#skate setup

[bettyspaghettylegs]

Finally added new, smaller/harder wheels and custom bushings (check out @skatewheel_maker on the gram for custom bushing and wheels). It’s crazy to see how beat down the setup has become with a little over 2 years of skating in them. First two pics show them before any skating, and remaining pics is the aftermath. Definitely going to repaint them soon 💚

[otabekisautistic]

my mom warning me that platform boots are heavy maam im literally an artistic roller skater

[shanerounce]

Sehnsucht fingerboard setup and mini sesh

[theshadowrealmitself]

I’ve been thinking about an au where Romulans aren’t, like, the evil villain species (cause I hate the idea of villainizing an entire species), but Romulans and Vulcans still hate each other and what kind of differences the two species would have

(Especially in their interactions with humans because I adore alien/human interactions, whether it’s platonic, romantic, familial, etc)

And I’m gonna need to hear y’all’s opinions cause I think I’m getting very ooc with it because, to me, Vulcans have a nosey nelly problem, they act like they don’t but they are incredibly up into Humans’ businesses, so I feel like, in contrast to that, Romulans would be incredibly smug about not caring about Humans, just ignoring them when they act extremely “illogical” or whatever, just like “look at us, we don’t care at all, we’re unbothered”

[sirenwalker]

Jun's free is 100000000 times better than his short, I really, really love it!!!

[101now]

IMG_3444

backlip Posted by reiter.unterdietfurt on 2023-01-20 14:27:50 Tagged: , miniramp , barn , diy , skate , skateboarding , oldschool , setup , backlip

[oguwu906]

Hiiii guys

how can I improve my setup?

Currently its hand made cruiser deck shaped almost like Landyachtz Dinghy Classic(8" by 28"), 62mm Khepri Desert Cobra wheels(slidy) and Pacific Smile trucks

I didnt mention the bearings because I dont want to swap them with something else

My current riding style is cruising with occasional slides and ollies(my slides and ollies are pretty bad though so Id like to read some tips for sliding and ollies with a big wheels)

[writingquestionsanswered]

Someone mentioned that main characters can get overdeveloped. I'm familiar with characters being underdeveloped, but how do you tell if they are overdeveloped?

5 Signs Your Character is Overdeveloped

#1 - You spend time illustrating personality traits that aren't important to the story. Your character's personality traits should have some bearing on how they move through the story. Don't take the time to illustrate your character's stubbornness if being stubborn won't have some impact on the story.

#2 - You excessively describe their physical appearance and what they're wearing. While it's a good idea to give the reader a sense of what the character looks like and to describe what they're wearing when it shows something important about the character, world, or situation, the reader doesn't need an in-depth physical description--or even reminders--every time the character appears on the page.

#3 - You spend a lot of time illustrating their interactions and relationships with minor characters even though they have no bearing on the story. We like our characters to feel real and three-dimensional, which means giving the reader a sense of who they are, what their normal life is like, and who is important to them. However, we don't want to spend a lot of time on characters/relationships that don't really do anything for the story. For example, it's nice that your character has a good relationship with their elderly neighbor, but if the relationship isn't necessary to show us who the character is, set up or execute a plot point, or fulfill a thematic/symbolic role, it probably shouldn't be there.

#4 - Your character is a "jack of all trades." It's great for your character to have hobbies, skills, and experience in various things, but we don't want our characters to look like a walking, talking, padded resume. For the most part, any hobby, skill, or experience highlighted should play an important role in the story. If being proficient at roller skating doesn't tell us something about the character we can't learn another way, allow for the setup or execution of a plot point, or fulfill a thematic/symbolic role, it's probably not important to highlight that hobby, skill, or experience--or any other that doesn't contribute to the story.

#5 - You spend a lot of time on unnecessary backstory - Backstory plays an important role in helping us to understand who the character is, how they got to where they are in life, what things led up to their internal conflict and emotional wound/s, etc. However, we don't want to spend time on things that aren't ultimately important to the story in some way. For example, there's no point in flashing back to your character's week at surfing camp if nothing happened that week that is important to who they are or anything else that happens in the story.

A good rule of thumb for really any detail in a story is to ask yourself, "What is lost if I remove this detail?" If the answer is "nothing," you can probably go ahead and remove it. :)

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

I’ve been writing seriously for over 30 years and love to share what I’ve learned. Have a writing question? My inbox is always open!

♦ Questions that violate my ask policies will be deleted! ♦ Please see my master list of top posts before asking ♦ Learn more about WQA here

[silovsmenot]

Foreign Language | Artūrs Šilovs

SUMMARY: A first meeting with a certain Latvian goalie, a surprise that leaves him thinking of you ... And an unexpected reunion thanks to injury. WARNINGS: So much fluff, poor Latvian language - if you're a Latvian native, please excuse me, I'm still learning. PAIRING: Artūrs Šilov & reader (f!reader implied). NOTES: This was the very first idea that I had, and it's been a brainrot ever since. This could very easily be a multi-part, because the brainrot is real. Okay so little Latvian lesson: 'sveiki' is an informal form of hello and 'piedodiet' is sorry. WORD COUNT: 2147 FIND PART TWO HERE

New job, new city — you were beyond excited to get started with your new life in Vancouver. It was a dream come true, a sports photographer for the Vancouver Sun. You’d be covering everything from soccer to basketball, and your personal favourite, ice hockey. It couldn’t have been better.

It had only been a few weeks and you were still pretty starstruck by the whole situation. The smile had rarely left your lips for everything felt so right. As you drove to the Abbotsford Centre, your music turned to loud as you sang along to your favourite song — life was good. And today promised to be another good day. You were helping to cover a story of the Vancouver prospects in Abbotsford and how they were developing within the AHL affiliate, while your partner would be interviewing players at the rink side and in changing rooms, you’d be snapping the shots of the training session.

It promised to be a lot easier than your usual days, training sessions were a lot more relaxed than game photography. Even with their game against playoff rivals looming, you knew it would be a calmer atmosphere than the alternative.

With the heavy camera bag upon your shoulders, digits scraped back your hair as you walked, tied back as you always did while working. Nodding across to your partner who stood waiting at the large rink doors, he held out a coffee to you, which you gratefully accepted with a quiet ‘thank you’. You two were close, like siblings — natural partners and you always delivered high tier work together.

“The boss wants some focus on the goalies, see what you can do, y/n.” He muttered as you walked, both sipping quietly at the hot liquid. From where you were, you could already hear the shouts of training, the crash of the puck against glass and the slapping of sticks upon the ice. It was a sound you knew and loved.

And as your partner pushed open the door, the bright lights of the rink lit everything up. You both moved quickly with a light tapping of both coffee cups in luck, your partner immediately gravitating to the head coach who lingered beside the boards, while you would weave onto the bench and begin your setup. Lens mounted onto the camera body, fixing your settings to this particular arena until you were happy with your picture. It was simply second nature now.

You stood beside the boards, camera switching from player to player with smooth motions as the camera clicked. Turning to each goalie, your camera would linger with the rhythmic clicking — you didn’t need to know all of the story, but a focus on the goalies was always a popular one. Players being called up to the NHL happened so regularly, it was hardly a story, but goalies? Now that got people ticking.

As the session progressed, you watched your partner question each player who came to the bench for water before they’d even had a chance to breathe. You would simply smile at each person, almost sympathetically, and do your job with the clicking of the camera.

Even as the young goalie skated over, angling toward the bench where you stood with a hand outstretched for a bottle, your lips presented a small smile as you waited for your partner to pounce. But as he was too wrapped up with Tolopilo, this goalie was left in silence … for a moment at least. You knew a little about him, of course. A young guy from Latvia, drafted a few years ago now, with a bit of a rocky start to the season. His eyes met yours as the blue and green mask was raised from his face, lips curled into a smile at the first glance.

You spoke without a second thought. It had been some years now since you ended things with your ex, but you’d spent a few years learning Latvian for them — it had been years since you had any reason to use it. 

“Sveiki…” 

Artūrs blinked. The smile on his lips disappeared as confusion was etched in its place. He’d been in Canada for a while now, with only the occasional passing player conversation to give him that little piece of home. He’d never expected this woman to come out with that.

“Sveiki.” The goalie quietly replied, leaning his weight forward upon the boards beside you. “You’re Latvian?”

You shook your head, a quiet laugh slipping through your lips as the camera lowered, your body turning to almost mirror his as you leaned upon the boards.

