapes collection, a dusty one tumbling out of the depths of your glove box, its content making you both melt and ache again. "Songs I wished I had written for you," the scribbled writing of Eddie Munson greeted your growing smile. You remembered how he practically shoved the tape into your hands, red in the face and clearly uncomfortable, as you saw him for the last time. 

He had driven you back to your house after you spent your literal final day in Hawkins fucking his brains out in his minivan by Lovers' Lake in a secluded area, only taking breaks to cool down in the water where you would inevitably rile each other again, playful nips and tugs turning in burning hands and searing mouths. You hoped the desperation of your wandering fingers and tongue conveyed the ache you felt growing inside at the prospect of leaving him behind. It was silly to miss someone already when you were not yet parted. Eddie's matching gestures and eagerness made you stupidly hope that he, like you, had fallen into the age-old trap of developing feelings for the friend you too regularly had sex with. Especially considering said friend's attractiveness, humor, talent, energy, magic fingers…

The raw vulnerability evident in his warm brown eyes as he handed you this tape, somehow more terrified of this than anything else you had done before. 

It might have crushed your spirits to rip yourself from the warmth of his embrace, but your awaited future was calling. And you thought the road you chose was the right one, as you met and fell headfirst with who would be your walking nightmare. Onto the road not taken, then, you pondered as the familiar tune of The Cure, so unlikely the metalhead's favorite genre yet so evident for you two, enveloped you. You were struggling to quash down the hopeful hum in your chest, lodged where your heart should be if you had not ripped it at age 18 and shoved in the first hands you could fine to forget those who could make you come undone and cradle you like you were precious all at the same time. 

Oh, how you still had it bad for Eddie Munson, the gold-hearted nerd who could see through all your fake smiles and rock this poofy dramatic hair only like Ozzy could, the sweetest man you ever found yet left behind two years ago in damp, terribly sad Hawkins, for somewhat sadder California. 

[thegoldenshi-shi]

So, I have been busy making poor monetary choices again, in which I now own two different types of tablets specifically for art (ONE WAS VERY MUCH ON SALE, THE OTHER HAD A 50 BUCK COUPON, BOTH GOOD REVIEWS), and the first tablet I bought, that's honestly just a way of adding a touchscreen to a computer to me, cause like. It's a sensor pad? Well, it's proving that I can't mentally make myself apply a lot of pressure to technology, which my younger self with a ruined dsi touch screen would gape at. I have also gotten all my shelving units up! Not sure if they're staying where they are, or if I'm gonna move them around again, but I do know two that are staying where they are, mainly cause I am /not/ lifting that shelf all the way back up to chest level to take it back down again. Nuh uh, no ma'am, it will not be done. It's also gotten all my collectibles on it already, which has proven that I need to devote more of my budget to the Twins than Screamer. My frenemesis would be delighted to see my failure to my simpees.

Work has been better! Still hot, but we've slowed /way/ down, which means my supervisor has been letting me goof off on my phone or writing, cause we physically can't work too hard in the heat, but we also have no orders anyway, so... And because we've been able to get paid Not Working, I have gotten back into a werewolf story I started writing months ago! I'm setting it up one shot style rn, and posting the chapters as my brain accepts my pleading for their creation, but I also intend to make it a full and proper story once I've worked all the one shots out. I will openly admit to it being complete self service, cause I want a best friend who's 8 feet tall, fluffy, and has a crappy sense of humor. And is a cuddle monster, though that one is mainly cause I love glomming full force onto my people and displaying my awkward affection. I'm like a peacock, but instead of flaring tail feathers, I hug people in front of other people, whilst not actually really knowing socially accepted norms for hugging friends, tbh.

I also went through and completely reorganized my phones gallery, and got a very stupid laugh outta it. I have 461 transformers related pictures, and almost 400 writing prompts. Just. Saved on my phone. If I ever lose this sim card my writing career that i don't actually have will be over. On another other note semi related, I have been asked to design a friends tattoo! I don't know if I mentioned that in my last ask. He asked me to draw him a dragon to get tattooed, which, to be fair, dragons are among one of the very scant things I can draw well reliably, but also, dragon proportions curled into a ball sleeping are kicking my ass, and I am debating getting out my giant sketchpad to be able to completely control every tiny eetsy beetsy detail, cause my close friend wants me to do this thing that will permanently be on his body, and I really desperately don't wanna mess it up... Cause like. No one has ever asked me to ///draw/// for them before. I've gotten asked to paint, or do some small stuff with watercolors, but never /drawing/. And he knows I love dragons, it's part of why he asked. I just. It's a thing that happened that made me really happy, like hide in my pillow crying happy tears happy.

And then, on the fifth, I found an exactly 8 year old video of my childhood dog that we had to put down... it was from the summer before he was put down, which happened during the school year. He had been all that I'd had growing up, so, it hit kinda hard seeing something of him that moved. Even after 8 years, I still cry every time I think about him. He was the best dog any little kid could've ever been raised with, and probably helped boost my immune system against my allergies to boot, hehe. I cried for like, two hours, cause it was a video taken 7/5/2015. And, I thought I had lost all my images of him. It was a happy thing, just. A very sad type of happy. I wish I could tell him that I did love him, even if I didn't wanna lay on the ground and cuddle like he preferred. He was a dog that was born old, haha, never wanted to play or bark, he just wanted to lay on you and be loved. I was always running around on imaginary adventures though, but I did love him. If I was upset, he was my safe place. I promise this is a happy thing, it's just that I'm gonna be legally allowed to drink soon, and sometimes I forget that it's been so long since I got to see him. Especially cause sometimes, I still have dreams about playing with him in our backyard, right next to a giant pine tree covered in cicada sheds, laughing as he dug a little groove to lay in under the old rusted out trampoline. He was the most patient, tolerant dog, and it's because of him and the cat he raised with me that I'm not afraid of so much anymore. Ma and dad weren't there when we had him, but... I'll admit to giving them up forever if it meant I got to have him back

~Smooch

Hello there Smooch~

Sleeping babee dragon sounds so cute! I've never designed a tattoo, so I can only imagine the pressure (and of course the touching part of him asking you to draw his tattoo design).

Interestingly enough I too spent a loooong period of time where drawing was a dragon-only zone. I think it was back in like middle school? If you're struggling with a traditional four-legged two winged dragon, have you considered another type? There's Asian Lung dragons, Wyverns, Wyrms, or even a Quetzalcoatl style dragon that can all be very cool and might be easier for you to draw as a sleepy loaf. If your friend doesn't have a strong preference of course.

How exciting, on sale art supplies. It's kinda hard to decide sometimes between art supplies and if you're new to it, it's not a BAD idea to try multiple different types and/or brand names until you find what you like. I own two different art devices, one Wacom Intuos bought in High School and a Huion art monitor bought like four years ago. I was a traditional artist at the time I bought the Intuos tablet, so I quickly found that I prefer drawing on an actual screen I can look at instead of drawing on a tablet, BUT I had to try the tablet first to know that. What that all amounts up to is I hope you like one if not both of them ^J^ It's good to hear that your job is calming down. I'm sure that you're enjoying having the down time to work on your creative pursuits. At the risk of sounding too much like a hippie art teacher, I say it's very important to have some sort of creative outlet in your life. So it's wonderful to hear that you're getting to write on your werewolf story. I send you my best wishes that your muse stays nice and cooperative for the whole process hehe.

And lastly: The bittersweet memory of a good pet that has passed is something that I feel blessed to have as well. I hope that you can continue to enjoy your memories of a good animal without being bogged down in the sadness of their passing.

It's good to hear from you again Smooch, glad to hear you are doing well~

[daekie-gw2]

Your IBS/SoTO post is really good and I would love to hear your opinions about asura writing that got cut for time

OH, UH, OKAY. SURE. Disclaimer that a lot of the thoughts here I picked up from my friend @ratasum. (I honestly didn't expect that IBS/SotO post to get read by anyone so waking up & seeing it appears to have gotten onto the main 'circulating' version of the post and having people agree with me is a little wild, haha.)

As always, cut for length, I've never said in five words what I could say in twenty and trust me I've tried.

"Surely it can't be that long--"

I know. I'm a parody of myself. I'm sorry. Just like you cannot blame the scorpion for what is in its nature you cannot blame me for writing five and a half thousand words on funny goblin rat video game narrative.

ANYWAY. [CRACKING KNUCKLES] THE ASURA

OKAY. THIS IS GOING TO BE A MULTI-POINT -- I'm not going to call it an essay. It's not an essay. That implies a level of organization going in that there isn't, I'm slapping points in as I recall them (I am going to cite my sources, though). But there's a lot of miscellaneous things I'm going into here. Also this is shorter than it could be because I wrote a big chunk of it right after getting home from work, got distracted by making Limbus Company OC IDs for hours, and by the point I rotated back I was getting worried something would happen and I'd lose this post.

You may be able to tell which points I wrote later because I get progressively less informative and more AGGRESSIVELY WAVING MY HANDS.

EDIT THE NEXT MORNING: Added more stuff into Point B that I didn't realize I skipped over, my kingdom for a table of contents

Point A: "The current writers don't like the asura."

When was the last time you heard any character talk about asura tech or society in a way that wasn't derogatory? Just in SotO alone, from my memory and some very shallow wiki checks, we have:

Uenno: But we're... stubborn, our kind. Bureaucratic. It's all so stifling. Uenno: Zojja and I had the same realization. Expecting satisfaction from that city is like expecting a skritt to win the Snaff Prize.

...and, from Zojja's Journal:

Before I left Rata Sum, they considered me a battery without any juice. Well, I feel the same about them. ... The technological advancement of this place is far beyond Rata Sum. Seeing this would give the Arcane Council a run for their money... I bet they lost it after Cantha opened its borders. What I'd do to be a fly on that wall... ... If the council learned about any of this, ESPECIALLY the wizards' ability to create fractals, they'd try to quarantine the entire region. Rip it apart, piece by piece.

...and, from Zojja's journal from Tower of Secrets:

The council is too scared to put me back on fieldwork, and the colleges seem less than interested in having me teach. No talks. Nothing. Past my prime, apparently. Send me straight to the retirement facility. ... She used to be a professor in the colleges, but she left after years and years of frustration with the system. Students set up for failure, refusal to grow or expand (sound familiar...?).

Now take a quick jaunt to the wiki's summary of asura culture:

The asura value intelligence and intellectual superiority over all other attributes. Individual asura will dedicate an entire lifespan to building a portfolio of successful projects or becoming the foremost expert of some tiny aspect of the arcane. They constantly seek to prove their own intellectual superiority, and by extension the superiority of the asura race.

The writers are really trying to tell me that Zojja was damaged goods post-Heart of Thorns, but, like. She was one of the foremost geniuses in Asuran society and one of the two surviving students of the genius Snaff (or one, if you count us killing Kudu in Crucible of Eternity). She is the absolute foremost expert on Elder Dragons (Taimi wasn't this until LWS4ish, imo), was directly involved with the Pact offensive on the Heart of Maguuma, and has a "connection" (I'm not going to say friendship but yknow.) with the Sylvari who stole Glint's egg. And you want to tell me nobody would want to hear from her because she was disabled? They'd be breaking down her door to get her to teach.

