#I think they’d had ultra clear lines

[yumenotambourin]

I’ve been trying to draw the rats how they’d draw themselves, but there’s a glaring problem:

Forgo’s hands can’t hold a pencil

[bunnwich]

Say Bunnwhich, I'm kind curious...

What got ya to love Lil Lion Leona in the 1st place? :3

WHY DO I LIKE LEONA???

Sorry for the long yap as usual but, I feel like every once in a while ppl ask me this very question and I feel like I have been in twst hell for so long it’s like ancient history now. VGBHNJMK

TBH I very strongly disliked Leona's character when he came on screen when I first started to play twst. I found Chapter 2 to be very flat compared to Chapter 1 and I had very little sympathy for him and his backstory. To me, it was clear he was just the "hot, brooding character" archetype and I had no interest in him whatsoever.

HOWEVER, when I became more active in the fandom, my friend @comingyourlugubriousness and others began to ship my Yuu with him as a joke bc of my said dislike. And, yeah I begin to write lil scenarios where they’d interact and challenged myself to make a logical way he would even be interested in my Yuu in the first place? 

THAT GOT ME THINKING and I saw how he used to be characterized in fics and stuff and I really just didn't agree??? Even to this day, I feel like some ppl go in two extremes with him. 1.) Where they wash down his personality in order for him to fit in into this “prince charming role" OR 2.) They make him the worst bastard ever, which can lead into certian problematic connotations.

When I went to write my own fics I had watched all of his vignettes and understood better what his true personality is. The main story does not do much to make him likable to a general audience sometimes IMO. And so I became interested in how and why so many ppl interpret his character so wrong?? (My opinion ofc)

And so my journey began as prob one of the biggest Leona apologists ever.

To answer the question better I guess. What do I LIKE about him?

I like him bc in order to enjoy him you really have to read between the lines and do your own work as a fan to find the intriguing parts of him! It's just fun!

I actually find him very relatable, his burnout and seemingly ultra competitive but still “work smarter” not harder attitude is something I gel with and feels very realistic for someone his age.

YES, I think his design is nice but honestly it's the least interesting thing about him to me. I will always enjoy long hair on men that's no secret. According to some friends I "have a type” but eh.

I like that he uses his sorta rude and grumpy ruse to scare ppl off. I  personally subscribe to the idea that underneath all that sass he's just a lil cantankerous grandpa stuck in a  20 year old’s body, who likes to yap about chess and dead languages. 

He’s a nerd and likes books.

He's a true hater. 💚

I feel like he'd never judge your appearance, for eating too much or being lazy.

I feel like he's a caretaker and would always look out for you.

I think he'd be a good teacher and big brother and a lot of his more amiable qualities remind me of my own S/O who is so, so smart and charismatic and who I love very much! 

I say "I think/feel" on a lot of this bc TBH the headcanons I have made for him over my time in the fandom are probably 80% the reason I like him, yk?

SO, if I had to sum it up that probably why! I could say more but I’ll spare ya’ll. 💚💚💚

[beautifulpersonpeach]

Have you seen the latest shitshow of the CBX SM drama bpp? When you said you expect the drama to drag on till May/June I was surprised, but it seems you were right --- again. Baekhyun just revealed SM hurried him to renew his contract despite some time left, because of the Kakao deal. He also said SM kept all the artists in the dark and they had to find out about HYBE's offers from the news. Bang PD was apologizing to the SM idols, while Chris Lee treated them like they were invisible, but Exols, Mys, Shawols, NCTzens, Reveluvs, and the whole kpop, claimed no company was more evil than HYBE. Armys were called every name under the sun for pointing out how many things from SM didn't make sense and now less than 1 month later, CBX are exposing their slave contracts and fighting for transparency. I feel so bad for the idols but SM stans don't even care? I was in a space yesterday and all they were saying is HYBE is worse, HYBE is a slave company, HYBE is this and that. And I'm just like ---- when do they fandom feuds end? IF THE WELLBEING OF THEIR IDOLS ISN'T ENOUGH TO MAKE THEM STOP HATING BTS ARMY AND HYBE, WHEN DOES IT END?