“I’m not Latvian, but my ex was. I learned some from when we were together.” 

As you spoke, he watched you closely as the smile returned to his face. A smile that you couldn’t help but find contagious. He nodded slowly, thinking silently to himself before his blocker hand began to shake. The glove removed, his hand wiping upon his jersey before it was offered across to you with a grin.

“I’m Artūrs,” He spoke with a little more confidence, capturing your gaze beneath his dark eyes. They were easy to get lost in as you looked at him. “But this lot mostly call me Arty.” 

“Y/N, it’s nice to meet you, Arty.” You hummed as your hand came to meet his, a slight look of amusing disgust at the sweaty hand of the goaltender. Needless to say it was enough to make the young goalie laugh.

Releasing his hand with a playful swat, you too would wipe your hand upon your jumper as he laughed. You couldn’t blame him, and you too found it funny, but a sweaty hand was not  what you wanted.

“Piedodiet.” He spoke through the laughter, head cocking as he watched you. Your eyes narrowed playful in response to his apology.

“I’m not sure that I believe that you’re sorry.” You found yourself teasing in response, the camera growing heavy in your hands as it sat idle. If your partner looked over, it would look as though you were helping him with his job — but far from it. You were enjoying yourself, more than you realised at the time.

He gave no response, just the rising and falling of his brows. A cheeky grin at his lips as the hand returned the blocker, the bottle returned to it’s place on the boards.

“Will I see you around here more?” Arty called out as he took a few strides away from where you stood. He hoped, silently, that you’d say yes. That you’d be back to photograph and chat more. For whatever reason, he wasn’t quite sure yet, he wanted to see more of you.

It was your turn to stay silent, shrugging with shoulders and hands. You had no idea if your job would bring you back to the Abbotsford Centre, but you hoped that it would.

And as the training session came to end, your partner returned to you with a notepad full of notes and a voice recorder full to burst, you gave a lingering glance back to the goalie as he took his first steps from the ice, and met your eyes with a smile.

Months passed and you had often thought of the grinning Latvian goalie of the Abbotsford Canucks. Your job hadn’t taken you back to the little suburb of Vancouver, though you’d occasionally catch the games on TV. A little curiosity peaking as you’d remember the conversation with him — sometimes, you’d catch yourself smiling as you thought about it. You’d watch his games when you could and read the news in which he featured.

You couldn’t say that you missed him, you barely knew him, but you wanted to know him … You wanted to be able to miss him.

March rolled around, the end of the regular season was in sight and you’d taken the lead in photography coverage of the Vancouver Canucks for a while now — you’d become a regular at the Rogers Arena, and knew most of the faces of players, staff and partners. You’d even become friends with a number of the wives and girlfriends. You were a familiar face to all.

And you were one of the first on the scene, with your partner in tow, at the announcement of the press conference. Demko’s injury was the worst kept secret in the city, and you’d all been waiting for them to announce it. To know which lucky goalie was getting the call up from Abbotsford.

Journalists and photographers piled into the large room with whispers and nods of acknowledgement. Everyone waiting for Tocchet to make the announcement, and your heart skipped a little beat when he did … for the grinning goalie, Artūrs Šilovs would be taking up the role of back-up in Demko’s absence. 

You wasted no time in getting down to the rink following the announcement, you knew that all the reporters would be clamouring for a word with the captain and the rookie goalie. As the flood of journalists began through the arena, the players were already leaving the ice with only the two goalies remaining with Clarkie. Many left to find the captain and coaches, while a few photographers, yourself included, would snap what shots they could of the two goaltenders.

Your stomach did a spin to see him again, the grin seemingly stuck with glue upon your lips — it had been months, surely he wouldn’t not remember you, you thought. But as his eyes glanced across to the wall of photographers, his gaze did linger upon you. Beneath his mask, he did grin. He’d spent months hoping to see you in Abbotsford, at his training or his game. It was a bitter disappointment when another photographer had been sent down in your place.

And as the nod was given for both goalies to leave the ice, little else mattered to him than making a beeline to you.

“Sveiki.” Arty immediately said as the helmet was raised, drifting on his skates just in front of you. Your smile spread instantly, quietly returning the hello with a hum. “I need to change, but please don’t run off.”

With a curious look etched upon your features, you silently nodded. It was the end of your working day anyway, you needed to sort through the photos of the day, but you could do that while you waited.

So sat upon a chair in the stands, laptop open and photos running through, you edited and submitted your best to your partner who would return to the office to write his piece. Gaze would snap up at the first sound of movement up the steps, it was strange to see him out of his goalie gear and in normal, casual clothing. A pair of jeans, a jumper, and glasses? There was something unexpected about that, but they suited him well. You liked the glasses' look.

“You didn’t come down to Abbotsford again.” He quietly said, the disappointment clear in his voice and on his face. And you felt the sting — but you also felt the twist in your stomach of excitement … he’d wanted to see you again, he’d thought about you.

“They moved me solely to these guys. I’m barely away from this rink now, Arty.” You sighed, hand closing the laptop which rested in your lap. You’d hold it there, fiddling with the corner as you thought. “I watched some of your games from home. I should’ve come down for one or two … to watch.”

“Do you want to go for a coffee, y/n?” Artūrs interjected, impatiently and abruptly. It was almost like he had to get it out before he could stop himself, and he was noticeably nervous as he waited for an answer.

You took a moment, watching him fiddle with the hem of his jumper as he waited — yet his smile never wavered. It was stuck, just as yours was.

“I’d like that.” You finally spoke, returning the laptop to your bag without breaking eye contact. The weight in his chest lifted immediately, a heavy exhale parting his lips as he nodded. You rose with a struggle, the camera bag always seeming to be heavier in that first moment, and Arty was quick to assist. His hand offered out, collecting the strap from your hand as it was slung onto his back with ease.

You walked from the arena together, both grinning wide with occasional glances at the other. A comfortable silence between you, it was simply a nice feeling to walk at each other’s side.

“Es priecājos jūs atkal redzēt.” He finally spoke, breaking the silence with words you didn’t quite know. Your Latvian limited to basic phrases that you learned to speak to your ex’s family during the holidays. 

“What does that mean?” You whispered, leaning a little closer.

“I’m glad to see you again.”

And your heart skipped a little beat.

[ratatatastic]

"Is [Barkov] a normal dude? Meaning like—is he just like, you're having a cheeseburger some day and he's like 'Oh, no, no, no! I need this, I need the superfoods,' like is he kind-of... is he a normal guy?" "'Is that Wagyu or no?'" "'I need, you know, the best of the best,' Like how is he?" "He's undercover really funny, especially when you get to know him. I don't think he said much for the first 3 to 5 years. But I always joke with him I've never been invited to his house and we've played together for 10 years." "Dude, Brandon Montour said the same thing! We had him on last year! He's like, 'Dude, he's never had us over! We're always like—' But he doesn't live by all you guys, right? He kind-of lives a little further out?" "Yeah, he lives 20-30 minutes away in Boca [Raton.] But, yeah, no I—Listen, it's just his personality. It's who he is, and we respect him for it. Like I said, he's a really funny guy when you get to know him, and sometimes he's got those one-liners. And, you know, he's one of those perfect humans, right? You know, one of the guys we all strive to be, and we'll all come short forever, but—yeah, he's a good person."

The Cam & Strick Podcast | 7.30.24 (x)

i hope this bit never ends if not for the fact that each time ekky has to say it he has to add another year to it which adds to the comedy of it all

"Hey, who's got the best setup on your team with the Panthers? When all the boys get together, 'We're going to your crib. We're gettin' on the jet skis,' whatever. Who's got the best setup?" "Yeah, um—Aaron [Ekblad]'s probably...I mean, Aaron's been there the longest. Hopefully, Barkov hears this! He's been there the longest, but he never invites the boys over to his house!" "Oh~ Barky!" "Is he cheap?" "I'm gonna call Barky out right now, and see if he can invite the whole team over next year..." "Is he cheap? Is he cheap? What is it?" "Will he do it?" "Oh, he's up in 9 East—obviously, like quiet, unbelievable guy, but he's the only up in Boca [Raton.] So I don't know if anybody wants to even drive up to Boca..." "Oh, Fancyland Zone..." "What do you mean? How far is that away from where you are? Like, and everybody else?" "Yeah, we're all in Ft. Lauderdale, Las Olas—within probably... you know some families are in Parkland by the arena, but we're all within probably 10 minutes away and he's up 30, 40 minutes away so."