I feel like a lot of this perception comes from Phlunt's overbearing smothering of Taimi getting spotlit during LWS3, but Phlunt is an obstructive, small-minded bureaucrat, even by Arcane Council standards; he doesn't want to be there, he sure as hell doesn't want to be busy chaperoning a twelve-year-old with polio in his "free time", and if he dissuades her from doing anything then he can kick back and relax. His chaperoning is not a microcosm of All Asuran Society's Relationship To Solo Geniuses Who Are On The Younger Side (afaik he was also supposed to be Inquest anyway, so that probably bleeds into some of it). Take a quick walk around Metrica Province or listen to ambient dialogue in Rata Sum! Even taking into account comments about bureaucrats in ambient lore in Rata Novus, which makes it a cultural thing, I honestly still don't really see what that would have to do with 'Zojja would be a pariah'. The fuck she would. I would excuse the Zojja diaries if it was Zojja is completely shutting herself away from Rata Sum society and convincing herself they don't want her, but it's... it's not! It's 'Rata Sum threw Zojja out with the bathwater'! In what world!!!!

EoD (I go into this a couple of points down the post) is also just like a conga line of asura going WOW CANTHA IS SO ADVANCED WE'RE SO BACKWARDS and it just feels baaaaaaad.

Point B: "Since LWS4, it seems like nobody on the writing team has really actually understood the asura, and they're either written as 'basically children' or 'crazy comedy gremlins'."

When was the last time we got an asura NPC who was, you know, actually involved in asura society or had asuran attitudes? Professor Smoll from April Fools doesn't count, don't give me that. Uenno in SotO only really talks about asura society to comment about how backwards it is/was compared to the Astral Ward's tech/setup, and although the Inquest are a genuine threat... since LWS4, when was the last time the game actually remembered that? They're cartoon goons.

(The Arcane Council is actually really interesting, too! Their job is to deal with all the mundane shit and bureaucratic matters and City Things, and nobody wants to do it, to the point it's common to trick others into accidentally taking the job or replacing you so you can quit. They sometimes try to kill each other. The Inquest is considered a bunch of criminal assholes by the average asura, but they're pretty distinctly a tool of the Arcane Council who uses them to work on projects that might be 'unsavory'.)

I'm not saying the asura aren't funny. They are. Even at GW2's launch, they were smack-talking little gremlins -- but they weren't comic relief. And I'm not saying everything Angel McCoy ever said was right (I am refusing to read the interview where she says cells don't exist on Tyria and everything is made of magic <3) but they're snarky little shits. Back in GW1 they were partially Invader Zim references. Asura are researchers and, I'm gonna say it, sapiosexuals first and foremost -- they're monogamists in the sense that romantic relationships are often between two asura fixated on the same idea.

ANYWAY. Asura are weird freaks and they're kind of memey little bastards about it but they're also insanely intense SCIENCE bastards, who prize being an asshole. During LWS4 the Inquest had live samples of the fucking scarab plague, were experimenting on the Olmakhan with it -- they're a genuine danger. The Inquest can be both funny Team Rocket villains and genuine threats due to their lack of morals!! They can be both!!

But what they're reduced to these days is... they're either childlike and need care (Dagda calling Zojja little one would be fine on its own, but combined with everything else...) or they're just Haha Funny Quip Guys. They're not dicks anymore. When was the last time an asura was an asshole to you in a way that wasn't immediately condemned by the story/narrative as them being an unreasonable small-minded jerk? I don't even necessarily think Arenanet has ever had a real consensus on how to write them, but there's enough content from basegame to LWS4 where you can absolutely write them with just as much... genuineness? not seriousness, but, yknow? as the sylvari or the norn. Like -- imagine if every sylvari we met was either a wide-eyed innocent or a Nightmare Court irredeemable asshole who was torturing babies and cackling about it. If every norn we met was a one-note jovial party drunk or a Son of Svanir who just went JORMAG JORMAG JORMAG.

That's what it feels like has happened to the asura.

Everything in this section from here on until Point C starts is a lot of really misc. disjointed thoughts but I couldn't make them work anywhere else and they seemed relevant still, so. Sorry. You get what you pay for.

...circa End of Dragons --

Taimi: Yes! Xunlai has an entire MedTech division. They make braces for conditions like mine. Taimi: They're incredible. I feel almost no pain when I'm wearing them.

I can buy that asura don't really have a lot of development into assistive devices as a whole because they're generally all pretty self-focused, but there's gotta be a krewe somewhere that's got physically disabled asura, right?

In Icebrood Saga, Phlunt and Taimi's focus during Champions on fighting Primordus -- even if they have to ally with Jormag to do it -- is kind of portrayed as... petulant? Ignorant? But, like, it is very reasonable to say that asura are culturally traumatized, I'd say. Their entire culture and people, over the course of fifty years, were pushed into involuntary migration from their home and into a completely new environment. If the Kodan are traumatized by doing the exact same thing but due to Jormag and that's taken fairly seriously, especially in Bjora Marches. The writing is bad here! Champions struggles a lot on a lot of fronts, and I know it's because that was because a huge chunk of the devs abruptly got dragged off to go make EoD, but they could've at least left someone senior to handle narrative and I don't think they did.

(That honestly ties into a bigger frustration, which is that for a season/expansion where we take care of the Asura-associated dragon and the Norn-associated dragon once and for all, it sure is about Charr. I don't think this is what they meant to do going in! I think the writers meant to have you deal with Jormag in the next season/expansion, and have them be an everpresent force puppeting people around who you never actually fought in Icebrood Saga. Fuck, I don't think you were even supposed to encounter Primordus here, it's not called the Fire and Ice Saga. But the mandate? orders? came down, and suddenly they had to figure out how to get rid of both twin dragons by the end of the season, and they didn't have enough space left to change direction from the charr (who did actually get some great narrative here, I think that was at least preserved).

Point C: "Existing content from LWS4 and earlier establishes that asura tech is extremely advanced."

Anyway I think EoD was generally pretty cool, but I also think they got very worried about potentially making Cantha come off as 'less advanced' than the asura and unintentionally seeming racist in that way, and they swung real fucking hard in the opposite direction. (If anything they probably would be further advanced than Cantha, though -- they were using dragon-magic to power their waypoints & cities back during GW1, and swapped to independent? ambient? magic when the Great Destroyer awakened & pushed a lot of them to the surface. I personally would've gone for the idea that it's deeply impressive that humans, alone, have created something on par with but not better than asuran tech, especially when using a powersource that the asura historically never got as far as the Canthans with.) Asuratech created fractals and a device that could completely destabilize fractals in order to fish up real entities stuck in them (I expand on this further down on my last point).

Moto built an entire fucking immersive videogame with a hammerspace teleporter.

Rata Primus in Sandswept Isles in LWS4 has a satellite dish, implying they've gotten asuratech into orbit.

Asura have had holograms and solid light for ages -- they were developing immersive VR all the way back in Rata Novus. Oola has a hologram. There's multiple hero points where you fight hardlight projections. What Do You Think The SAB Weapon Skins Are.

They're experimenting with radiation.

They have elevators.

They have televisions.

They have sous vide!

They've got holo-clipboards!!

Okay yeah sure it's one random throwaway line from a miscellaneous Rata Sum NPC but THEY HAVE NEWSCASTS, this guy's probably been here since the game RELEASED

HOLOGRAMS

Blish uploaded himself into a golem and he's just Like that now!!!

What the Canthans and especially Joon are doing with jadetech is incredible! But asura tech is not inferior to it. You could say 'dragonjade carries incredible magical power because Soo-Won is awake and actively filtering her power to create it, as opposed to the GW1 asura skimming some off the top of Primordus' and I'd go yeah, okay, that sounds completely fair. Joon having tech that can evaluate the drained Aurene? This makes sense! She's been directly interfacing with Soo-Won's magic for years and probably has a better understanding of the biology and process of Elder Dragons + how their magic works within their body than anyone else alive, including Aurene! If anything, her dragonjade could well be tapping directly into Soo-Won's domains of Water and Life, making dragonjade tech especially good for healing or creating assistive devices. You could potentially insinuate this, but I really don't think the game actually ever says this, so I don't know if I want to give it credit for that. (In fact, the game specifically says that the magic in dragonjade is stripped of all signatures, it's pure dragon magic, so really it says the exact opposite of 'Soo-Won's connection to her domains is so powerful that she infuses the jade she empowers with their essence').

Ankka's stolen Extractor even has a note on its wiki page that it acts similarly to existing asuratech from basegame personal story -- just scaled far, far up. It's not new tech! They've had this, just weaker!

ALSO SNARGLE'S AGENT SAYS ASURA DON'T HAVE, LIKE. VIDEO GAMES? MOVIES? MOVING PICTURES OF ANY KIND? YOUUUUUU HAVE HAD HOLOGRAMS FOR HUNDREDS OF YEAAAAARRRRS. HE'S LITERALLY PUBLISHING SUPER ADVENTURE BOX THE NOVEL. WHAT DO YOU THINK SUPER ADVENTURE BOX IS, LITTLE MAN

Kippo: You bet. But that's not all! D'you know Cantha's living in the future while the rest of us mopes are still eating dirt? Kippo: That's coming from an asura. They watch theater projected from their jade technology. Moving pictures! Kippo: I want K&M at the forefront of new media. Cause pretty soon, ain't nobody gonna be readin' books. Kippo: Maybe one day, the audience could even control these move-ies. An interactive experience. Feel like you're really there!

I hate this guy

Point D: "Gorrik and Taimi have both basically undergone character assassination over the years and had all their edges smoothed off, and SotO Zojja is Zojja in name (and voice actor) only."

LWS1 Taimi was such a fucking brat. Precocious, sure! But she was an asshole of a child who was constantly chafing against any adult in the vicinity and idolized Scarlet Briar. She was a deeply lonely girl who only had Zojja and she was kind of shitty! She was awful to Braham! And, like, I will repeat this again, she idolized Scarlet, the insane mass-murdering terrorist who poisoned and destroyed the entirety of Lion's Arch.

She was a kid. She was a brilliant, lonely kid, and she sucked as a person. After HoT, Zojja is basically comatose, and Taimi decides she has to step up as the Commander's asura tech expert, to prove that she's not just a child who has to be corralled, she's just as much a part of this as you are. And the way she tried to prove herself was by taking on as much responsibility as people would let her, and even some they wouldn't, and she kept being brilliant and she had to keep improving and improving and why didn't Rata Sum see she wasn't a child, and you never realized that maybe she was taking on too much because you didn't have anyone else who could do this research, and she was keeping all her vulnerability to herself -- because if she told you you'd tell her to stop and rest. Everyone would. And she needed to keep proving herself and being the best, the smartest, indispensable to Dragon's Watch,

and eventually it got her caught by Joko. He doesn't torture her, exactly. He traps her in her own assistive device, with limited air and no control, and then he sets Scruffy on you, and this teenage girl has to watch her only safe haven try to kill the only person who can save her as she slowly suffocates to death.