***

Hi Anon,

Before getting into it, I want to be clear about one thing: HYBE has its own problems.

BigHit was an efficiently run company that balanced artist wellfare and development alongside commercial targets, very well, and Bang PD has managed to bring over many of those best practices to HYBE. Also, HYBE’s acquisition of American music labels early on the company’s lifetime, necessitated it being in-line with international corporate governance best practices under SEC guidelines - something no other k-pop agency has had to do. So at the most basic level, HYBE is easily the best run k-pop agency in Korea and this has been true for a long time.

But even then, the expansion of BigHit to HYBE meant pulling manpower and staff from other k-pop agencies especially Big 3, and there was a huge hiring of ex-SM staff that happened in 2020 - staff who brought over their own bias, work practices and culture. They’d have to adjust to how things were done at HYBE, but culture flows both ways so I suspect it also affected many things in HYBE, and it’s no secret there’s been an uptick in issues for BTS since HYBE’s creation that weren’t there under BigHit. But again, overall, HYBE is still one of the best run companies in Korea.

Here’s an excerpt from a proprietary research done on idol contracts in Korea basically showing as much (though HYBE isn’t explicitly named, also note the share of revenue SM takes from their artists relative to other companies):

*

A lot of this information is old news, but as I keep saying, nothing in k-pop can be understood outside of the context of this being an ultra-, hyper-competitive space. That alone should explain the crux of k-pop stans’ behaviours to any issues that arise if something connected to BTS is involved. For as long as I can remember, BTS / BigHit and ARMYs have run counter-cultural to the norms here (until recently), and that has earned them being enemy numero uno. Nothing is more important in this space to k-pop stans, than hating the scapegoat - BTS and anything related to them by proxy and no that’s not an exaggeration.

ARMYs don’t make it any easier for them though (lol) when too many people are using this situation as a gotcha, but it’s also true there wouldn’t be a gotcha to be had now if k-pop stans had put aside their fear-mongering over ‘monopoly’ and whatnot in HYBE in the first place, to just think for a bit when Chris Lee was peddling tales of Pink Bloods in alliance, while Bang PD was drawing attention to the abysmal corporate governance in SM.

Everything SM is doing now, they’ve done before, many times, successfully, because the stans would rather excuse it and redirect blame on every other company, than on SM. The only exception to this pattern was in 1st and 2nd gen where fans supported the idols without compromise so SM had to change a bit. But lol, that was also before BTS - once BTS was introduced into the mix and it was clear they were an anomaly, the priorities of many stan communities in k-pop changed, and this has only gotten worse over the years. Everybody who has been here long enough knows it, including SM, and these behaviours have only been reinforced by most companies in this space because they know it takes the heat off them.

I mean, you all witnessed that this is exactly what SM did during the takeover drama.

If you go on YouTube right now, you’d see 10s of videos made about...

how HYBE is a monopolistic hydra of an evil company intent on ruining k-pop;

about HYBE having a girl group curse (not the companies that blacklisted female idols who have written books about abuse under SM, not the companies that female idols took to court over pimping, drug use and coercion, not the K-pop companies working with R Kelly to groom female minors, later having agency executives marry former female trainees, and so on that happens in Big3);

production and audio mixing problems (that none of these critics can actually explain);

about rumours of enslavement in BigHit for BTS;

...from 10s of accounts by k-pop stans, not just one source, based on barely cohesive fan theories, common vanilla business practices, and vibes. You won’t find anything nearly as close to this on SM, JYPE, or YG - even at the height of the Burning Sun scandal.

Selective amnesia is a coping mechanism for many k-pop stans, and a part of me is sympathetic towards some fans since many of them just want to support their fave idols and may feel like they have no choice when SM is involved. And like I've said before, all corporations have their own issues, but again, there's levels to this madness, and it has been clear to anyone with half a brain that SM is the worst of the bunch. And so it's also true SM stans have enabled a lot of this insanity.