The Cam & Strick Podcast | 7.25.23 (x)

the boys ribbing sasha for living so far away and never inviting them to his house but still going btw hes amazing and incredible and perfect and sososo good we say this to tease him but like this is just who he is as a person and we accept that so please dont misconstrue this into something its not this is a joke and we dont take it to heart

and on that topic its really a shame that NA media doesnt know how fucking funny and how absolutely unserious he can be. I understand the notion of diligent no-nonsense captain is a prevalent idea (which he is lets make that clear he takes hockey so seriously) but especially since this season hes said hes cut down on weight so he could skate faster (and the results show) so i understand where the questions are coming from knowing the track record but also

we've won a cup and hes ramped it up its fantastic and this is one of my favourite examples of it of how quippy he can be

happy to talk about my cappy!!! happy to tease my cappy!!!

"and you know hes one of those perfect humans right? you know one of the guys we all strive to be, and we'll all come short forever but yeah he's a good person" do you also cry about how terribly fond and sincere ekky gets about sasha

[yoongikapi]

dates || ot7 || drabble

just pure fluff

masterlist

namjoon:

❥ namjoon would ABSOLUTELY take you on beautiful walks through the park or cute lil nature walks

❥ and at golden hour the sun would hit his face just right and he’d look otherworldly, you’d smile and he’d ask why but you’d just squeeze his hand tighter

❥ he’d also love if you ask him to take you to the aquarium. he’d probably point out a couple of fish swimming together and say that it’s just like the two of you

<3

jin:

❥ he’d enjoy taking you out to a fancy restaurant, he would absolutely joke that he could do better than the chefs and you joke back that he should apply for a job

❥ it would make him smile if he took you to an amusement park, you’d want to play the games and he’d win a big RJ plushie for you

❥ he’d tightly hold your hand on the roller coaster rides, and grip the handle with his other hand and you’d laugh at him for being so scared

❥ “i wasn’t scared, i was just keeping you safe”

<3

yoongi:

❥ he’d be perfectly content with staying home and watching a movie with you; you’d vote on watching a scary movie and he’d say no. in the end he’d play whatever it is you wanted though

❥ you would cry if he setup a romantic dinner date; candles would cover the room and to top it off he’d play a song he wrote for you

❥ his sweet voice and beautiful guitar would be the only thing that mattered in that moment, you’d hug him tight and thank him for such a perfect night

<3

hobi:

❥ he’d tell you to dress fancy and take you to a dance club

❥ he’d try to teach you some moves but would end up taking your hands in his and would just jump around with you; your smile would light up the room and your laugh would ring in his ears

❥ he’d blush and when the slow songs played, he’d hold you close and spin with you, and would be quick to forgive you when you step on his toes

<3

jimin:

❥ this man would LOVE to spoil you

❥ he’d take you to the fanciest places he knows and would let you pick out whatever you wanted, you’d fight him on paying for some things and he would laugh after you’d see the prices as he hands the clerk his card

❥ “let me buy you something nice too” you’d tell him and he’d agree, you’d hold his hand tighter leading him to the dollar store

(i’m so sorry but we broke)

<3

taehyung:

❥ 100% would take you to an art museum, he’d bring his camera and take cute pictures of you

❥ the two of you would laugh as you setup a self- timer and run to get a good picture together in time

❥ he’d also love to do a painting date with you

❥ he’d setup everything and you’d be shocked when you got home to see the living room covered with canvases and painting supplies; the two of you would laugh at each others’ attempts at painting each other

<3

jungkook:

❥ you’d hug and kiss and thank him so much and he’d just smile when he surprised you with tickets to your favorite artist

❥ you’d jump up and down and scream the songs, he’d just stand there holding your purse but he loves to see you happy and would do anything for you

❥ he’d take you ice skating and would hold on tight to you to keep you from falling

❥ “jungkook you’re good at everything” you’d tell him

❥ he’d simply smile and agree with you

<3

[callsign-dexter]

Baby Bradford: A Little Fighter Masterlist

Summary: 7 years ago, 2011, Tim Bradford's and Isabel Bradford's world changed they welcomed Baby Bradford into the world. Now, 2018, it's just Tim and the light of his life dealing with the world.

Isabel left when Y/N was 6 but even then she was in and out of undercover so, she really didn't know her mother. Tim is all she had during that time and grew close to her.

Pairings: Tim Bradford x Daughter!Daughter, Tim Bradford x Lucy Chen

Warnings: angst, fluff, guns, fighting, swearing, inaccurate medical talk, inaccurate police talk, car crashes, break-ins, weapons, hospitals

Masterlist

A/N: Ages range. Tag list is open as well.

Banner done by the lovely @callsigns-haze!

Baby Bradford Meets The Rookies

Flu Season

Parental Kidnapping

Boyfriend?

Emergency Room Visit

Uncle Nolan Saves the Day

Nighttime Sickness

Stranger (Not Really) Danger

Carnival Gone Wrong

I Swear I Wasn't Drinking

Caught in the Crossfire

LAPD Parent Dance

Daddy is Awesome!

Break In

Quarantined

A Dog Situation

Better Than Daddy

Running Out Of Time

Lunch with the Best

The Setup

Driving Lesson

Wisdom Teeth

Shaken Up

Kidnapped

Self Defense and Weapon Training

Undercover

Mom

Tim's Undercover Gone Wrong

Life and Death

A Bad Breakup

Road Trip

Sick Once Again

Ice-skating

Prompts:

"I got you, Baby Girl."

[martybaker]

Only Fools Rush In

So the setup for this is that Hob and Dream are professors in their forties at the same university, they’re friends who are very much pining for each other. They’re not oblivious, just taking things slow. Unfortunately, some meddling students and staff didn’t get the memo 😅

There will be more parts to this fic - as the word count kept running away from me I just decided to split it up and post the parts separately, however, I cannot promise when the next part will be completed.

——

Part 1

“Seriously? Where are your gloves? Hat? Scarf? Literally anything to keep you warm??”

Dream scoffs at getting scolded upon sight, taking the few more steps necessary to join Hob at the entrance to the outdoor ice skating rink.

“I’m warm enough,” he argues, earning a disbelieving look from Hob, who takes off his own gloves and grabs Dream’s hand, finding it cold, as expected. Dream snatches his hand away with a petulant pout.

Hob laughs at him. “You’re freezing! And you’re ridiculous! Having a fashion style to uphold is all fine and dandy, but dressed like this you’re just asking to catch a cold!”

“I thought I was here to try ice-skating, not to get a lecture on the way I dress,” Dream grumbles. “Besides, won’t I warm up by the activity? All this fuss is unnecessary.”

He makes for the door of the building where ice skates can be rented, with a ‘the sooner to get this over with, the better’ attitude.

Hob follows, raising an eyebrow at him: “Oh, Mr. Confident thinks he’ll be skating circles around me in no time? We’ll see how you’ll feel about the lack of gloves and padded clothing when you’ll end up on your arse, time and time again!”

Dream rolls his eyes. “I’m sure that was your exact intention when picking this activity, making a fool of me, all for your amusement.”

“Hey, I won the bet fair and square! Didn’t you have a blast when you won the last one, making me shave my stubble clean and draw a fake beard on? The students weren’t able to look at me in class without bursting into laughter!”

Dream cannot help but grin at the memory. “You were able to captivate them with the material nonetheless.”

“Yeah, but I had to work twice as hard to shift their attention away from the beard!”

—

They keep bickering as they rent a pair of skates each, finding a spot on the bench to change into them. Hob demonstrates how to properly tie the skates.

After Dream’s finished, he checks Dream’s work, grabbing onto the skates and testing the wiggle room.

“It needs to be tighter. Tied loosely and your ankles would move about, unsupported. You could get hurt.”

Dream nods, listening carefully. Hob is the expert here, or at least the one with lots of experience to draw from.

“Here, let me help you,” Hob slips from the bench down to his knees, Dream’s foot held in between them, and reties his laces, pulling them tight. Dream blinks rapidly, surprised by the action.

“There, that’s better,” Hob says, looking up and laughing at whatever expression it is that he finds on Dream’s face. “What? No one has ever tied your shoes for you before?”

Dream huffs. “Of course not,” he says, cheeks a little rosier than before, and lowers his gaze down, as if to inspect Hob’s work.