And she's fucking traumatized. And she's trying to put on a brave face but it really, really fucks her up. No time to cry. She has to be helpful, and useful, and if you make her go lie down and rest she's going to fucking scream. The key of Taimi, to me, is that in a lot of ways Zojja probably saw herself in her? An incredibly brilliant and desperately lonely child with nobody to advocate for her, turning all that frustration at her life and herself right back out at the world. If she never shows weakness and if she can be just as rough and tumble as the adults, they'll see she's not a baby. She's not a poor sick victim who needs to be protected.

She's Zojja's protege and Zojja was Snaff's protege and, like -- Zojja is not that old. She's maybe ten, fifteen years older than Taimi? No more than fifteen, I'd say. She's barely an adult when Snaff dies, and she has to be everything Snaff was and more. Zojja remembers what Snaff was for her, and she sees this impossibly smart progeny girl, and she thinks to herself Snaff was my lifeline out of that. and she's that for her.

And then she kind of sucks at it because she's Zojja and she's really not very good at communication that isn't her being a bitch, but, like, she was trying, probably. And Taimi was-is just as attached to her as Zojja was to Snaff.

But Taimi, unlike Zojja at that age, isn't alone. She has Zojja. She has everyone in Dragon's Watch. She has people who take her seriously and believe in her, and her greatest enemy is herself. The older she gets the more she levels out -- partially from the trauma but partially because she's just... growing up! She's still kind of a jerk, she's an asura and she knows she's the smartest person in the room most of the time, but especially when compared to Gorrik (who is admittedly amoral even for an asura), she's got a conscience. She's a firebrand of a girl who pushes herself too hard and she ribs you when you take yourself too seriously, because you've seen her at her most vulnerable, and she knows how hard you take it when you fuck up.

And she's your friend. She's a bitch but like the rest of Dragon's Watch she's your friend.

And by the point of EoD, all that assholery she was capable of has been shifted over to Ankka (who exists to die, unfortunately), and she has now been fully transformed into The Commander's Tech Support Who Says Funny Things And Listens In On Your Conversations. There's no bite to her. There is nothing uniquely Taimi about her anymore.

I wasn't a big fan of her losing Scruffy 2.0 either -- it feels like they were trying to go she's all grown up now, she doesn't need her security blanket anymore! but, like. She has an incurable degenerative disease. That was her assistive device who just also had a personality? Give her a hoverchair or a cane or something. They eventually gave her leg braces in EoD, which I think is fine and honestly works really well (& I wish we'd gotten to see her talking more with Joon and Yao about tech than we did), but. Mmm. It felt weird, you know?

-- ANYWAY BEFORE I MOVE ONTO GORRIK. I do want to touch base with Champions, because Champions was really where they started flanderizing her the most notably. It is completely reasonable that she suggests siding with Jormag, honestly, reasonable in a way the game doesn't treat it as and neither does the Commander, because she's kind of selfish! Jormag? Who cares? She hasn't been really dealing with the rest of the Icebrood Saga so far the way you and Braham have, she just sees 'Jormag's willing to work with us to kill Primordus and hasn't caused mass horrific destruction, they're a completely sentient person'. She sees a solution to a problem and she wants it now, you can talk about Jormag later, her entire race had to diaspora because of this thing and she was there the last time it almost woke up and things got really, really bad after that, what with Balthazar. Jormag is a problem, yeah! But they're not a problem that's hurt her. They're a problem she can look at and understand and speak to. Primordus? Primordus is a monster. It's a natural disaster. You can't convince Primordus to hold off on killing people, it's just what he does. But she can make a deal with Jormag to stay away from these people, maybe, and Taimi even now thinks she's the fucking shit and she's smarter than she is, and she thinks she can outwit Jormag.

Champions could've been a really interesting look at Braham and Taimi basically trying to kill each other because they both have incredible cultural trauma layered on top of personal experiences that means they can't even consider not killing that specific dragon so super dead as a first course of action, and neither of them would be wrong about feeling that way, because if you haven't forgotten -- Taimi is barely an adult at this point, if she is at all, and Braham was a teenager during LWS1 and HoT. He's barely an adult either in the grand scheme of things! A scenario where both dragons are represented by one of your friends would've been really, really cool, and the challenge is 'how do we fix this without the dragons going out of balance'. And It Was Not That At All In Any Way.

I actually had this idea as I was writing this post but, like. Man. I understand the point of Ryland, Champion of Jormag, but I would've loved to see Jormag really gaslighting the hell out of Taimi and convincing her she's just as special as he is. She deserves special power and she understands Jormag, she's so clever -- just that slow horrible corruption through persuasion, through appealing to her pride. That's the asura cultural flaw! They know they're smarter than everyone else! Play to that.

This is partially because IN THE MEANTIME, FIRE ALARM makes me want to punch a table. I hate that voiceline. I hear it so much. Dragonstorm, why.

ANYWAY -- LWS4 Gorrik was barely ex-Inquest. Bioterrorist weirdo. The most autistic man in the world (love him for this). His argument against 'YOU WERE EXPERIMENTING ON THE OLMAKHAN WITH THE SCARAB PLAGUE?' is just 'I didn't vote for it but the results are FASCINATING also btw it's actually a pestilence, not a plague--'. His morals are entirely about what will let him do the most Bug Science. Sure, the Scarab Plague is one of the most horrifying contagions in history, but he is a scarab expert and he could infodump on this shit for HOURS. Do you remember that time he got arrested for bioterrorism after exposing himself to said plague, and his main concerns are 'people calling it a plague, not a pestilence' when they want his fucking head? Even when you get him out he just goes 'am I supposed to anticipate the neuroses of everyone around me?? Them freaking out was totally unreasonable'. Yeah, man, the fucking Elonians losing it about the potential of the Scarab Plague coming back is an unreasonable hysterical reaction. He doesn't care about people! He only cares about bugs! (This is an exaggeration but you get what I mean.)

The Commander: Joko intercepted the ship. Exposed all the crew and passengers to the Scarab Plague. Gorrik: Oh my, my, my—a full-spectrum outbreak! This is incredible! Taimi: Gorrik... Gorrik: Oh, right. Sorry. Tragedy. Terrible.

He's a freak! He's a freak of a man! I love him! COMMANDER HOLY FUCK DID YOU SAY CHAK from Jahai Bluffs lives in my heart. Weirdo guy. Incubated the roller beetle in his own body under his skin just because he thought it'd be cool. He never really grows a conscience even after Blish's death, because that's not who he is, that's not how he perceives and interacts with the world. He has a completely different perspective from you, and his priorities and predilections make him an impossibly brilliant scientist... who should probably not be allowed to talk to anyone he doesn't already know ever again.

Now circa EoD he's... what? What is he? Haha he's funny detective guy who can't read social cues and is dragging Rama into things. Oh, I guess he's an asura, so sometimes he says tech things. They have removed this man's deep freak nature from him :( The man I knew would've been out there doing fieldwork and dissecting void creatures yesterday. He would've been fascinated by the Dragonvoid glitching reality! Sorry, no, he doesn't do that anymore, he's just Funny Detective Guy, sometimes he does science things with jade tech because Rama is around and that means Gorrik is also there because he's Those Two Guys with Rama now. Sure. I like their dynamic but man did things happen to Gorrik to get there. I wish it could've been Very Normal Man Rama and a little goblin man who has decided Rama is his bestie.

(Also I'm deeply weirded out by the narrative pushing TAIMI IS AN ADULT NOW SO SHE'S GOING TO DATE GORRIK BECAUSE ADULTS GET IN RELATIONSHIPS unironically. I really do think the writers have forgotten there's like... a 15 year age gap between them and just remembered 'Gorrik's brother was Taimi's classmate, and he was close? in age to his brother, probably?, so it's fine' he's like 30, man. And if Taimi/Gorrik didn't feel so slapped together and like a way to pair them up so they're busy with each other and no longer narratively relevant outside of Tech Support, maybe I would be less bitchy! But I really don't like them symbolizing 'Taimi's not a little girl anymore, she's all grown up now!' by having her immediately display romantic interest in a guy who, like. You cannot tell me Gorrik fucks. I love him but I don't think he has ever contemplated fucking as a thing he would do.

They're research partners! They're good friends! But they are absolutely not in a romantic or sexual relationship. I don't believe it.)

Zojja... god, they did that woman dirty in SotO. They did her so dirty. I talked in my original post about how her narrative role here is actively sabotaged by it being Zojja and Caithe (or even Logan!) would've done it better, and I'm sticking to that. Anyway, the Tower of Secrets story summary includes:

I've never seen her out of her element or so unsure of herself; I'm used to the hypercompetent and defiantly confident golemancer of legend. This is an entirely new side.

Even taking into account the idea SotO wants us to accept that she's gone through character development offscreen and a full arc, Zojja would never. Zojja gets fucking mean when she's stressed or unsure, and even if it's been years and she's grown past that... she's still not going to wibble about it. This is part of the big problem with her writing, even in the base content for SotO: Zojja is very, very passive. She's nice, even! She mediates between you! She's your good friend Zojja (even though she was maybe friends with an asuran Commander, and she sure as hell was not making friendship bracelets with any other Commanders and wouldn't go YOU'LL FIX EVERYTHING :D after not having seen you for ten years). ...But asura in general, and especially Zojja, have a chip on their shoulder and they will prove themselves. There are ways they could've shown Zojja growing past that asuran cultural selfishness by really listening to and cooperating with other people -- the way they did it isn't that. I'm gonna call back to that Angel McCoy interview I linked earlier:

Sit back and watch the sass fly! A side effect of asuran intelligence and self-confidence is that they’re masters of the zinger. They don’t suffer fools lightly and don’t believe in sparing feelings. Workers expect to get snide comments from their krewe bosses, and progeny expect it from their parents. Teen asura, of course, give it back as good as they get it—it’s part of growing up. This verbal abuse may seem mean-spirited, but the asura don’t see it that way. They don’t take it personally. Their competitive natures drive them to greater heights of achievement. Remember, asura have survived against terrible odds, including their tiny statures. They’ve earned their attitudes, and a certain amount of bravado keeps them from being victims. With their jibes, they’re telling it like they see it, and if you can’t take the heat, get out of the laboratory.

Yes, this is asura overall, their cultural standards, but everyone in Destiny's Edge is/was -- to some degree -- a prototypical example of their race. And beloved Zojja was a prickly son of a bitch if you weren't the asura commander. She would never wibble. I really, really do think they gave her amnesia via wizardification so they can justify both 1. her never referencing your past adventures and 2. doing a bit of moeblobification. It's not gap moe if she doesn't have moments of being a bitch, Arenanet, it's just sparkling woobification.