CBX seem to be in good hands, so I hope it really works out for them. Their stans will find ways to cope by latching onto any mildly negative news out of HYBE for the next 12-ish months (again, we saw SM encourage this sort of thinking during the takeover drama), and things will chug on as they do here.

[jordanianprincesses]

The wedding in Jordan is paid from tax payers money yes. But the second wedding is private and not in Jordan. So it’s paid mostly from their own money + Rajwa’s family maybe!

I’m not defending the royals and no one can deny the corruption in Jordan - it’s a sad thing to admit (I’m Jordanian btw) that corruption is rooted in people. Queen Rania’s family used the connections and advantages they got for personal gains.. but that’s the case with most Jordanians. They often misuse the power at whichever scale they can reach. For example, there were some free concerts around for the wedding. People got so many tickets for free and then started reselling them. To me, that’s corruption because if I had no intention going to the concert, there’s no reason for me to get 15+ tickets for free just to resell them when they’re not meant to be sold.

People here vote for whoever pays them or promises to benefit them on a personal level. So again not defending anyone, but before people are clean and honest with each other, it’s naive of them to think that they’d be ruled by clean and honest government. Things don’t work like that. Because government is the people.

Yes not everyone in Jordan is like that, but I know how ALL election campaigns are run and how people get favoured in jobs or whatever simply because of their surname.

I personally had to pay 3x the normal rate for university because my spot was given to someone with much lower high school average but with really strong connections.

Also many people started from 0 and were able to make a fortune for themselves with hard work and good money habits. My father is not “ultra rich” but he was able to build a very comfortable life throughout the years. My point is sometimes rich people are just hardworking and not necessarily corrupt.

HRH family are known for their corruption. But so are many of the popular families here who are still free because so many people are benefiting from their corruption.

Bottom line - it’s not about convicting them or clearing them out. It was mostly to say that people should realise that royals are just people who are allowed to enjoy such big events as well. Instead of attacking others I think what this world can use is many people doing some self reflection and being honest with themselves on where they are misusing any power given to them. Big or small. That’s when things will start to change.

It's a vicious circle ! Corruption ( politics+ people) and poverty. People are corrupt because ( they are poor and in need ) the government is corrupt ( because of people' s corruption ) and vise versa!

You said your father was able to build a very comfortable life throughout the years. You had access to quality education and you were well raised and all ... So you had a higher chance to be who you are now, ( someone who can make a difference between the right and the wrong, someone who HAD a chance to be the best version of himself) Am not giving people the right to be corrupt but all am trying to say is that they had a lower chance to be the best version of themselves ( the need , the poverty , being uneducated, having a full time working mom and dad who can't raise them well ) And I know that there are so many poor people who aren't corrupt! All am talking about is the " higher and lower" chances. Did you get me ?

Social class is favored by the inaccessibility to quality education. The rich ( maybe middle class too )can afford to educate their kids who who are gonna get degrees and jobs.... The poor can't afford so it's hard for them to overcome their poverty!

If poor people, the government and everything is corrupt, the majority of people will go against their morals and it's gonna be like The Law of The Jungle : " There is but one rule, hunt or be hunted"

[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!

[demonslayedher]

What’s the difference between current Muichiro and Yuichiro? With their personality I mean. Ik Mui was nicer as a kid, but after his memory loss he kinda acted more like Yui, but I don’t think he completely adapted his personality.

If Yuichiro had lived what type of pillar do you think he would be ?