Luckily, Hob doesn’t tease more, he slowly stands up and then offers Dream an inviting hand. “Ready to rock and roll?”

Dream sighs. “Ready as I’ll ever be,” and takes Hob’s hand.

—

The ice rink isn’t too crowded, which is good. Firstly because they have room to move slowly on the ice, with Hob skating backwards and helping Dream learn the ropes without the danger of being run over by someone. And secondly, it means there are less witnesses to Dream’s mortifying struggles.

“Why, again, is this considered fun?” He grumbles, letting Hob pull him forward slowly, feeling extremely embarrassed as he can’t figure out how to move forward on his own without turning it into awkward stumbling rather than skating.

Hob laughs, squeezing Dream’s hands tighter.

“It is fun, it just takes some time to get into it. You’ve gotta lean forward a little, you’re too stiff and upright,” he advises.

Hob explains and demonstrates the right motions to him, over and over with great patience. Dream tries his best to follow the advice, and after a while, it does get better. Hob praises him and asks if he wants to try on his own for a bit, but Dream gives him an anxious look.

“Hmm, maybe you could try with the skating aid?” Hob suggests.

Dream grimaces. “Over my dead body,” he says, prompting Hob to burst into laughter again.

“Okay, got it. No skating aid for grown-up Dream. How about you skate near the boards and I'll be on your other side, so you could have something to grab on when you feel unstable?”

Dream nods.

Hob moves into position on his left side. Dream skates forward a few feet, wobbles and immediately grabs onto Hob’s arm with both hands, holding on for dear life.

Hob chuckles. “That’s alright, you’re doing great! Mistakes and falls are an inevitable part of the learning process!”

Dream glares at him. “Thanks for the tip, professor Gadling.”

Hob grins. “I’m no professor here, just an ice-skating teacher.”

“Whatever. Hold my hand,” Dream commands, and Hob happily obliges.

They do a few rounds like that, and it’s…actually not bad. Dream is getting used to the mechanics of the movement and he’s not that anxious with a steady support by his side.

He tries speeding up, and it works. He maybe even starts to feel a little bit of that excitement that attracts people to practice this activity regularly.

“You’re doing amazing!” Hob says, and Dream cannot help but preen.

He raises an eyebrow at Hob: “What were you saying earlier, about me landing on my arse again and again?”

Hob laughs. “Clearly, you have a good teacher!”

Dream snorts. “Clearly, I am a good student.”

“That you are,” Hob says with a smile, and pulls Dream to skate faster.

And faster.

And Dream stumbles on uneven ice, falling backwards and taking Hob with him.

They both land on their arses.

Hob, of course, reacts to this with laughter. Dream really doesn’t know where that man takes all that optimism from.

“Sorry, my bad, I went too fast!”

“Yes, you do that,” Dream mutters under his nose.

“Pardon?” Hob asks, brows furrowed as he picks himself up from the ice and holds out a hand for Dream.

Dream looks at the outstretched hand but doesn’t take it. “You’ll have to have patience with me, Hob. I don’t have the guts for barrelling into things headfirst anymore.”

“It’s generally recommended to avoid barrelling into anything while you’re ice skating,” Hob jokes. Dream gives him a look and this time Hob does catch on that Dream’s not talking about ice-skating anymore.

His gaze softens. “You can take all the time you need, Dream, I’m not in a rush.”

He plops down onto the ice next to Dream, back against the boards. “Wanna just chill here for a while?”

Dream gives him an unimpressed look. “We can’t sit here, we’re in people’s way.”

“Eh, they’ll make do for a minute.”

Dream shakes his head and pulls them both up to stand again. “I should get back on the horse, shouldn’t I?”

Hob grins. “I think that’s a different sport, love.”

Dream rolls his eyes. “It’s called an idiom, you twit.”

Dream dusts off his gloved hands and picks up the hat that he was wearing. Hob actually forced his own gloves and hat on him before they started and Dream has to admit to himself that he’s glad for them now. Of course, he’s not about to voice that and give Hob the satisfaction. The pompom on top of the hat is silly, but it does keep Dream’s ears warm, so he’s willing to commit this small fashion crime in the name of comfort.

To top it all off, Hob’s knitted Doctor Who scarf is now also in Dream’s possession. He has no objections to that one, though it does look better on Hob.

He would feel guilty for leaving Hob to freeze but the man’s actually wearing a big puffer jacket, zipped up to his chin. And his cheeks are endearingly rosy when he smiles at Dream, which is also, uhm, something.

“Shall we?” Hob asks, and Dream reaches for his hand again. This time, Hob doesn’t pull, but matches Dream’s own tempo.

[darklydeliciousdesires]

La Dolce Vita - John Shelby/Cosima Changretta (OFC).

Part two is here, besties! :) I hope you all enjoy it, as I am loving writing these two together. You'll notice too that I gave John a few less kids than we see in canon, just to make it a little easier on myself as the writer, lol!

Words - 4,218

Warnings - Each part will be adult only content, from swearing to eventual smut and violence. Minors DNI.

Part II - Purgatorio

Countryside living was something John had become accustomed to during his marriage to Esme, his beautiful country pile and vast grounds a much more desirable location than the smoggy suburbs of Small Heath. After her death, he had sold it, returning to the latter until he was married again.  

As predicted, Cosima detested living in a back-to-back. Her continued complaining as well as his desire for what he had come to enjoy was what led him to purchase another countryside property, choosing the small village of Wythall in Bromsgrove, buying a beautiful, spacious cottage for her to spruce up. It was far enough from Birmingham to leave his troubles within the swirling smog and looming viaducts, but near enough that he could be back on Watery Lane for his business endeavours in just over forty minutes by car.  

Married life was not ideal, being a person wed to someone he didn’t like, whose tempestuous nature often put him directly in her firing line. However, he could not discount her qualities. A spoiled princess with expensive tastes (the cottage renovation had cost him a fortune) she might have been, but god, she worked her fingers to the bone. 

“Oliver, Mary, Katie, Freddie, Seamus, come along! We’ll be late, get your skates on!” she called, hurrying back to the kitchen were five sandwiches lay on the chopping board, freshly baked bread with liberal fillings of egg and ham, Cosima cutting them into their required shapes. Squares for Oliver and Seamus, triangles for Katie and oblongs for Mary and Freddie. She knew well the likes and dislikes of her stepchildren.  

Wrapping each in baking parchment, she placed them into individual brown paper bags, an apple and a couple of custard creams put in too, five lunches folded neatly and handed to each child as they filed into the kitchen, smartly dressed in their immaculately pressed uniforms. “Give your father a kiss and let’s get moving, come on. We’ll miss the bell! Blinking hell, Seamus, look at your mouth. Toothpaste all over, come here!” 

His son’s mouth was wiped with her handkerchief, the boy squirming, Cosima bopping his little nose with her finger once done before she herded them through the kitchen. “Quickly, quickly, come on!” 

John couldn’t believe she was the same woman who had originally thrown a puce faced fit upon finding out she was to be stepmother to five children, with how well she’d taken to mothering his brood. For Cosima, she’d eventually seen the little ones as a blessing, something to take her mind off the fact that she detested being married to their father.  

Picking up her wicker basket, she followed them out the door without looking at John once, leaving him to sigh and return to the sitting room, drinking tea while reading the morning paper. With the addition of the wicker basket, this meant she would be stopping at the local village shop on her way back from the school, meaning he had roughly an hour before she would be through the door and ready to scrub the house from top to bottom.  

That was something else he couldn’t fault her for; she kept a beautiful home. John just preferred to be nowhere near her while she was going about it. She’d always find something to pick at him about, and he was tiring of it. He did try, to have something more resembling of an actual marriage rather than a setup of convenience with his beautiful young bride, but she shot him down at every step. Her contempt did nothing but continually fester, it seemed. She still couldn’t forgive him for the demise of her father and brother.  

Keeping an eye on the grandfather clock, he waited until fifty minutes had passed before whistling for Dot and Bo, his two faithful springer spaniel bitches. “Yeah, that’s right. We’re off to get a couple of grouse, maybe a pigeon or pheasant an’ all.”  

The dogs began to circle and yap excitedly as he pulled his shotgun from the cabinet, packing ammunition and draping the gun over his arm, heading into the kitchen and wrapping himself some cheese scones in a clean tea towel, placing those in his bag, too. If there was another thing his wife excelled at, it was all things culinary. He’d come directly in her vexed crosshairs upon eating his first meal prepared by her three months before, stating that he did not “eat wop food” as he’d coined her lasagne, without actually even trying it.  