They can have her talk about 'I used to be so mad at everyone' but there's a point where it's not 'reasonable offscreen character development', it's 'the writers telling us ACTUALLY it's lore-justified why she's written this way now, and she's telling you it, so she's a reliable narrator'. Zojja would be a completely unreliable narrator!! She's a bitch!! Like I said in the Taimi section, there are ways to write a character growing past being a total horrific bitch in ways that make sense! This isn't it.

This dialogue actually really frustrates me more than anything because it wants you to just... accept that nobody went looking for her, and that she didn't ever reach out because she didn't feel worthy of us. Nobody went looking? Not us, not anyone in Destiny's Edge, not anyone noteworthy in Rata Sum who would've cared about Snaff's brilliant progeny-cum-legacy and perhaps the best Dragon specialist in the world going completely off the grid and disappearing? And not even Taimi, an orphan whose mentor figure Zojja was so horrifically harmed in Maguuma that she was basically comatose. That Taimi? That Taimi would've only checked in on Zojja when she was in hospital, would've let Zojja turn her away when she wasn't ready for visitors, and wouldn't have looked for her or told anyone she was missing, not even the Commander? (okay she told us once but it was kind of a casual throwaway line. i don't count it.) Not only is it shoddy writing, it makes the Commander, Taimi, and all of Zojja's guildmates look like horrible people. We didn't check on you because the writers wrote you out of the narrative, girl.

Also Zojja doesn't say a single fucking thing about Snaff relating to Mabon at any point. A mentor who saw her for her and took her in and gave her a home? A father figure? This part does drive me insane actually because given SotO's writing I don't think they even thought about it. I don't think they meant to imply that she's basically having flashbacks to Snaff's death and that's why she flips out so badly at Mabon getting possessed and dying. I really don't think they did.

"But c'mon! Make a life-changing decision just after Mabon died? If it came from anyone but Dagda, it'd be emotional warfare." IT LITERALLY IS. IT'S LITERALLY EMOTIONAL WARFARE. THE GAME IS SO CLOSE TO POINTING OUT HOW CREEPY IT IS FOR DAGDA TO DO THIS, because with the base content drop for SotO they were at least partially interested in exploring the idea that the Astral Ward had a benevolent front but was ultimately culty and doing some horrible shit in the name of the ends justifying the means.

AND NOW SHE HAS AMNESIA AND WE SAW HER, LIKE, ONCE BEFORE WE WENT TO NAYOS. LITERALLY WHAT WAS THE POINT OF HAVING HER IN THE STORY AT ALL. THIS COULD'VE BEEN A FRIENDLY LAMP. Coulda been DUCHESS CHRYSANTHEA or someshit. Faren!! I don't know!! It's 2:30 in the morning I'm very tired, this post isn't getting any proofreading it is going out as is.

Point E: "This is actually just about Fractals, sorry."

I know they were thinking about continuing the Arkk storyline at one point, apparently that was the original draft for Sunqua Peak. Dessa's implied to have some deep connection to Uncategorized, which is explicitly not Rata Sum. When some prerelease images mentioned 'fractal' in the URL for SotO and it was apparently going to be about the Mists I was like 'oh, shit, are we getting closure on Arkk'? He's out there!! In the Mists!! Where is our fucking boy!!! (He's nowhere, the current writers' room don't know he exists. :') )

The major interactions with the Mists are generally Asura-developed -- Dessa and her krewe developed fractals as we know them, 'capturing' these Mists-echoes and preventing them from dissolving (and she also 'studied' at Rata Sum (though it 'didn't work out'), implying to me she grew up somewhere else and moved to Rata Sum for college before dropping out). And then Arkk managed to somehow break into the Mists physically, disrupt your transportation back from one, mash several Fractals together, let Mist Beings into the Observatory,

It's implied (to me, anyway) that there is or was a real Dessa who created the Fractal Observatory and then... got out. She had a kid before making the Observatory -- Arkk mentions she looks very young during Shattered Observatory, she recognizes him, and she has some unspecified connection to the Raving Asura -- who has an unsent letter to her which makes her deeply sad to read, and, also, yknow. The kittycat golems. He could be Arkk's dad, is what I'm saying.). And never knew her fractal echo was trapped inside the Mists, repeating forever and forever and forever. And then she died, or she disappeared (maybe something happened when fractals-Dessa tried to leave during LWS1 and reset?), and Arkk found out that she was still in the Fractals, and he managed to destabilize the fucking Fractals in his attempt to rip in there and get her out.

And the version we meet of him in Shattered Observatory is just an echo, too, trapped in the loop forever and ever and ever. Maybe there is a real one out there -- or maybe the Mists destroyed that one as he tried to escape the Shattered Observatory, and the only versions of these two that exist are their shadows endlessly looping (which is honestly what We only exist in the Mists…echoes of ourselves. is meant to mean, but hey, it's not specific enough, I read it as 'the versions of ourselves that we are now aren't real. we're just shadows of our real selves, who aren't here any longer'). Fucked up, man. Anyway they should've made one of the archwizards in SotO an asura

Asura. They're little bastards. Love 'em. In my universe my asura druid Svess is holding Taimi's hand and talking her fucking head off about how to make nitroglycerin and they're having a GREAT time

[fuzzydreamin]

for the writer asks, 2, 6, 10, and 20?

2. Tell us about what you’re most looking forward to writing – in your current project, or a future project

Oh, there are some lovely milestones and plot twists and just general bits of character growth that I am salivating over and can't wait to get to. But I gotta get there first! Terrible! Who decided this? Chronological order? Making sure the set up is worth the pay off? Bah!

6. What character do you have the most fun writing?

Uh, well, I've only written for Nora and Preston's POV's so far. I like them equally so far, too. I think the most fun part about writing multiple characters is being able to switch things up between them and really get in their head - how they think and feel about things that differs to the others in each situation. I can't wait to get further in and be able to explore the other character's headspaces.

10. How would you describe your writing process?

Lizard brain has ✨Idea💡 -> Put rough idea on paper and make less rough. Do necessary research. Continue to add to and edit this document the whole way through. It's a guide. -> Start actually writing the story itself and then write write write write -> Edit, oh no the editing, dreaded editing -> Success? Or horrible rotten failure.

20. Tell us the meta about your writing that you really want to ramble to people about (symbolism you’ve included, character or relationship development that you love, hidden references, callbacks or clues for future scenes?)

Sometimes I worry that people will look at the chapter/word count and think "That's too much." But then I remind myself that this is for me first and foremost and continue on.

Anyway, that is to say that I take a lot of time on parts of the story that might come across as more boring because I want to be able to add world building, character growth and relationships, and slip in little clues and hidden references that will come back up later on. There's no Nora falling out of the cryopod and immediately running off to DC or the like. It takes her over a week to get there. And that sort of continues on through the story - things just take time. But again, it lets me add all of that other necessary stuff to the story.

Taking time is just part of my process, and as much as I love writing the action scenes, whether a fight or just a big emotional moment or reveal, I don't think the focus of the story should soley be on those. You need the slow to make sure the fast hits right. I'm also trying to weave a whole web of things that end up interconnecting at later points - not just following one string. The fic is a bit of a rewrite/retelling after all, so I've completely thrown the "people know the source material so why go over it again?" to the wind. Because the ways things are either different or the same matters, so I can't just skim over them. If you read my fic then you're getting the whole story.

[beerecordings]

Okay, it's 3:55am uh tomorrow, if I can, I'll make that catalogue and send it to you

Damnit I'm always too late to fandoms

I hope that you've enjoyed my never ending asks

You have changed the way I view fanfiction

I 1000% will have to make a dedicationary work for this

I also spoiled the very end of chapter 5 for myself?? what the hell, it's 3:57 already

The warning for permacharacter death was like a shock and I was so sure you were going to take someone our and I'm praying you'll have mercy in this last chapter

no, but also, on a more deeply personal note than overdone shaky apologies and incoherent screaming, a lot of what you wrote brought me great comfort and happiness, as someone who did not get a chance to escape the one who was hurting them for a long time

this meant a lot to me, the journey, the failures, the pain and the love, the way that the askers tried their very best and the way your writing wrapped everything up so beautifully

between the major set changes for every chapter (norway house, peru or lima (i don't remember, sorry) house, split up, new house, and hopefully, for chapter five, somehwere they can call home)

to the character consistency, the way you wrote healing and trying was deeply realistic, there were so many scenes that just made me so happy and proud for these fictional characters, so excited and exasperated and admirin your askers, and you bought it all together with characters that had natural progressions

your representation was very good, and your nuance in characters was also very good

it's been an absolute honour to go on this journey with you, and hopefully now you'll never have to open your tumblr to find an overwhelming amount of content ever again- until chapter 5, maybe then ill be back

and im not even really on this journey, am I, I'm just someone who came after, right? I'm retracing the old path you paved, through the darkeness, and that's also beautiful, how this can be revisited over and over, story shared in awe and grief and amazement

i have had a funky, funky time for a while, so thank you for helping me find a new line to live by:

getting better. hope, hope hope

<3/p

thanks so much for your kind words!! i means a lot to me that you enjoyed it and even more that it was comforting to you. I hope one of the messages of MBC is that there's still value and love and progress within situations that seem hopeless, even if they lost a long time, or you backtrack, or even if an attempt to get away fails. i'm not a believer in 'what doesn't kill you makes you stronger' - sometimes the painful times are just painful, and might even leave you hurting long-term. but that doesn't mean there wasn't value to surviving them. it was valuable because of the way they held each other through it, or the way they kept on going even if they were completely alone and hopeless. even the times when they lost all stamina for survival, there was still value and importance to their lives.