I’m going to answer these two Anon Asks together. I’ll come right out with the Pillar question and say I don’t think Yuichiro ever had the same potential Muichiro did and he knew it. Even if he did possess the same innate skills, his worldview was self-limiting, so even if he had joined the Corp and they worked alongside each other, I doubt he would had reached the same heights as Muichiro.  When we see things from Yuichiro’s point of view, we don’t necessarily see jealousy, we see intense worry. Yuichiro has already lost his parents and is rightfully bitter about it, so Muichiro is now the only one in the world who is precious to him. His dumb little brother is too kind for his own good, and because the world is not kind, Muichiro is bound to get hurt, and probably killed in a quick and heartless way. Although he tried to hide Muichiro’s potential from him by tearing him down and calling him useless, we see in his narration that he sees Muichiro as being a chosen one with infinite ability. But Yuichiro does not see the same in himself--he feels so powerless to protect Muichiro that he has no leeway whatsoever to be kind to him. 

While Muichiro is the more innately sweet one of the two, he’s not a pushover. Despite being timid and feeling suffocated with how much his brother must hate him, after Amane’s visit, they get in enough of an argument that they stop talking to each other. Muichiro feels Yuichiro is wrong, and wants to be out there helping people, and is excited about the prospect of being a swordsman. This agreement is enough for him to feel some resentment toward Yuichiro, however awful the situation must had felt for both of them. 

And, once Yuichiro is attacked, Muichiro unlocks his anger-driven power. 

This is why it makes sense for him to take on so much of Yuichiro’s influence when he loses his memories, so much so that he recognizes the resemblance as he’s recovering what he lost. Subconsciously, this was how Muichiro learned to handle an immensely unfair situation; to put up walls and take out your anger on people around you. And when he initially takes up the sword, he is relying on how his body remembers the anger. 

But, Yuichiro knew Muichiro’s potential better: as his chosen brother is a kind person, he will unlock unlimited capabilities when fighting for other people. This is especially clear when Muichiro attains his mark, and starts seeing other people as valuable and worth risking himself for. (Up until that point he had often assigned higher value to himself due to being a Pillar, and therefore the most useful person to keep alive. Interesting way of subconsciously twisting Yuichiro’s assessment of him as useless, and deeper drive and last wishes for Muichiro alone out of the two of them to live and be safe.)

So while Muichiro did seem to pick up a lot of traits from Yuichiro, especially the sharp tongue (though Muichiro is the wittier one with it) and harsh assessment of others, he had the seeds of anger in him all along, and recovering his memories allowed his sweeter side and honest desire to protect other people back out to the forefront. As Yuichiro’s priority was always only to protect Muichiro, it’s unsurprising that they would bring this disagreement to the forefront when they meet again in the afterlife, but unlike before, Muichiro sticks up for his views, and they argue their way through to true communication.  (Side note: Yuichiro’s feelings towards his ultra-talented twin and Kokushibo’s feelings towards his ultra-talented twin are a very stark constrast.) Now, going back to the idea of an AU in which Yuichiro lives, he would probably cause a lot of trouble for Muichiro with all his worry and priorities being out of line for someone in the Corp. With Muichiro having a good baseline of happiness and bonds throughout the Corp, he’d probably have the confidence to argue back and tell Yuichiro not to be so concerned about him, and they’d probably bicker all the time and get heated enough that they don’t talk to each other sometimes and then everyone has to watch both of them mope and be sad about it. So, great, two young Tokito’s to be a little worried about...  It was would be funny to see Yuichiro be an average Slayer while Muichiro alone is a genius, hahaha, especially when they get confused for each other. As for Breath style, I could see him being Mist as well, or Wind (from which Mist is derived). On that note, I can see Yuichiro and Sanemi getting along really, really well. But the other idea is how it would be interesting if Yuichiro picked up Moon Breathing like their ancestor. 

But...

But........ The only way I can see this going is Kokushibo quickly assessing which of the two is talented, and though he might be intrigued to see his progeny use his Breath, he’d probably consider Yuichiro useless and kill him off in a quick and efficient manner while saving Muichiro for later. And there goes this potentially happy AU, whoops. 