As soon as he’d put a forkful into his mouth, he’d been a very, very rapid convert. It had been perhaps the most delicious thing he’d ever tasted, Cosima standing with her arms folded, smirking at his swift change of heart over her food. He now looked forward to every meal she prepared for him with gusto, although couldn’t bear to sit in her company while eating it. He’d try and make conversation, and she’d sulk and pout. It was irksome to say the least.  

His leaving the house was timed impeccably, seeing Cosima walking back down the lane as he was heading out of the garden and into the few acres of lush, green fields that came with the cottage. She even got the money out of that, too, allowing local people to graze their horses upon it when resting their own pastures. While John and the dogs headed for the woods, Cosima let herself into the cottage, putting her apron on and beginning her housework.  

Once her beautiful home was sparkling – not that she allowed it to be any other way – she took the rugs out to beat the dust from them and then returned to the kitchen, making preparations for the children’s dinner. A local lady from the village was coming by to that evening to keep an eye on them while she and John headed back into Birmingham, the family gathering for Polly’s birthday meal at a restaurant upon Broad Street.  

Although she held her husband in a more or less permanent state of contempt, she did actually like Polly. She found her to be strong, intelligent, and once you got to know her, very loving towards her family. It had taken a while for her to thaw, but now the women did get along well. Certainly, Cosima had much more time for her than she did John or Tommy.  

Stirring the pasta sauce in a large pot upon the cast iron range, an original Victorian fixture of the cottage, Cosima sighed. She should be happy. She had literally everything she’d ever wanted, a beautiful home, huge garden, a couple of lovely dogs, a brood of children – and although not her own, they adored her as much as she did them – as well as a handsome, successful husband; whom she couldn’t stand.  

Well, that wasn’t strictly true. John was a nice man, he had a wicked sense of humour, he was a staunch provider, and he was so handsome she caught herself swooning over him all the time. She could see him trying hard to at least have some semblance of a meaningful connection with her, but she couldn’t help herself in shooting him down each and every time. Why?  

Guilt. 

He and his family were why two fifths of her immediate one no longer breathed, and she was to simply forget that and be content, happy in her new life with John? Her father would turn in his grave to know she had now acquired the surname of Shelby. He would be utterly livid. 

“But he isn’t here.” Her statement fell from her lips along with the little splashes of tears from her pretty eyes, eyes so blue that her beloved father had often joked that she couldn’t be his. “She’s the milkman’s, isn’t she?” he’d say in jest to her mother. Of course, she was his, though. A tear landed in the sauce she stirred, Cosima pulling her handkerchief from her dress sleeve and drying her eyes.  

The sound of barking became audible, the kitchen door opening, Dot and Bo being told to sit. “You got that towel, Cosima? I don’t want their muddy feet ruining your clean floor.” That was another thing about John, he was always appreciative of how immaculately she kept their home. Some men merely waved it away as a woman’s work and had no respect for such, but not him.  

“Hold on.” Moving to the cupboard under the sink, she pulled out one of the more raggedy tea towels she kept for the purpose of paw cleaning, handing it to him. 

He took it, a small frown creasing his handsome features. “You been crying?”  

Immediately, she straightened, sniffing as she held herself with her usual dignity. “Garlic, in the pasta sauce. It made my eyes water.” 

“Ah, right.” Moving back outside, he made sure each paw was clean and dry before letting the dogs in, removing his muddy boots and leaving them at the back door. Making his way in, he sniffed the air, half wishing that they were staying at home to eat whatever it was his wife had crafted, it smelled so good. “Let’s have a little try of that, give us a spoon.” 

“No, it isn’t ready yet,” she bustled, returning to the pot.  

He bit his tongue. “I got two pheasants, a grouse and a couple of pigeons. They’re in the outhouse hanging up. Just let me know when you wanna use ‘em and I’ll go pluck ‘em. I know you don’t like doing that.” 

“Okay. Oh, John? That floorboard by the front door has come up again. Can you go and fix it down? I left nails and a hammer on the phone table.” 

“Yeah, in a bit. Wanna have a tea and warm up a bit first.” 

She sighed, chewing her cheek. “No, now please. Before the kids come home. I don’t want them tripping on it while they’re playing.” 

“They ain’t coming home until gone three. Just give us half an hour, eh?” 

“Bloody get it done now, John! Before you forget!”  

Ahh, it had almost been quite civil for a moment. “Oi, watch your fucking tone, woman. I told you I’d get it done and I will. Fucking bad tempered mare.”  

“Stop calling me a mare!” 

“Well stop behaving like one in season then, and I might, eh?” he shook his head, chewing on his toothpick aggressively. “Always fucking blowing up at me for no fucking reason. Sort yourself out, for fucks sake!” 

“Fine!” she raged, flinging her arms in the air with her usual dramatic flair, “I’ll go and do it!” 

“You do that.” He moved to the kettle, filling it with water, intent on having his tea before he went and helped her with the task. He wouldn’t have forgotten either, but she couldn’t just let him be for five minutes while he had a drink and thawed out from the February chill, oh no. She had to pick at him.  

A few minutes passed, John letting the tea steep in the pot as he snacked on a slice of bread slathered in butter and Cosima’s homemade blackberry jam, the sounds of her swearing in Italian drifting through the house until suddenly, a yelp.  

“What the bloody hell’s she done,” he muttered, placing the bread down and moving to the hallway, finding her kneeling down, holding her thumb in a tight grasp. “You alright?” 

“No, I’m blinking not!” she cried through her tears, “I’ve hit my fucking thumb with the cursed, wretched hammer!” 

“Here, let me see.” Pulling her hand from her grasp, he examined it, the knuckle bright red. “At least you ain’t split the skin. Come on, let’s get it under the cold tap.” 

“No, I’m fine,” she snipped, pulling her hand away and attempting to grasp the hammer again. 

“Leave this, I’ll get it done. Come on.” 

“Fuck off, I’m alright!”  

Again, he bit his tongue. “It’s gonna swell unless you get it under the cold water.” 

“I said I’m fine!” 

Rolling his eyes, he pulled her up, her screaming protests falling on deaf ears as he lifted her with ease into his arms, carrying her through to the kitchen. She struggled, swore at him, batted at him with her hands, John tiring of it. “Oh, stop all this malarkey and just let me help ya!”  

He forced her hand beneath the tap, turning it on, holding it there while she winced and continued to cry. All he was trying to do was help her, and she couldn’t even let him do that. Finally, she relaxed a little, sniffing and wiping her tears, her thumb throbbing angrily. “Have I broken it?”  

“Give it a wiggle.” She did. “Did it feel like someone pushing a hot pin into it?” 

“No. It smarts, but it isn’t as bad as that.”  

“Then nah, ain’t broken, bab.” She went to move her hand, John gently directing it back under the stream of cold water. “Few more minutes, or it’ll blow up like a bloody golf ball.” 

“Then I’d look a right state, all teary with my golf ball thumb.”  

He chuckled, putting an arm around her on instinct. What was even more surprising? She leaned into his hug, allowing herself to be comforted by her husband. It was a first, a little thread of connection woven between the warring spouses, John turning the tap off after a few moments and reaching for the soft, white hand towel. “Come sit down and have a cuppa. I’ll go and finish the floorboard.”  

“No, it’s okay,” she protested, shaking her head. “I should think about getting ready, I have to do my hair and it takes forever.” 

“Sure? I’ll drop a nip of brandy in it for ya?” 

She pulled from him, whatever it was that had opened up closing again rapidly. “No, I’m fine.”  

For the sake of a quiet life, he left it, recognising that there had been a little progress there between them, if only very small. He went and finished fixing the floorboard, done within minutes and returning to drink his tea, his little brood coming crashing through the door half an hour later, the house once again full of noise.  

A few hours later and they were ready to leave, the children happily eating their spaghetti al Forno while Mrs. Baxter sat knitting, keeping a watchful eye upon them. Cosima was quiet all the way to town, John giving up in the end and letting the car be filled with nothing but the sound of their strained silence, glad to see his brothers and other family and friends once they arrived at the restaurant.  