[syrupspinner]

i defeated Disco Elysium

dont worry i bought it before the za/um buyout

i have nothing but good things to say about this game

HOWEVER

i am weak

okay so it takes a lot of energy out of me to play this game. usually i can sit my white ass down and crank out some solid gameplay for 8 hours straight if you dont stop me, ive got high gaming stamina. i remember (very little of) the time i played Dead Cells for 40 hours straight. i can play DE for like.. an hour and a half tops

i dont really know why! i can play emotionally involved games, i can play text-heavy games, and i can play management games without breaking a sweat. theres just something about this game that drains me

again, i love this game. the setting and the presentation and the dialog and the characters and the mystery and the politics its all perfect, no notes.

but like...

okay so. i wake up. the sweet old lady is really into cryptids, and also casually racist. then i talked to the hardie boys, who all expressed their hatred in me in unique ways, which i deserve because im a cop. then one of them kill me. reload save

then i kill myself. reload save

i talk to the bookstore owner who is making her child work in the cold at dawn. i break into the back of her store, haunted by the ghost of business failures. i backtrack to kims car for a flashlight, mindful not to run as he passively made fun of me for it yesterday. theres an ice cream machine i cant use, an empty polar bear fridge, and a half-finished ARG with a password i dont know. i waste money i dont have on a book about The Pale because im desperate to make this poor bastard no longer reliant on booze

then i talk to fucking measurehead. hes the "racial realist" that speaks in all caps and kept telling me to bring my army to war so he can make my "ham sandwich race" extinct, offhandedly mentioning the importance of The Pale

it is noon

i think i just get overwhelmed. theres so many stats and checks that i need to keep track of that i feel my eyes start to get heavy. again, i cannot stress enough that this is not a complaint i have against the game, this is just be recounting my experience with it

speaking of, my build! heres some screenshots of how i shook out in the endgame

for my stats, i tried to have a more speech-focused build early on, and that was a baaaaaaad idea. i spread myself out too evenly and didnt have a crutch stat so i was just kinda mid at everything, especially since i didnt wanna rely on substances. this is a roleplaying game and MY raphael ambrosius costeau is using his erotic self-asphyxiation induced traumatic brain injury as a fresh start!

i uh. probably shouldve said this earlier but i feel its important to stress that im not making any of this up. these are all real things that happen and exist in this game

anyway, as the final demonstration of my playthrough,

woah this reminds me of high school

beyond that, i dunno what else to say. its *Disco Elysium*, i dont think its possible to make a tumblr account without seeing people sing this games praises. please pirate it so you dont give copyright trolls more money

[kprciffdw]

Ratchet and Kim Possible Chronicles: Another Sitch in Time-Part 31

As soon as the elevator doors opened, Dr. Nefarious was seen standing before them along with several of his robot troops. Kim: “Oh, no!” Dr. Nefarious: “Well, what do we have here? All of my old foes standing right here before me.”

Rufus growled at him. Rufus: “Nefarious!”

Kim and Ratchet walked up closer towards Nefarious. Kim: “Dr. Nefarious, I was so hoping we wouldn’t run into you again.” Dr. Nefarious: “Well, you’re out of luck there, missy! And the both you had the gall to set foot on to my base after you did THIS to me!”

He pointed towards the damage on his face. Kim: “Hm, I have to admit, Ratchet really did leave a nice mark on that face of yours; it suits you quite well.”

Both she and Ratchet laughed as they did a fist bump with one another, which aggravated Nefarious. Ratchet: “But enough about that. Nefarious, you can’t use the clock. You don’t know what you could be doing.” Kim: “That’s right. Nothing that you could ever want is worth risking the entire Universe.” Dr. Nefarious: “Oh, but there is and I have all of you to thank for it, especially that blonde kid who clearly isn’t here right now, eh…what’s his name? Uh…oh, forget it!”

Rufus groaned. Kim: “What do you mean by that, Nefarious?” Dr. Nefarious: “Do I need to remind you? I would be glad to, Kim Possible. Initiate super-wavy flashback mode!” Kim: “Uh…what?”

And with that, a number of scenes appeared one after another during his narration that they are somehow able to see. Dr. Nefarious: “Let me start by saying that thanks to you, I found myself drifting through the cosmos. Do you know what it’s like to float along on an asteroid for a long period of time? It is surprisingly boring! Nothing for a villain to do but dwell on his failure! Then one day, we arrived on Zanifar, which was called Tobolia at the time, but that’s beside the point. The Fongoids managed to save us and we were free from that insufferable and seemingly endless ride through space! But, still, failure burned in my circuitry! How could I have been defeated by the likes of you? Why had the Universe been tipped in your…” Kim: “Hold on a moment!”

The flashback was interrupted. Kim: “You use crayons, too? What’s with you guys and your uncanny love for crayons? Are you and Qwark both so childish?” Dr. Nefarious: “Don’t interrupt me! I’m nowhere near finished with my story! Now where was I? Drifting, asteroid, failure, Fongoids, defeated, tipped in your…ah! Now I remember! So, then, I embarked on a crusade through the inner recesses of what you call "the soul”.“

The flashback continued. Dr. Nefarious: "I studied Fongoid meditation, attended anger management, dabbled in yoga and attended more anger management.” Kim: “Heh! A lot of good that anger management did for you.” Dr. Nefarious: “I said don’t interrupt me, girl! So then, one day, I went on a spirit walk on planet Quantos.” Ratchet: “And how did you get to Quantos?” Dr. Nefarious: “Let’s just say the story behind that is far too complicated to go into details.” Kim: “Fine, let’s go with that.” Dr. Nefarious: “So then, it was there that I finally found what I had been missing: The Great Clock!” Kim: “Oh, no, you can’t be serious!” Dr. Nefarious: “Oh, but I am, Miss Possible.”

The flashback had ceased. Dr. Nefarious: “With the clock under my control, I’ll be able to wrong all the rights in the Universe. Every villain who has ever stumbled will get a do-over, including the ones that you have faced. Dr. Drakken! Shego! Monkey Fist! Duff Killigan! Professor Dementor! That…that guy with the mullet that says "seriously” over and over again.“ Kim: "Motor Ed.” Dr. Nefarious: “Yes! That one! They as well as every other villain will triumph while every protagonist’s triumph will be reversed! Until finally, a new present is created in which the heroes always lose!”

He laughed maniacally as Kim and Ratchet stared back at him, greatly appalled by his plan. Kim: “That…that’s terrible!” Ratchet: “That won’t happen! We will stop you, Nefarious!” Dr. Nefarious: “Oh, we’ll see about that. Guards!”

Kim took on a fighting stance. Just then, Qwark grabbed on to her, Ratchet and Clank and held them in his arm. Qwark: “Hang on, cadets!”

He tossed the smoke bomb, letting out a massive haze. When it cleared, nothing happened… Qwark: “Well that was 5 bolts wasted.”

Much time later, Ratchet and Clank were attached to an asteroid, about to be flung by a massive slingshot. Kim and Qwark were to the side, in handcuffs near Dr. Nefarious. Dr. Nefarious: “How do you like my Asteroid Flinger 5000? I had it installed in the event I ever needed a super ironic death scenario.” Kim: “Hm, it seems incredibly absurd and overemphasized, so it’s most certainly your kind of thing.”

Nefarious glared at her. Ratchet: “Nefarious, you’re making a mistake!” Kim: “He’s right! Don’t do this! Stop while you’re ahead before you destroy everything!” Dr. Nefarious: “Hmph! Your pleadings are useless. Bon Voyage, my old nemeses. Oh! And don’t worry, Ratchet, I won’t let the girl die horribly like you’re going to.”

He laughed maniacally as he was about to push the big, red button. But then, his system crashed again. He was picking up on the signal of the same soap opera that he always does. Everyone had awkward looks amongst one another. One of Nefarious’ robots moved his hand and was about to make him push the button. Kim looked at Ratchet, devastated. Ratchet: “Kim-I…I…”

The asteroid was shot out, Ratchet and Clank were both screaming as they were hurtled out. Kim: “RATCHET!” Rufus: “Clank!”

Several hours later, Ratchet awoke on a far, distant planet known as Morklon. Beside him was the vessel that he had been using to collect the Zoni. He soon noticed that he was surrounded by a mysterious white light. Ratchet: “What the…? What is this?”

Clank stood nearby, also surrounded by the white light. A few Zoni floated near him. Clank: “It appears the Zoni have protected us during the crash.” Zoni: “He must not reach the clock.”

They then returned into the vessel as Ratchet held it out. Ratchet: “Thanks for the help, you guys.”

He looked at Clank who looked back at him in a displeased manner. Ratchet: “What? I’ll give them back.”

Clank shrugged his shoulders. Clank: “Ratchet, we do not have a lot of time.” Ratchet: “I know, we have to get off of this backwater planet. I have to get back to Kim! I need to tell her that I…I…”

He hesitated as he sulked. Clank placed his hand on Ratchet’s shoulder. Clank: “I know what it is that you need to do. But let us focus on finding a way off of this planet.” Ratchet: “Yes…”

And with that, they were on their way.

[duskholland]

Crash Into You || Tom Holland Smut

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

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

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

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

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

✧ *:･ﾟCrash Into You ･ﾟ:*✧

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No. What happened?”

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

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

Yelena scoffs. “Losers.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry,” he tries. “I am.”

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

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

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

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

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

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mhmm.”

“3, 2, 1, go!”

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

“Shit,” Tom mutters, grimacing.

You smirk. “Told you I’d beat you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tom gulps nervously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Have you ever tried it?” he asks.

“Not properly.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tom cackles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod. “Okay.”

“Follow my line in.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Me too.”

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

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

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

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

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

Tom follows you…?

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

Interesting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s cute.

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

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

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

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

Y/N: hey x

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

Tom: hi xx

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

A few weeks pass, and it becomes a habit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wait, is it a home game?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Absolutely.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Give me a spin, darling.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dutchy! Five minutes! Hurry up!”

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

“Dutchy?” you question.

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

You coo. “That’s cute.”

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

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

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

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

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

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

And Tom… Tom.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hmm?”

“Stay behind after the match and ask him.”

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

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

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

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

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, coach.”

“Good. See you tomorrow.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Friends?” Tom confirms, expression perking up.

“Yeah. Friends.”

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

“Yeah. They thought you were hot.”

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

“Did you?”

“Hmm?”

“Did you think I was hot?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Thanks, darling.”

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

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

“What, sweetheart?”

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

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

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

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

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

“D’you want to—”

“Oi, Dutchy!”

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What— Tom?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No problem.”

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

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

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

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

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

It’s noisy in the arena.

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

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

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

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

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

“Fucking hell. That looks like it hurts.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah. Penalty.”

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

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

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

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

“Mmm. Harry said so.”

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

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

“Funnier than me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

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

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

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

“Y/N!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hi,” he says.

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

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

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

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

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

A smile breaks out across your face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Overnight?”

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

You roll your eyes.

“Okay, boyfriend,” you agree.

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

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

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Close your eyes first.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

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

“You can open them now.”

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

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

You look up at him, tears blurring your waterline.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

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

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

[the7thcrow]

600 degrees

~

pairing: bang chan x (fem) reader

summary: you can’t cook. like, really can’t cook. good thing your cute neighbour is here to help clean up the mess.

word count: 5.1k

genre: neighbours au. strangers to lovers. the fluffiest of fluff, slightly suggestive.

warnings: a make-out session, bad humour, minho being a twat of a roommate, and tooth-rotting fluff.

rating: 14+

a/n: hi guys! hope you enjoy this one, it’s so much more wholesome and fluffy than what i usually write, but I'm pretty happy about it. don’t by shy to send me an ask or leave a comment. anything you have to say, I would love to hear. :)

...

..

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“Fine. Since you won’t come, at least enlighten me on how you plan to keep yourself busy?” Minho asks, casually leaning against your kitchen island. He stares at you, with that familiar condescending smirk you’ve seen far too many times.

“I don’t know,” you state, rolling your eyes. Rising to your feet, you head over to your shared refrigerator, pulling a bottle of Sangria out of the fridge. “But I’m sure I’ll find something.”

“You know, if you want to drink, you could at least do it at the party.” Minho approaches you from behind, placing both his hands on your shoulders. “It’s a lot less sad that way.”