[my-writings-and-musings]

Could you do TFP bots (or just a few of them if you have charcater limit or just don't feel like doing them all, as long as Wheeljack is ingluded I'm good) with a human they just recued and they're like "I'm gonna call my dad hold on" and if they protest they're like "nah you'll like him I promise, just give him a minute" and her dads their old bot friend who went MIA (you can decide who the dad is, or go with Ironhide if you're as indeciceve as me lol)

I miiiiight just have to do this as a short story I hope that's okay! Got my Wrecker boys Wheeljack, Bulkhead, Smokescreen and Ultra Magnus.

Dust was still settling as you realized the threat was over, the collection of vehicons having scattered long before the cave had finished it's partial collapse and leaving you under the gathered team of bots who'd come together to shield you from falling debris. Rubbing off the powdered rocks covering your face, as well as coughing up the taste of dirt, you took a moment to gather yourself as your new giant allies did the same. It wasn't worth thinking about what would have happened if they hadn't come along when they had... In your defense, that ambush had come out of nowhere.

"You okay there?" A deep voice above you rumbled with concern, encouraging you to tilt your head upwards at the big green bot looking down at you. His optics were friendly, and despite his absolutely massive size and hands that transformed into wrecking balls, you immediately trusted him.

"Yeah, I'm okay. Thanks to you guys." You said gratefully, looking to each of the gathered team as they brushed the dust off themselves.

"Protecting organic life is the primary responsibility of Autobots, think nothing of it." The largest of them said, somewhat gruff as he meticulously picked off the worst of the rubble that had showered down upon them. Immediately, you knew he was the one in charge. Towering above the others and with shoulder pauldrons thicker than two of you, he gave off the energy of someone who took no nonsense and had the firepower to back up his authority, yet his gaze was mostly just annoyed as he looked down to you again. "Our second responsibility, however, is remaining hidden from the denizens of this planet. Saving you required us to break cover."

"Give the kid a break, sir. They managed to escape a whole squadron by themselves before running into us. I think we can cut them some slack." A far gruffer voice said, cutting in as the battle scarred mech in question took a protective step your way. Quite immediately the colors on his unique build were familiar to you, but you decided to stay quiet on that fact, reaching for the cellphone thankfully still secure in your pocket. While you hadn't found what you'd been looking for in this mine, at least you had something far more interesting to report.

The big blue bot looked to the other with an impressive frown, unintentionally cementing your thesis as to the scarred mech's identity. The back and forth continued more or less without an acknowledgement of your presence. "They've been seen in our company, Wheeljack. By the procedure Optimus established, we must now secure their wellbeing, and that will be quite the undertaking."

The only one who had not yet spoken, a smaller but solidly built blue bot who seemed the youngest of the group, chose that moment to jump in with a quip. "Doubt docbot will be too happy about another human in the bunker."

"He's all talk. Ratchet wants these little guys as safe as the big guy does, he won't put up a fight." The gruff one, who you were starting to like more by the moment, said with an amused but reassuring smile in your direction. Unable to help smiling back, you suddenly felt that this turn of events might have been more than you could have ever hoped for. If only you could get a word in edgewise...

"You're purposefully missing the point, soldier. We-"

"If it's gonna be such a hassle for you, I'll take 'em myself."

"Jackie..." Once more, the gentle green giant spoke up, looking quite concerned at his friend's purposeful egging on of the bot in charge. You got the sense that this kind of thing happened often by his tone, but personally, you were getting a little tired of being ignored. None of what they were discussing was necessary, and if anyone would have bothered to ask you they'd know that? Finally fed up, you took a breath and raised your arms to draw attention to your tiny self.

"Um, hello? Excuse me!" You shouted, mercifully ending the bickering and securing four pairs of optics on yourself. Relieved for the silence, you pulled out your phone and held it up, projecting your voice to ensure you were heard. The shocked expressions didn't cease when you started to explain, but you didn't let that stop you. Sorting this out would make everything easier for everyone. "I think there's a bit more going on than any of you know. Let me call my dad really quick, he'll set this straight."