His wife continued to be sullen throughout the meal, only really talking to Polly and Lizzie and even then, the women had to work hard to keep the conversation going with her. In the end, the former took it upon herself to pull the newest Shelby aside a little later that night, steering her over to the long, oak bar after she had returned from the ladies. 

“You’ve a face as long as Livery Street, madam,” Polly observed, passing her a gin cocktail. “What’s the matter? You can’t still hate our John, not after how good he’s been to you regardless of that contempt.” Her words were delivered with care, but they did not lack their usual bite. Polly would be protective of her nephews until she drew her last breath, no matter how much she genuinely did like Cosima.  

The young woman took a sip of her drink, placing the dainty glass down, accepting one of Polly’s clove cigarettes with thanks. They were a rare treat from her usual preferred brand of Park Drive, Cosima loving the warm, spicy scent of the burning clove, yet unable to smoke more than a couple at a time on account of how much they made her cough when she did. “I want to be happy with him, Pol. I honestly do, but I can’t get past it all.” 

She didn’t need to elaborate. “It’s been and gone, love. You feel guilty though, I see that.” This woman, god. She was so remarkably perceptive. “You have to move on with your life. If your brother and mother could, then there’s fuck all stopping you, is there?” 

“But my papa...”  

“Cosima, your father is gone, and you are still here,” Polly cut her up with, reaching to lightly grip her forearm. “We women, we suffer the collateral damage in the wars fought by our men, and your father was not blameless in his part. He was a gangster too, just as my boys are, just as your brother is. You know this world we live in, and living is what you have to do, sweetheart. If you keep on holding that burning contempt for John, I’ll tell you now, you’ll be the one who ends up scalded.”  

Her eyes were fixed upon her, unblinking, drawing on her cigarette before lifting her glass to her mouth. “Let it go. Set yourself free, for god’s sake. You have absolutely nothing to feel guilty about, you hear me?” 

She nodded. “I do. Easier said than done, though, it seems.” 

“Horse shit.” She slapped a gloved hand off the bar, shaking her head as she tutted. “Life is as hard as you make it for yourself, my girl. Stop punishing yourself because you think that’s what your father would do, should he still be alive.”  

Again, Cosima was startled by Polly’s intuitive assessment of the situation, straightening and knocking back the rest of her drink. “Thanks for the chat, Pol. I know you’re right, but...” 

“But you’re a typical hardheaded, fire blooded Italian. Listening to others don’t come easy to you, I know. Just know that if you made it easy on yourself, that man over there? He’d soon treasure you like you were the rarest jewel on earth.”  

Cosima got up, heading past the table and outside, finishing the cigarette and reaching into her little sequined bag to pull out her own gold case, lighting up one of her own. She felt agitated by Polly’s words, pacing up and down as the discomfort of being told what to do rolled through her ceaselessly. She knew why it annoyed her the most, though. Polly was right.  

Still, it was in Cosima’s nature to fight it at any given opportunity.  

“How’s ya thumb feeling now?” 

Turning, she looked into the radiant, cloudy blue eyes of her husband. All she wanted was to be alone with her thoughts for a little while, but no. “Stings a little, but it’s okay.” 

He nodded, taking a pull on his cigar. “And you? Thought we were actually starting to talk to each other kinda civilly earlier, then you went quiet on me.” 

Her stare was through narrowed eyes, the magma in her blood rising in heat. “Always my fault, isn’t it?” 

“That’s not what I said, Cosima.” 

“No, but you meant it, didn’t you?” 

For fucks sake. How much harder was this tempestuous madam going to make his life? “You need to stop putting words in me mouth, love. Getting right tired of it, I am.” 

Her beautiful lips were held in pout a little longer, drawing angrily upon her cigarette, not able to escape the intensity of her husband's stare as finally, she pushed her pride down. “I’m sorry.”  

“Well, look at that. Twice since we were married, you’ve said you were sorry. Some fellas make it to their diamond wedding anniversaries without hearing it once from the missus. Ain’t I lucky, eh?” His attempt of a joke fell flat, her face unmoving. God, she was whittling him down to his last nerve, and rapidly. “Ain't you ever heard of smiling, Cosima?" He charged her with, eyeing her defiantly. 

She pulled the white fox fur warming her pale curves tighter around herself, taking one last drag upon her cigarette before flicking it away. “If you give me something to smile about, I might.” 

Oh, he had his work cut out for him, John scratching his jaw. “I’ll stick my fucking face between your legs for about half an hour, then you’ll be grinning like a loon, you miserable cow.” he muttered, but not nearly quietly enough 

“What the fuck did you just say to me?” 

“Nothing, bab,” he grinned, gritting his teeth behind that forced smile. “Nothing at-fucking-all.” Give her something to smile about? She had a nerve. He’d bought her a beautiful cottage, gave her fifty pounds a week to buy whatever she wanted for herself completely aside from the housekeeping money, and was working his arse off in an effort to be a good husband. He felt like telling Tommy where he could stick his Changretta truce. Nothing, it seemed, would make her warm to him.  

He headed back inside, leaving her standing there alone, lighting herself another cigarette as she pouted, but mainly at herself. She knew it had to stop, she had to cease being – as he had quite rightly coined her – a miserable cow. The guilt of it, though. Oh, the guilt.  

“Oi, love,” an approaching man called to her, flanked by two others, “how much for a bit of how’s your father, eh?” 

“I beg your fucking pardon?” she spat, her mouth dropping open.  

Looking her up and down, he smirked. “You’re a bird standing on a street corner with a low-cut dress on. Ain’t hard to see you’re touting for business, so how much?”  

“Wait there,” she gritted, lifting her chin defiantly. “Let me go and fetch my pimp.”  

Marching back into the restaurant, John thought she was coming to have a go at him all over again, taking in her thunderous expression. “John! There’s a man out there who just accused me of being a fucking prostitute!”  

Arriving with him at the bar, she drew stares from all around, the less coarse clientele tutting and muttering, Tommy touching a hand to her elbow. “Keep your voice down, love.” 

“I will bloody not!” 

John cut in, nodding to his brother. “Take us out to him.” Her heart all but stopped dead at seeing the look in his eyes, the immediate, highly angered state her words had caused to rise within him like a leviathan. He might’ve been annoyed with her, but still, one mention of her being spoken to disrespectfully and he fired into action. Taking her hand, he walked her from the restaurant, Tommy at her other side.  

“This your pimp, is it? Oh, two fellas, eh?” 

“Ar, lad. She must be good!” one of the other jokers with the man who had disrespected her offered, the three laughing.  

“Gonna be laughing on the other side of your face in a minute, mush. Now, which fucking one of you called my wife a whore?”  

“Me,” the central man spoke, stepping forward, “Cos’ she looks like a whore, don’t she?”  

John eyed him with cool defiance, lifting his chin while stepping closer, their noses almost touching. “Wanna know what you look like, mate?” 

“What?” 

“A man with a really fucking nice smile. A Small Heath smile, as I like to call ‘em.” Removing his cap, he swiftly headbutted the man before him, shattering his nose across his face before grabbing him, gripping his throat in a formidably tight grasp. Using the razorblades upon the peak of the trademark flat cap, he slashed open his face at the corners of his mouth, the skin tearing. “You’ll never fucking speak of my bloody wife like that again, you fucking hear me?” 

While he took care of him, Tommy laid punches upon the second and third, one of them breaking free and beginning to beat John across the back with his fists, Cosima setting her bag down in one of the flowerpots that flanked the restaurant entrance, removing a shoe.  

Charging with a wobbly gait, she hitched up her dress and jumped onto the man’s back, beating him in the face and head with the heel of her shoe, until he was bloody, the heel hitting his eyeball as she snarled. “Don’t you dare touch my fucking husband! Don’t you dare!” 

The men got out of there quickly once Cosima had neatly dismounted her target, John calling after them. “Next time, you lose your fucking tongue, ya cunt!” Breathless, he turned to his wife, raising an eyebrow. “Well, at least I managed to put a smile on someone’s face tonight, eh? Nice work with the shoe an’ all, by the way. Didn’t know you cared.” 

He turned to head back inside with Tommy, straightening themselves after the ruck, Cosima reaching for his shoulder, turning him. He was about to speak again, his words of further sarcastic retort blocked by her lips landing upon his, her arms tightening around his neck. 

Her kisses were blooms of roses growing through wildfire, soft yet burning, John clasping her dainty body to his as he felt his insides cinder upon her heat. He’d fantasised for months about how it would feel to kiss those plump, pink lips, desire running rampant through him. Pulling away, her cheeks flushed, pupils inking, John leaning in for more she happily gave.  