You slap his hand away, letting out a frustrated groan at the laughter he lets out from his own joke. “I get out plenty, quit acting like I’m some lonely cat lady,” you say, grabbing your favourite wine glass from the cupboard. “I like parties, I just don’t like Jisung’s parties. They always get way out of hand.”

“But Y/N,” Minho wines, picking up your freshly poured glass and taking a sip, earning himself a glare. “I never said you were a cat lady, just the lonely part.”

At that you snatch the glass away from his hands. Not wanting to deal with this torment any longer, you walk back to your comfortable, worn-in spot on the couch.

“You know I’m right,” he says, continuing despite the fact you begin to turn up the volume of the television. “And the only way you’re going to change that is by accompanying me to Jisung’s loud, out of hand parties.”

You turn to face him, raising your eyebrows. “Somehow, I doubt my soulmate associates himself with Han Jisung.”

“Well that can’t be right, because I associate myself with Han Jisung?”

“Shut up, Minho.”

Your roommate snickers to himself as he opens the fridge, taking a quick glance at everything - or for a better term, lack of anything - inside. “What are you even going to eat? There’s nothing leftover from last night.”

“I’ll make something,” you say. Frankly, you had expected the outburst of laughter, but that didn’t do anything to simmer down your growing annoyance.

“Make something?” Minho laughs, giving you an incredulous stare. “Y/N, I’ve lived with you for two years and I don’t think I’ve seen you cook anything once.”

“Hey, I can cook,” you return, wrinkling your nose. “But why would I, when I have you to do it for me?”

At this, it’s Minho’s turn to roll his eyes. “Yeah, okay, I take that back. I don’t want you to come, have fun curling up on the couch alone with your three cats.”

“They’re literally yours.”

“Whatever,” he says, opening your front door. “Just don’t burn the apartment down, alright?”

As he closes the door, you flip him off. At first, you aren’t sure if he saw, but you’re given your answer as his laughter echoes down the hallway, fading as he walks further away.

You scowl. Of course you can cook. Well, at the very least, well enough to make a meal for one on a saturday night. Minho didn’t know what he was talking about.

Minho. Your best friend and roommate for the last two years. Man, does the guy have a way of pushing your buttons. You love him, of course. In the weird, bickering, just short of volatile friendship sort of way the two of you had developed.

Still, you can’t deny that even with his painfully irritable nature, he is still a good friend. No matter how many times you say no, he always offers to take you anywhere he goes. He pushes you out of your comfort zone. He’s there to console you when a date goes bad, or you failed a test you studied hard for. He makes all his meals for two, just because he doesn’t want you to live solely off shitty take-out.

He’s your rock. Your platonic other half. Your closest companion.

Which means you are going to prove him wrong, and then rub it in his face as much as you possibly can. Of course, because that’s what friends are for.

~~~~

Then again, maybe you wouldn’t. Or, at the very least, it was going to be exceedingly more difficult now that your apartment was full of smoke.

Covering your nose with one hand, you take the tray of chocolate chip cookies out of the oven. If you can even call them that, as they now held a far closer resemblance to that of hockey pucks. Both in looks, and what you could assume in taste, as well.

Okay, you know chocolate chip cookies don’t really count as a decent meal, but they are the only thing you remember how to cook from when you lived at home. Or maybe you didn’t remember, based on the tray of failure sitting in front of you.

Then, to make matters even worse, your fire alarm starts going off.

“Shit,” you mutter under your breath. Now you are going to have to go to the front desk, let them know everything is okay.

Maybe Minho was right, you should’ve just went to Jisung’s stupid party and eaten something there. Putting all the other painful aspects of Han’s parties aside, Felix was his roommate, so the horderves were always excellent.

They were better than your hockey puck cookies, anyway.

Letting out a disappointed sigh, you open your apartment door, prepared to get a rough scolding from the lady working the front desk. However, you are surprised to find a man standing in front of you, his hand in the air, as if he were about to knock.

“Hi,” he says, awkwardly putting his hand back down at his side. He has messy platinum blonde hair, and soft eyes. He’s cute, and the realization quickly makes you recognize him.

“You’re my neighbor,” you say, pointing a finger at him. It’s not until he doesn’t respond immediately that you realize it was a strange thing to say. Obviously, he knows he’s your neighbor, and he might be a little offended you didn’t recognize him immediately.

Then again, the two of you had never really talked before. Everytime you would pass each other in the hall, he’d always give a polite nod and continue walking. Sometimes you’d try to say hello, or start a small conversation, but he always disappeared quickly. It had gotten to the point where you assumed he had some strange, unwarranted grudge against you.

So, it was safe to say that you were more than just a little surprised to find him at your door.

“Uh, yeah, I am. Are you okay? I thought I smelt something burning, and then I heard the fire alarm go off.” He asks, peeking behind you into your apartment, seeing if he can catch sight of any flames.

Instead, his eyes land on your tray of butchered cookies, and he… smirks?

“Oh,” he says, attempting to hide the smile growing on his face. “Having some cooking trouble?”

You stare at him for a moment, watching as his lips pursed together, stifling a chuckle. “Are you...” you begin, your jaw dropping slightly. “Are you laughing at me?”

“No,” he looks down at you, finally letting his grin free. “I would never.”

“Yeah, okay,” you frown, already not enjoying that sarcastic look on his face. You thought you’d be able to avoid that humiliating look considering Minho wasn’t here, but apparently not.

 “As you can see, it’s nothing. So if you’ll excuse me,” you continue, attempting to move past him. “I need to go get my neck rung by the lady at the front desk,” However, he doesn’t budge from his place in your door frame. You cast him a glare, which only makes his smile grow wider.

“Nah, don’t worry, I’ll go let her know,” he says, already turning to walk down the hall. You open your mouth to object, but he casts a glance over his shoulder, snickering. “You focus on cleaning up whatever those black lumps were supposed to be.”

You stand in your doorway, dumbfounded as your neighbor disappears down the complex staircase. Who did this guy think he was, openly laughing at your current predicament? Sure, if the roles were reversed, there’s no doubt that you would do the same. But that isn’t the point.

No. The point is that you are not impressed by the audacity of this stranger, and you are going to make sure that this distaste is known.

Grumbling to yourself, you dump the still smoking cookies in the trash can. It’s a shame, really. You’d thought you were doing so well, too. You thought this would be your chance to prove Minho wrong. Minho. Oh, he would be having an absolute hay day if he were here right now, and the thought only makes your scowl deepen.

“Well,” your neighbor calls from behind you, causing you to jump slightly. He reappears in the open door frame, sticking his neck inside, but not fully crossing the threshold into your apartment. “She’s not thrilled, but the alarm didn’t trigger the main system’s sprinklers, so you’re good.”

You let out a sigh of relief. “Thank God.”

The man smiles. “If you don’t mind me asking, what exactly were you trying to make anyway?”

An embarrassed blush casts itself over your cheeks. “Chocolate chip cookies,” you mumble, not meeting his eyes.

He lets out a burst of laughter, smiling widely. You can’t help but notice that he had a cute smile, dimples on both of his cheeks, eyes crinkled. Not that you were looking. Not that you cared, obviously.

“How’d you manage to mess up chocolate chip cookies that badly?”

“I don’t know,” you say, shrugging your shoulders helplessly. “You tell me.” You gesture towards the oven. Your neighbor smirks, walking inside your apartment. He bends down in front of your oven, before taking a look inside.

“Well, nothing seems to be wrong in there…” he starts, before glancing up at the set temperature. “Oh,” he states, before looking back at you, his eyes full of pity. “Oh boy.”

“What?” You ask defensively.

“The temperature. You forgot to convert it from celsius to fahrenheit. See?” He says, leaning away from the oven to give you a closer look. “So you thought you were cooking them at 350 degrees fahrenheit, when in reality they were at over 600 degrees.”

“Oh my god,” you say, smacking your palm against your forehead. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I don’t know,” the guy shrugs. “You could have burnt your apartment down, so I’d consider it a win. You’re lucky I got here on time.”

You cast him a scowl, although you can’t seem to relinquish the faintest hint of a smile creeping onto your lips. You know damn well you wouldn’t have started a fire, and that the man showing up really didn’t stop anything but an uncomfortable conversation with the front lady. You are also sure that he is fully aware of this too, which makes your smirk grow wider. Alright, you’ll play along.

“Right, what ever would I do without you?” you say sarcastically, causing your neighbor to playfully roll his eyes. He leans against your kitchen counter, relaxing slightly.

“Does my saviour have a name?” You ask, opening the fridge to take a look at what’s inside. You feel your stomach rumble, taking a glance at the clock to see that it was already past 9:00.

“It’s Chris,” he smiles, leaning over your shoulder. “So what are you going to eat, now that you’ve successfully butchered the easiest recipe known to man?”

“Hey!” You snipe. “That is certainly not the easiest recipe known to man.”

“Fine, fine,” Chris says, putting his hands up in defense. “Maybe not the easiest, but it’s definitely up there. But putting that aside, what are you going to eat? Because I genuinely don’t think I’ve ever seen a fridge so empty.”

You want to quip back at him, but he’s right. Minho usually does the grocery shopping, but because of Jisung’s party tonight he wasn’t planning on cooking anything.

“Good question,” you sigh, closing the refrigerator door before leaning your back against it. “Maybe I’ll just order some take out. I don’t think my pride can handle another failure.”

Chris smiles. “Or, I have an idea,” he says, his eyes glinting. He heads over to your apartment door, and for a moment you worry that he’s leaving.

No, you’re not worried. You’re curious. That’s all. You were curious whether or not he was leaving, nothing more.

When Chris returns, he has his arms full of ingredients. Spinach, penne, tomato sauce, cream, a variety of spices. The list goes on, and he stumbles slightly, almost dropping the surplus of food onto your kitchen floor. Imagining the mess, you rush over to help him, placing the load of groceries onto the counter.

“I don’t know if you couldn’t tell before,” you say, motioning to your overflowing counter. “But I really can’t cook. I have no clue what to do with any of this.”

“That’s no problem,” Chris smiles, already separating the food into different groups. “I’ll help you.”

“No, no, no. I can’t ask you to do that,” you say, waving your hands in protest. You step in front of him, squeezing yourself between his chest and the kitchen counter, preventing him from reaching any of the ingredients. “You’ve already dealt with the desk lady for me, and brought over all these groceries. You’ve done more than enough.”

He smiles, gently placing his hands on your shoulders and effortlessly moving you to the side. “Why would I bring you these groceries if I knew you couldn’t do anything with them?” When you don’t respond, he continues. “Seriously, it’s no big deal. Don’t worry about it. Just let me help you.”

You sigh in defeat, ignoring the way your heart begins to beat faster in your chest. “Alright,” you say, grabbing Minho’s cutting board from the cupboard. “Let’s do this, then.”

~~~~

An hour later, you find yourself sitting on top of your kitchen counter, Chris stationed by the stove working on the pasta sauce. You had genuinely tried to help in the beginning, you really did. But after Chris criticized your (awful) cutting technique, and said he didn’t exactly trust you to do anything else, you gave up.