The first to reply was the one you knew had to be the rookie of the group, who awkwardly cleared his vents and broke the silence only hesitantly. "Uh, bringing more humans into this really isn't our goal-"

"Who said anything about him being human?" You cut in, grinning from ear to ear at the looks they all gave you. Now that you had their unbroken attention, it was only a matter of summoning your dad and waiting for him to arrive. Dialing his frequency into your phone, you prepared to share just as much information as it took to get him here fastest, wanting to see the look on his face when he arrived and saw who you'd found. This was going to be fun...

----------------------------------------------------

The roar of a familiar engine had thankfully silenced the second round of bickering to break out amongst the two argumentative bots, who had gone back and forth between listening to you and calling for their superior. It had been entertaining at first, but by the time that roar had echoed down the tunnel you'd been relieved to hear it, and had hopped to your feet from your seat on a convenient rock. The bots had reflexively drawn their weapons, but there hadn't even been any need for you to stop them. A worn red paint job skidding around the corner had made them all hold fire.

In a rush, you'd run out to greet the massive off road vehicle just as it began to transform, and in moments had been embracing the offered hand of a hulking bot who kneeled before you with an expression of happy relief.

"Ironhide!"

"Wheeljack!" Your adopted dad cried out in absolute joy, letting you move safely to the side before approaching the bot who's identity you'd properly guessed. Ironhide had told you so many stories about the Wrecker, it made sense that you'd been able to tell who he was by appearance and mannerisms despite having never met. The two bots greeted one another with an earth trembling chest bump, after which your beaming father turned to the green bot with just as much enthusiasm, shaking hands and crashing their fists together with overwhelming power. "Bulkhead too? Where have you guys been?"

"We might ask you the same thing, soldier." The big blue bot said, cutting in with the same serious look that appeared to be his only expression. On a closer inspection, however, you could see a certain light in his optics. He wasn't altogether displeased to see a new arrival. Standing somewhat awkwardly to the side, the young blue bot appeared delighted if not quite confused.

"Uh, long story, Ultra Magnus sir. I've been on this planet for some time. Found this little troublemaker when they were half their current size, and I've been raising 'em to help with our cause." Ironhide said affectionately, stepping back and dropping to one knee to be more on your level. Before you could puff up proudly at the praise, a single digit tussled your hair as he often did to tease, and you sputtered before playfully pushing him away and undoing the damage. Chuckling, he turned back to his comrades. "Never figured I'd bump into you all here! Jackie, Bulk, and uh..."

The attention turned to the young bot, who only smiled with a wave and a not offended clarification on his name.

"Smokescreen."

Wheeljack gave your dad a playful punch, still buzzing at seeing his old friend alive. The friendship you'd so frequently heard about was clear as day before you. "Glad to see you in one piece, old Rusthide."

"We've been here for years, Ironhide. How come we didn't detect you?" Bulkhead said, looking just as happy but burdened by the question at hand. Ironhide tapped his audial with a somewhat glum smile.

"Communicator's been busted for ages, all I've got is an earth link for cellphones." He said, recalling an injury he'd endured long before meeting you. The line he'd built relied on earth technology, and you still remembered how many tries it had taken to get it right. It was impossible to imagine a whole other team of beings like himself had been out there the whole time... Yet he didn't look at all regretful as he glanced down at you. "If I'd known I wasn't alone, I would have introduced myself and the kid ages ago. Looks like we've got my little one to thank for bringing us together."

You pouted and crossed your arms at the comment. "I'm not little anymore, dad."

"They did alright in a scrap, but how about we get you two back to base? I'm sure the other's will want to hear the story." Wheeljack said, easing your damaged pride with the compliment. You had indeed evaded those Vehicons for a good long while before being rescued... speaking of which, you could use a bit of rest somewhere secure.

Once more, Ultra Magnus stepped in to halt the festivities. "First; I shall communicate with Optimus and let him know what has transpired. He will likely want to meet you in person before we make any rash decisions."