When they parted again, she smiled. Finally. All it took was a smidgen of violence.  

[joels6string]

dear santa,

i mean, dear kate* 🫣

can i wish a very spicy joel miller story? as if the ones you wrote weren’t spicy and perfect enough… BUT! maybe something like enemies to lovers?

i actually have no idea what i’m asking. you’re the mastermind here. anything joel related, i want it on my desk 😮‍💨🫶

Merry Angst-mas for this one. I swear the other prompts are very lighthearted and happy. Like, Joel ice skating, and modern AU snowstorm hero... don't give up on me 😂

Damned If I Do

Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: You hate him, he hates you. It's as simple as that, right?

Rating: E

Word Count: 3.1k

Content: Enemies to lovers. The two main food groups: Smut and Sad. Creator has chosen to not give content warnings, read at your own risk.

“You give a shit about me, Miller?” you asked, trying to taunt but only sounding as desperate as he did. Despite his words over the months you’d known him, his actions had certainly always told a different story, one he was trying to keep from pouring free right now. “Tryin’ not to.” “Why’s that?” “Lovin’ me’s a curse.”

The mood was somber, even more so than usual. It was December, the frigid winter air whipping through the Boston quarantine zone, the dilapidated building you were currently holed up in doing little to keep you from its stinging bite.

“You gonna be a god damn liability again this time?” The voice made your skin crawl.

“Merry Christmas to you too,” you grumbled under your breath, it was no use arguing with him.

Tess had gone ahead to negotiate the terms of your impending deal, leaving you and Joel to wait for the upcoming weapons haul pickup that had been looming over your head for days. You’d chosen Christmas Eve in hopes that the military personnel surrounding every wall of the zone would be scarce, on holiday leave, doing something other than their damn worthless jobs for once. Not that there was shit to celebrate anyway.

“I asked you a question,” he barked in response to your muttering, his face severe when you dared a peek at it.

“I don’t know, Miller,” you sneered, “Just let them take me out this time and put us both out of our fucking misery, huh?”

“I’d never hear the end of it.”

Tess would give him an earful. Sometimes you thought the threat of Tess’ wrath was the only thing keeping you alive, this was doing enough to prove that to be true. When the woman in question returned to you and him on opposite sides of the room facing your respective walls, she sternly reminded you both that lives were on the line. Now wasn’t the time for bickering and your heads belonged in the game, not your asses. You both begrudgingly agreed.

When it came down to it, it was your turn to put a bullet between the eyes of someone that had Joel by the throat long enough to make his vision blacken at the fringe, the ice beneath his cheek brutal and sharp as he fell to the ground with a huff.

“You’re welcome,” you snapped, stepping over his gasping body without so much as a glance down, his furious snarl still audible over the winds.

It had been a setup, of course, hunters almost picking the three of you off when you got to the abandoned drop zone.

“Thought you negotiated this shit, Tess!?” Joel barked, throwing his bloodied baseball bat onto the ground with a heavy thud, “We come out here just for a quick shoot out and frostbite or you got somethin’ else up those sleeves of yours?”

“I thought it was sound!” she snapped back, guilt heavy in her voice as she accepted her error in ways Joel could never.

“Yeah, Merry fuckin’ Christmas–”

“Oh, shut the fuck up, Joel,” you interjected, exasperated, cold, and perturbed beyond a reasonable limit, “You wouldn’t have done any fucking better–”

“I would have made damn sure I wasn’t bringin’ either of you to a god damn ambush! That’s what I woulda done!”

“Well, you were a great help tonight–”

Your words were cut short by a hand clamping over your mouth, the frozen sharp tip of a knife knicking into the soft skin of your throat. The ice scattered throughout the cracked pavement made it impossible to get your footing as you were dragged backward, your heart pounding as you watched Joel’s eyes widen in panic, his revolver drawn and aimed, his gaze begging for a clear shot. Looks like he’d get his Christmas wish after all.

There was no use in fighting it, if anything having the warmth of a body pressed behind you would have you one less step from miserable as you took your last breaths. You hoped he made it quick, you weren’t in the damn mood for games or semantics. Joel wouldn’t trade a dirty sock for your life, but that look in his eyes before you were pulled from his sight had certainly been unexpected. 

He and Tess had probably run off, who knew who else was coming, this man couldn’t be alone. They were smart to do so. Ammo was running low, stamina even lower, and even at their best, they couldn’t take out another squadron of hunters. You’d made it 15 years in this God-forsaken world, it was a lot more than most could boast. Somehow dying at the filthy hands of this human felt worse than getting infected, at least those monsters didn’t know any better.

Even through the thick canvas of your jacket, you felt the burn of the pavement scraping your elbows, your hiss of discomfort pulling a sneering smile.

“Don’t move,” he ordered, and you curled your lip as your eyes rolled, Joel's voice echoing in your head, ‘Don’t gimme that sass.”

Had it been an hour? Maybe two? You couldn’t tell. The darkness was unforgiving and unwavering, the cold setting into your bones as you shivered knees to your chest in an attempt to preserve your body heat. You’d be dead by morning from hypothermia alone. Gunshots rang out, screams and cries, yelps, glass shattering. What the fuck? What kind of hell zone was this? Crawling to peer around the old metal shipping container you’d been stashed in, your curious gaze was met with the sight of Joel Miller bashing at your captor’s head with a brick, blood splattered across his face, eyes alight with rage. 

“Joel…” you gasped through numbed lips, you’d never been happier to see that sour face in your life, his expression softening as the man in his grasp fell to the ground in a gory heap.

“There you are,” you sighed, “Let’s go. Can you walk?”

His heavy coat he’d slipped over your shoulders swallowed you whole as you led you through the still hunter-infested maze. Ducking behind crates and in abandoned buildings, he had the exact route mapped to have you free and clear within minutes, the walls of Boston greeting you just as the feeling had returned to the tips of your toes. He was silent on the route back, his eyes flicking over his shoulder to ensure you were safely behind him periodically, the sphere emanating from your flashlight highlighting the silver hairs streaking through the black on the back of his head. 

“Stop,” he instructed, tanks driving by as a new congregation of troops gathered right outside the final building that led to safety, “Shit. This might be as far as we get til dawn.”

“Great,” you scoffed.

“Let’s go up, keep eyes on ‘em.”

With enemies so close, a fire was out of the question, your chattering teeth and tensed muscles hard to ignore as you stared at the hulking form staring out the shattered window.

“Joel…” you finally sounded, his head ticking towards you the only acknowledgment you received, “Why’d you come back?”

“If anyone’s gonna kill ya, it’s gonna be me,” he teased, a puff of breath glowing in the moonlight leaking in around him, “and now we’re even.”

“We’re even…”

Of course it was about evening the score. You’d saved his life, he’d saved yours, though you were almost positive you were still deep in his debt. It wasn’t often Joel needed a helping hand. He was as formidable as he was cold, that stony expression rarely breaking. Except it had, tonight. You hadn’t forgotten.

“Joel…” you called again, his body turning now to face you pathetically shivering in the corner. You hoped he didn’t make you ask, it was already mortifying insinuating it.

“I got you,” he cooed, leaving his post and gesturing for you to lean forward as he approached, nestling in behind you, legs on either side caging you in, his arms wrapping around your middle as you nestled back against him.

Even in nothing but a worn-out flannel, he was warm, your sigh of relief drawing a muted chuckle from his chest as you melted in his hold. Bygones could be bygones, the chill you swore would be permanent dissipating with each deep breath you were now able to take. It had been years since you’d been this close to another human in a non-threatening manner, the first time someone cradled you against them, allowing you a moment of solace and safety. You’d never expected to find that safety here, in these arms.

“You can sleep,” he permitted, your body immediately accepting the offer and drifting off, your head lolling beneath his chin as his thick beard caught on your hair.

Gray light filled the dingy room as your eyes fluttered open. You were sweating now, your neck straining beneath a heavy weight settled on your head, heavy breaths echoing in your ear. Joel. He was asleep behind you, his cheek resting on you from where you’d spent your night pressed into him, his arms still tightly wrapped around you even passed out cold. At the first twitch of your head, he was rousing, grunting as he became alert once again.