Besides, you don’t have a problem watching him work. Over the last hour, you’ve come to learn that Chris is an absolute whiz in the kitchen. Moving from place to place, adding spices by intuition and nothing more. This wasn’t something you could have managed to make yourself in a million years, and it’s obvious that if you tried to assist him right now, you’d only get in the way.

Of course, you’ve learned a lot more about Chris in the last hour than just that. Where he grew up, his hobbies, what he was currently studying at the university. Music theory, as you’d learned. As cool as it sounded, Han had managed to tarnish your image of music majors, but you suppose you could give Chris a chance.

“It’s almost done,” Chris says, glancing over his shoulder to look at you.

“Thank God, I’m starving,” you reply, leaping off the counter to stand beside him.

“What, no ‘thank you, Chris?’ No, ‘what ever would I have done without you, Chris?’” He mocks offence, placing a hand on his heart.

“It’s not even done yet. I’ll thank you after I try it, I promise.” You laugh, rolling your eyes.

“Ah, so you’re only thankful if you like it. I see how it is,” Chris says, crossing his arms in front of himself, pouting his lower lip slightly.

“Guess so,” you say, crossing your own arms mockingly. Chris smiles, those cute little dimples of his dancing across his cheeks.

Then you feel it, that little jump of your heart. The faintest skip of a beat that you’d familiarized yourself with over the last hour. That little hint of anticipation that makes you decide that you are, even if only slightly, a bit interested in Chris.

After all, he’s funny and sweet. Can carry a conversation well, and to understate it, undeniably easy on the eyes. That’s more than enough to give him a chance.

Most of all, however, you like that little flare between the two of you. The sarcasm, the banter. It doesn’t feel the same as when Minho does it, slightly condescending and done purely to harbour your annoyance. No, this is different. It is a challenge. He wants you to quip back, to push further. To make him smirk, or laugh, or roll his eyes.

“Alright, fine then,” he says, taking the large wooden spoon and scooping up some of the pasta sauce. “Tell me if this is up to par, your majesty.”

You aren’t sure if he wants you to take the spoon, or let him hold it for you as you take a bite. You decide to take the gamble, gently moving your lips around the spoon, tasting the sauce. You glance up at Chris, a small look of surprise on his face. However, you don’t miss the flash of something behind his eyes. The faintest hint of affection, interest.

The sauce itself is delicious. A perfect blend of tomato, basil and cream. You hum contently, giving him a thumbs up.

“Chris, this is amazing,” you praise, admiring the small blush that sprinkles his cheeks.

“It’s really nothing,” he says, diverting his gaze and rubbing the back of his neck, shyly.

“No, seriously,” you say, taking the spoon from his hand and scooping some of the sauce up yourself. “Try it.” You hold the spoon out in front of him, and he raises his eyebrows slightly. Your gaze remains firm. A challenge.

Hesitantly, he takes the bite, not breaking eye contact as he does so. You stare at him, watching the way his lips move around the spoon, the intensity of his gaze. The action itself should be innocent, yet you feel a warmth rise to your cheeks.

Chris swallows, taking his lips off the spoon. For a moment, neither of you say anything. You can feel the change in the atmosphere of the room. The spark between you two being brought alight.

You swallow hard. “So?” You ask quietly.

“Yeah, it’s good. Very good,” he says back, his voice low and raspy. He goes to take the spoon from you, and his hand lingers a moment, his thumb trailing the skin of your knuckles.

You feel yourself lean in slightly, fully prepared to take the leap, when suddenly he breaks away from you, eagerly taking a few steps back. He looks away, placing a hand on his face, as if he were ashamed.

“Shit. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I know you’re seeing someone, we shouldn’t be doing this. I’m sorry,” he babbles, completely turning away from you.

You open your mouth to say something, but no words come out. Seeing someone? Where the hell could he have possibly gotten that idea?

“Seeing someone?” You ask, incredulously voicing your thoughts. You grab him by the shoulder, turning him around. “Why do you think I’m seeing someone?”

Chris still refuses to meet your eyes, instead focusing intently on the wall behind you. “The guy that lives here- Minho - aren’t you two?”

“Minho?” You gape, contorting your face in a look of pure disgust. “Ew, gross! No! Believe me, I am not dating Minho, I’d genuinely rather stick this spoon in my eye,” you exclaim, lifting up the utensil.

At that Chris finally looks at you, wearing his own look of pure confusion. “Wait, really? But whenever I hear you guys out in the hall, the two of you are always so… flirty.”

“Flirty?” You laugh at the ridiculousness of the statement. “If by flirty you mean he teases me literally every god damn second of every day, then yeah sure, I guess. But believe me, there is absolutely nothing romantic about that. Not in the least.”

Chris shakes his head, a smile forming at the corners of his lips. “Wow. I am such an idiot,” he sighs, a rediscovered lightness to his tone.

“No, no. Don’t worry about it,” you reassure him. “Anyone could make that mistake, I guess. It’s really no big-”

“No, it’s not just that,” he cuts you off. “That’s why I’ve never talked to you before now.”

“You never talked to me because you thought that me and Minho were dating?” You ask, slightly confused. Even if you were dating, you didn’t see why that would stop him from starting a conversation with you. “Why?”

“Well,” he sighs, his cheeks reddening further. “I thought you were pretty, and based on the way you always quipped back at him, clever and funny as well. I don’t know, it just felt wrong to try and build a friendship with you, knowing how I already felt a little....”  

You smirk, drawing yourself slightly closer to him. “A little what?”

His smile transforms itself from embarrassed to a sly grin of his own. “A little into you, I guess.”

“It really is a shame,” you shrug, trying to hide the excitement building in your chest. “Because here I was, thinking my cute neighbor had some irrational grudge against me.”

Chris leans in, so the two of you are only inches apart. You can feel the heat radiating from his skin, smell the strong fragrance of his cologne. Sharp with lemon zest and mint.

“We could always make up for lost time, you know,” he says, his eyes flashing with mischief.

That is all the invitation you need to break the space between the two of you. You press Chris’ lips against your own, placing one hand on his shoulder and the other along the line of his jaw. His lips are soft, you notice. Tender in the slow rhythm the two of you develop.

He runs his hands up along your figure. One of them finding itself locked in your hair, the other placed firmly on the curve of your lower back. Gently, he leads the two of you away from the stove, placing you so that your back is pressed up against the kitchen counter.

You run your hand down along his chest, reveling in the groan he let’s out as your fingers trail down his lower abdomen. The sound is electricity pulsing through you, charging the room and igniting the atmosphere around the two of you.

His lips leave yours, trailing your jaw before making their way down your neck. Each individual kiss is slow and sultry, sending a shiver down your spine. You take a deep breath to stable yourself, and it does not go unnoticed.

Chris smirks, shifting his gaze to meet yours. His eyes are dark, his pupils blown out with desire. “You know, if we keep this up, the pasta sauce is going to burn,” he says, letting his fingers trail along your collarbone.

“Let it,” you shrug. “I wasn’t hungry anyways.”

Chris laughs at this, leaning forward so his face brushes the crook of your neck. “Yeah, right,” he says, allowing his lips to dust your skin. Suddenly, he bites down, not enough to break through the skin, but certainly enough to leave a small mark.  

You laugh, running your hands in his hair, half-heartedly pulling him off of your neck. “Hey! That hurt,” you exclaim, only half serious.

“Sorry,” he grins, before crashing his lips into yours once again. The pace between the two of you is much faster now, each kiss more passionate. More promising. Your desire rings through you, clouding your mind in a hazy fog of lust. It is dizzying, just how much you want him at this moment.

You're certain he feels the same way, given in how tightly he grips your thigh, his breath ragged every time you break apart. It is messy. Greedy. The two of you so deeply wanting more. More of each other.

You’re about to ask if he wants to move this to the bedroom, when suddenly the apartment door swings open. It’s almost comical, how quickly you and Chris break apart, springing to opposite ends of the kitchen.

“I hate to say it, but you were right,” Minho calls as he walks inside, not yet glancing up from his phone screen. “Shit got out of hand. Someone managed to break the pool table, don’t even ask how, I don’t know either. Almost gave Felix an aneurysm. I swear the kid was about to cry, poor guy. Han had to shut everything down. So you really didn’t miss out on-” Minho stops as he sees Chris, a confused yet bemused expression crossing his face.

“Oh, hey Chan,” he says, causing you to give Chris a look.

“A nickname,” Chris mouths to you, as discreetly as he possibly can.

“What are you doing over here?” Minho asks him, crossing his arms and leaning against the door. He has that smug smirk on his face that makes you want to punch him.

“Oh, well…” Chris starts, casting you a glance. “Y/N made some food, and there was too much of it, so she invited me over.”

“Really?” Minho asks, caught off guard. He walks past you and Chris, staring at the pasta and sauce currently sitting on the oven burners. “You’re saying Y/N made this?”

“Well, yeah?” Chris says, feigning confusion. “Of course, I wouldn’t lie about something like that. Why?”

You have to stop yourself from laughing, looking at the expression of utter bewilderment on Minho’s face. Minho glances at you, narrowing his eyes, before sighing.

“Well then, I guess you proved me wrong on two things tonight, Y/N,” he says, grabbing a bowl from the cupboard.

“What are you doing?” You ask as he begins to scoop some of the penne into his dish.

“Oh, you said there was a lot,” Minho responds, raising one eyebrow. “Can I not have some?”

“Sorry, go ahead,” you say, still slightly flustered by the abruptness of his entrance. Minho finishes filling his bowl and takes a seat at the kitchen island. As he begins to eat, the room is filled with a rather tense silence. You and Chris share an awkward look, unsure of what to do next.

Minho looks up from his dish, glancing between the two of you.

“Yeah, okay,” he says, grabbing his bowl and standing up from his chair. “I’m going to go eat this in my room. Have fun you two.”

Before you can say anything, Minho disappears around the corner, down the hallway leading to his room. You turn back towards Chris. The two of you stare at each other for a moment, before bursting out into a fit of laughter.

“He’s a bit of a mood-killer, huh?” You say, grabbing two bowls from the cupboard, offering him one.

Chris nods in thanks as he takes the bowl from your hands. “Just a little bit,” he laughs, beginning to scoop some of the pasta into both of your dishes.

The two of you take a seat at your counter, spending the meal talking and laughing. Nothing else, the moment has passed, but that doesn’t bother you. You enjoy Chris’ presence. His quick humour and thoughtful conversation.

It really is something that you could get used to, you decide.

After you’re done eating, you walk Chris over to the door, handing him his surplus of spice bottles and leftover spinach.

“Thank you for doing all this, seriously. The food was delicious, you’re seriously gifted. And also, thank you for covering for me, I really didn’t feel like listening to Minho die laughing over the burnt cookies,” you admit.

“It’s no problem, really,” Chris smiles. He shifts all the spices over to his right arm, letting his free hand fall down to his side. Softly, he takes your hand in his, letting your fingers intertwine.