Shifting enough to peer up at him, you watched his hazel eyes wake in the eerie glow of dawn before they locked with yours, the stone chipped away just enough to reveal a glimmer of vulnerability.

“Why you lookin’ at me like that?” he asked softly, keeping the proximity you’d woken in instead of pulling away like you’d expected him to.

All you could muster was a shrug, his plush lips too close for you to concentrate.

“I can’t do this…” he whimpered, his tone stabbing you right in the chest, “Stop making me give a shit about you.”

“You give a shit about me, Miller?” you asked, trying to taunt but only sounding as desperate as he did. Despite his words over the months you’d known him, his actions had certainly always told a different story, one he was trying to keep from pouring free right now.

“Tryin’ not to.”

“Why’s that?”

“Lovin’ me’s a curse.”

That didn’t matter. You’d danced with the devil already, what was one more tango? His hair was softer than you thought it would be when your fingers weaved into the strands on the back of his head, pulling his lips to yours in a daring risk of affection. You weren’t sure what shocked you more, your bravery or the fact that he greedily accepted your kiss, one large palm splaying across your stomach that was currently churning with something you hadn’t felt in over a decade.

It was all teeth and pressure, tongues wrestling as you tugged him closer by the hold on his hair, his body turning to face yours and press you down onto the cold wood of the floor, one hand cupping the back of your head to save it from the splintering surface. Your hands started on his belt first, your mouths still devouring the other as months of pent-up tension and hidden desires spilled over, your lungs selfishly inhaling his carnal groan as you gripped his cock as it sprang free and dragged your fist along his impressive length. Control was forgotten as you leaned up and captured his bottom lip again, his mind unable to focus on both your mouth and your hand as you continued to tug, his reciprocating kiss always slightly too late as his hips began to rock into your hold.  

“Turn,” he commanded, his voice giving no room for objection, “S’too cold for any other way.”

As much as you wanted to argue, he was right. You obeyed, presenting yourself to him on all fours before your jeans were pulled just past the swell of your ass, his hands squeezing at your searing globes voraciously. You wished you could see his face. Slick fingers swiped over your pulsing hole, swirling spit around to ease his plunge into your waiting depths. You were quivering with anticipation, a stark contrast from last night as every inch of you burned now even in the subzero December temperatures. 

Even if you wanted to stop it, you wouldn’t have been able to contain the lewd cry that erupted as you stretched around him. The feeling of his shaft slowly slipping inside of you made you realize just how soaked you were, his path unhindered on its way into the deepest parts of your body. You knew he could feel it, too, his hands shaking where they held you in place around your waist, breaths audibly ragged as he bottomed out.

“Shush now, darlin’,” he soothed, once again stroking over the plushness of your hips, “I can’t kill a man in this state.”

If that was intended to calm you down, he’d failed. Your cunt clenched around him so tightly he chuckled gruffly, pulling out and snapping his hips back against your ass just hard enough to have you jerking forward and keening, your teeth sinking into the sleeve of his jacket still loosely hanging on your much smaller frame. It didn’t take long for his pace to regulate, hard and fast just as you expected him to be, your arousal leaking down your inner thighs as he pinpointed the velvety patch decorating your inner wall, his precision just as accurate as he was with a rifle.

The limitations were agonizing. You wanted more. You wanted to marvel at the way his lips were parted and the hazel of his eyes swallowed by blackened lust, grip his chest and his neck, swallow his muted whines, and whisper how fucking good he felt into the soft, scarred skin of his neck. Pressure was building immeasurably quick, his rough fingers now rubbing circles over your clit leaving you nothing but a boneless heap in his hands. He was holding you upright now, your body limp for him to use as he saw fit, but the only thing he chased was your release.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he urged, “just let it go for me.”

Who were you to deny him anything? You clamped down around him as the elastic band in your belly finally snapped, shockwaves electrifying every nerve from the tips of your toes to the top of your skull, your eyes rolling back in your head as you chanted his name like a prayer. He followed not long after, pulling out with a roar and emptying onto an old rag he’d grabbed from the floor, his chest heaving as he moaned in relief. You wanted to scramble over to him, kiss his cheek, temple, eye, forehead, anything you could reach as he finished in the absence of your warmth, but you were too spent, too delirious, too thoroughly fucked to move quickly enough.

“Joel…” you whimpered, searching for him in the still-dim space, your hand reaching up and waiting for his fingers to intertwine with, “Joel…”

“I’m right here,” he answered as he gave you what you were searching for, his lips pressing to the back of your palm as he pulled you back into his chest, “We need to go. Tess’ll be worried.”

When you returned, you didn’t need to tell Tess what had transpired, she could tell. But even with her deduced knowledge, she kept her lips sealed. Maybe she knew Joel would tuck and run the moment he was caught, or that he’d recognize what a liability this was in a world such as this. A liability he’d come to terms with faster than he would have liked.

Two months later as February began to slide into March, a hoard of infected was an unexpected addition to your supply run. It was just you and him, it was meant to be simple, and it was, or so he thought.

“Let’s go,” he panted, “More’ll come. We can go another day without.”

“Joel…” you mewled, tears welling in your eyes as he continued to scout the area, “Joel!”

“What? Sweetheart, we gotta go.”

“You gotta go.”

“What the hell are you talk–”

Part of you wished you’d never told him. That you’d run off into the woods and let the last image you had of him be with his revolver in one hand and a machete in the other, doing what he did best with his brute strength and unmatched finesse. Because now, now you’d die with the snapshot of his horror-stricken face staring down at your outstretched palm, frozen, in denial, and forlorn.

“The hell is that?” he asked as if you’d have another explanation.

“You know what it is,” you replied, swallowing your own sorrow, he needed you to be strong now. 

“No. No. No, that’s…that’s somethin’ else.”

“Stop–”

“Tell me it’s somethin’ else.”

“Joel, please!”

The way he muttered Jesus fucking Christ under his breath as he turned was the final swing on your shattering resolve, a hand dragging down his face as the other dropped to his hip, his blade plummeting to the pavement with a shrill clang as he let it fall from his grip. You stood still as a statue, watching him come to terms with those teeth marks pierced into the hand that had cupped his jaw so tenderly this morning as he’d kissed you awake. 

“I warned you,” he finally said, turning to reveal his soaked cheeks and reddening eyes, “I told you I was a curse.”

“That really what you want to talk about right now?” you pressed, your chest burning as you fought the sobs clawing to get free. 

“What do you want me to do?”

Your final wish. It wasn’t hard to decipher what he meant, one of you had to do it. 

“I can do it,” you assured, puffing your chest out in a masquerade of bravery and strength, he could see right through it, his brow furrowing as he shook his head.

“No you can’t,” he resigned after clearing his throat and repressing the rage and grief already surging through him, pulling his pistol from the back of his waistband, “Lay down, I can’t watch you fall.”

“Joel, I can–”

“Just…do it.”

The grass was cool against your cheek, its soft caresses weren’t the worst things to feel with your final breaths. Your tears decorated the blades like the dew drops not due for another few months, your heart thudding between your chest and the ground, Joel’s footsteps somehow in tune with every slam of it against your sternum. 

Where you expected the muzzle of a pistol, you felt his large palm stroking gently over the back of your head, his lips pressing to your hair one last time and lingering as the wound on your hand pulsed like a warning beacon. You knew you still had time, but the urgency had begun to eat you alive with every dragging second.

“Get on with it, Miller,” you pushed, refusing to give him your eyes, he’d hesitate. You knew that. “Waiting won’t make it any easier.”

“I’m sorry,” he breathed, he was crying again, “I’m sorry…” and that was the last thing you heard before the click of a trigger.

Joel Miller Masterlist

[dozydawn]

the whole kristi yamaguchi - rudy galindo saga really interests me because it reads like the setup to a dcom or any corny teen movie: girl has to choose between skating pairs with the guy she’s been with since 13 OR go at it alone for a better shot at olympic gold (she can’t do both forever...) forcing him to go solo too because there’s no partner in store for him. not of kristi’s calibre.

even though it didn’t play out how you’d expect a film to, everyone got their happy ending. kristi’s sacrifice paid off, she won gold & remains a household name.

rudy won the 1996 national championship in his hometown of san jose in front of his mother (who could not travel elsewhere) becoming the first mexican-american and openly gay us champion. he was also the oldest to win the title in 70 years.

over the last decade he’s been coaching at the same rink he grew up training in, and kristi’s daughter emma has been one of his students