“Listen,” he continues, shyly looking up from your hands to meet your eyes. “If you’re not doing anything tomorrow, you’re welcome to come over for a proper dinner. You know, so I can show you what I can actually make when it’s not a last minute attempt at salvaging a meal.”

You smile a goofy, genuine grin. “That sounds good to me,” you say. Hesitantly, you lean forwards, planting a soft, innocent kiss on his lips.

As you break apart, he hums contently. “I’ll see you tomorrow then, thanks for today. You made my night, Y/N.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Chris.” You watch as he walks over to his apartment door, which is of course, only a few meters away from your own. When he disappears into his own apartment, you sigh, closing your own door behind you. You lean against the frame, letting out a shaky breath, your heart beating rapidly in your chest. It’s been so long since you’ve held any genuine interest in someone, you feel almost giddy.

That is until you see Minho, leaning against the corner of the kitchen wall, watching you with his cheshire smirk.

“Dinner tomorrow, huh?” He asks, walking into the kitchen and scooping himself the last of the pasta.

“What about it?” You retort, not giving in to that pestering look in his eyes.

“Oh, nothing. I’m sure it’ll be good, considering Chan clearly made this,” Minho says, shoveling some of the pasta into his mouth.

“I don’t know what you mean,” you say, grabbing two wine glasses from the cupboard.

“Save it, the lady at the front desk told me you almost set the apartment on fire,” Minho laughs as you pour the wine.

You let out a groan, handing him his glass. “God dammit.”

“Don’t blame her though,” he smiles, leaning back and taking a sip. “I wouldn’t have believed you could have cooked that anyway.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, maybe you’re right.”

“Had me fooled for a second there though,” he says, patting you on the head. “But more importantly, you like Chan huh?”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Right. Nice hickey, by the way,” he smirks, raising his eyebrows.

You pull up the collar of your shirt, casting him a glare. “Okay, maybe I do,” you shrug. “What’s it to you?”

“Nothing,” he replies, before taking a second to think. “Just please don’t fuck him or anything tomorrow. Walls are thin.”

You laugh, taking your glass of wine and flopping yourself back down on the living room couch.

“Shut up, Minho.”

~

thanks for reading loves <3

[fruitcoops]

i feel like you write really good arguments, as a few people have brought up before, where the parties make mistakes but own up to them and acknowledge the other side. Same thing with Captain Sirius- his reprimands are always respectful. It feels mature and just well-thought out. But we know Sirius wasn't always like that, because he came to dumo's house knowing arguments=violence. Would you write a fic where Sirius learns how to argue/captain? maybe from Dumo-the-parent? Does that make sense?

Father-son bonding on this fine Thursday! I love it! SW credit goes to @lumosinlove <3

Dumo’s phone rang halfway through his lunch, which wasn’t unusual, except for the fact that it was Sirius calling and not…well, literally anyone else. Sirius seemed rather allergic to his phone—text replies often went unanswered for an average of 3 hours, and he wasn’t sure he had ever managed to reach Sirius on the first ring. Concern flickered in his chest and he lifted it to his ear.

“H—”

“Oh, thank god,” Sirius said, breathless. “Hi, hello, it’s me—uh, it’s Sirius—and I was just calling to ask for some help because I’m the captain now—you know that, what am I doing—and I don’t have a fucking clue what to do and I’m kind of—”

“Sirius,” Dumo interrupted as soon as his astonishment faded. He had never heard Sirius say so many words in so little time. Silence fell on the other end of the line. “Sirius, are you still there?”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“Okay, take a deep breath, then tell me what you need.”

Another beat of quiet passed. “So, I’m the captain now.”

“You are.”

“And the guys really like you, but I don’t even know where to start, so I was hoping you could give me a hand with this.”

“With what?”

“How do I make people like me?” Sirius asked, sounding uncharacteristically timid.

Dumo paused, confused. “They already do.”

“But I’m the captain now. They have to like me more, right?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, torn between laughing and laying down to stave off a headache. “Why don’t you come over and we can talk in person, alright?”

“Right.” Sirius cleared his throat. “Right, yeah, about that.”

“Sirius. Are you—are you currently on my porch?”

“…maybe.” Dumo closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “It’s kind of cold out here.”

“You have a key.”

“I thought it would be rude to just let myself in.”

“Oh my god,” Dumo muttered, rising from his chair with a huff. The autumn wind howled as he opened the front door, stripping the trees of their leaves and turning Sirius’ cheeks vivid red as he stood on the top step with the phone still at his ear and anxiety written all over his face.

“Bonjour.”

“You can hang up the phone now.”

Sirius bit his lip and slid it back into his pocket, waiting awkwardly until Dumo motioned him inside and he hurried out of the chill. “Thanks for picking up, by the way.”

“Of course. I’ll always pick up the phone for you.” He guided him toward the kitchen with a hand on his shoulder. “Coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

Still so polite. The coffeepot was still warm from Celeste’s late breakfast, and Sirius’ eyes grew wide at the steam curling off the top when Dumo handed him a mug to wrap his frozen hands around before sitting across from him. “Back to business. Number one: the team already likes you, and you need no help from me getting their approval. Got it?”

Sirius nodded and took a sip.

“Number two: If you ever need my help, please don’t wait on the front porch in freezing weather when you could just knock.” A sheepish smile twitched at the side of his mouth and Dumo shook his head. “I won’t be responsible for your hypothermia. Now, what did you want advice about?”

Sirius let out a slow breath. “I don’t want to be the hardass captain that everyone hates. I just—this is an amazing opportunity, but honestly I just want my friends.”

Dumo hummed, even as his heart panged. “At the risk of sounding vague, the way to do that is to not be a hardass in the first place. Be a leader instead.”

“But I have to tell them what to do—”

“—and a leader does that the right way. There’s a difference between being a leader and being a tyrant. Push them to be better, but don’t be cruel about it. Set an example through the things you do, not the things you make other people do.” He touched the back of his hand gently and Sirius’ eyes flickered over. “Don’t lead through fear, but through respect.”

“I don’t know how.”

“That’s why you called me, non?” He waited until he saw the small smile return. “Alright, how would you approach a situation where one of your teammates is lagging behind in their speed trials?”

Sirius blinked. “Tell them to do better?”

Different tactic. “How did your coaches talk to you when you lagged behind in your speed trials?”

“…told me to do better.”

Orion Black, I will break your kneecaps the next time I see you. Dumo poured himself a fresh cup of coffee. “That may have been a strategy for you, but for someone who is already trying their best, it could be very discouraging. They might resent you for trying to seem better than them.”

Sirius’ brows furrowed. “But I’m not.”

“I know. But they wouldn’t. In my opinion, the best course of action would be to ask what’s wrong, and how you can help. It might not get better overnight, but that teammate will trust that you can help them with their problem and will know that you care about them.”

“So I should just let them fail for a while?”

“You push them toward success gradually, and don’t berate them for any hiccups along the way. Failure can bring growth.”

His mouth set into a line of frustration. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“I’m not explaining this right,” Dumo muttered, chewing the inside of his lip. How to explain to the new leader of your team what leadership is... “Let’s put it this way. You want Pots and Harzy to run a specific play, but they don’t understand it. How do you fix it?”

Sirius started to answer, then closed his mouth and thought for a moment, staring into the depths of his coffee. “I…I would walk them through it section by section, because I know they’re smart, but they might have problems with different parts.”

Dumo wondered if the room had actually become brighter, or if the pride in his heart was just shining through into the real world. “Exactly. And afterward, when they get it right?”

“High-five and run it again.”

“Now you’re getting it!” Something more difficult... “What if Kuny and Nado won’t shut up during Coach’s breakdown?”

“Tell them to be quiet.”

“But then Nado calls you a buzzkill and starts whispering to Kuny, and giving you looks.” Sirius’ whole face fell; if Dumo wasn’t so committed to making sure he got it right, he would’ve felt bad. “What do you do, Sirius?”

“Apolo—”

“No. People don’t respect those who apologize every time they face pushback.”

“But you said I need them to like me.”

“You need them to respect you. They don’t have to like you at all hours of the day.” He poked him lightly on the chest. “It’s your job to keep the team in line, now, and that means being a bit of a buzzkill sometimes. Not an asshole. Just a leader. What do you do if they start whispering about you?”

Sirius scrunched his nose. “Tell them to cut it out again,” he said grudgingly.

“And if they don’t?”

“Can I make them run laps after the meeting?”

“Yep. How many?”

“Three, because I had to ask three times.” He frowned. “And they should run at separate times, otherwise they’ll keep talking. God, they really don’t shut up, do they?”

That’s rich coming from you, Mr.-Chats-with-Pots-24/7. He decided to keep his thoughts to himself—that wasn’t what today was about. “Good job, Sirius.”

“Really?”

“Oui. If you lay down the rules early, you won’t have to keep correcting mistakes. They won’t want to disappoint you in the first place.”

“I don’t want to disappoint them,” he said quietly.

“You won’t.” If there was one thing Dumo was sure of, it was that Sirius would be the best captain the Lions ever had. “Ready for the toughest part?”

“Yes?”

“Are you ready?” he asked again.

Sirius swallowed, then nodded. “Yes.”

“I don’t like the way you’re captaining this team.”

From the look on his face, Dumo might as well have whacked him over the head with a spatula. “What?”

“I don’t think you have the guts.”

A combination of hurt and anger flashed in his eyes. “Hey!”

Dumo prodded him on the shoulder. “You’re not going to be able to stick up for yourself when it comes down to it. You can’t say no to your friends.”

“I can!”

“Then do it,” he challenged. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

“You’re—” Sirius pressed his lips together and stood up. “Fuck you. I came to you for help—”

Dumo rose as well, leaning forward half an inch. “Then tell me I’m wrong. Tell me you can captain the shit out of this team.”

“You’re wrong!”

“Say it like you mean it!”

“You’re wrong!” Sirius repeated as his jaw set, louder. “I’m going to captain the shit out of this team and fuck you for thinking I can’t!”

“But I don’t like it!” Though they were both shouting at each other, Sirius’ defensiveness and timidity in the face of conflict were nowhere to be found.

“That’s not my problem!” His cheeks were turning pink again, but not from the cold. “I’m the captain, so you either listen to me or tell me what the hell your problem is!”

“There you go!” Dumo cheered, stepping around the table to crush him in a hug. “That was perfect.”

Sirius went still with befuddlement. “What?”

“You didn’t believe you could captain this team until just now, did you?” He stepped back and held Sirius’ shoulders, beaming. “You just did exactly what you were supposed to do. You cannot let yourself be pushed around if you want to lead and keep your friendships strong. I am so, so proud of you.”

Sirius stared at him in shock for a moment, then moved forward again and rested his chin on Dumo’s shoulder as he pulled him in for another hug. “Thank you.”

“You are going to do great things, Sirius. I’m just glad I could help.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you.”

Dumo smiled and patted his back, giving him a squeeze. “Yes, you could. That’s how I know you will.”