"Seriously? Come on, Mags! Let's get this bot in an actual base!" Wheeljack replied in a huff, bringing back the arguing from before as if it had never stopped. Looking quite amused, Ironhide merely chuckled and offered you his hand, allowing you to get a lift onto his shoulders as was your custom. Clearly not phased by what he was seeing, the only parent you'd ever known let you get comfortable before following the group out of the partially collapsed cave. Who could have thought your simple little scouting mission would end like this?

"Come on kiddo." He said softly, watching the bickering with an expression of nostalgia. "I have a feeling things are about to get pretty interesting."

[blazichu]

Okay, since there was a bit of interest, I’m gonna go ahead and post a few of my incomplete WIPs as appropriate.

This first one was going to be titled ‘A CD Drive [Around Town]’ and the basic premise was that Spamton’s sidequest wasn’t completed prior to the chapter’s end, and it ended up as a ‘halfway-possessed’ situation with Spamton and K_K. There’s a little bit of extra content about it here.

(Just a reminder that this is very incomplete, and will jump around/have placeholders in it. It also... just kind of ends.)

--

It was clear within seconds of stepping into the dark world that something was wrong. When they’d left the previous day, the denizens of the computer lab had just been settling in and an air of excitement had buzzed about in town. Today, however, tension hung in the atmosphere, a high, electric hum that set Kris on edge before they had a chance to see what was causing it.

Even from a distance, they could see that someone had blocked off Castle Town’s main entrance, and that both the hasty blockade and brick wall were studded with dozens of shiny semicircles; tiny, glittery bits littered the ground where just as many projectiles had failed to find purchase. As they drew nearer, they realized they recognized what was embedded in the walls: ultra-thin, crispy bagels.

“Ohh, uh oh.” Kris wasn’t exactly surprised to find K_K coming their way, albeit with a strange, staggering gait-- their audible concern only made things more puzzling, “Lightner! I really think you should leave now!”

[Kris approaches, trying to figure out what’s up]

“No, not this way! I still have 300 bagels!”

At the same time they spoke, a different voice crackled through their speakers, “KRIS! KRIS, YOU [[???]], THIS WASNT OUR [[phrase w/ deal in it]].”

Reflexively, Kris took a step back, away from the [idk] booming at them, and reached for their sword-- but, halfway there, changed tracks and felt around in their inventory for Spamton’s disk. It wasn’t there. Hardly a surprise, given the voice projecting from K_K’s chest, but they hadn’t taken it out since receiving it-- had they dropped it, somehow? Had someone stolen it? And how had…?

[line from Spamton]

K_K’s speakers burst to life, producing a [x] shockwave, and the robot in question frantically waved their hands, trying to get Kris’s attention, “Run away, Lightner!”

Despite the contrary sentiment, they advanced, and at their worried record scratch, Kris suddenly understood: it wasn’t just that Spamton had taken over their speakers-- he seemed to have partial control of their body. A sympathetic shudder ran through them, and they took a step back, maintaining the distance between them as they tried to take stock of the situation.

They weaved around a sonic boom and started with the obvious: Spamton was in the disk, and K_K was a CD player. Theoretically, if they could just remove the disk, this would all blow over, but they didn’t know how they’d go about getting that close, or how K_K’s mechanism worked.

They called over, hoping an explanation would be simple enough for them to act on, but the only response they got was a new wave of vitriol from Spamton and a volley of bagels flung in their general direction.

Ducking the wave of baked goods, they offered a short wave in response to the [idk] “Sorry!”

So that was out for the time being, and it wasn’t like they could brute force it and just rip Spamton out. It was one thing to tear their own invader from their chest, and another entirely to do the same to someone’s face.

Maybe they could signal to Ralsei… somehow and put K_K to sleep. If their body was unconscious, Spamton wouldn’t be able to control it, right? That would give them enough time to figure out how to remove his disk-- a prospect that sounded orders easier than dealing with them as things currently stood.

A broken bagel caught them by surprise as it swung back around, nicking their cheek, and the sudden sting spurred Kris into action. They bolted, running [past] K_K before they could be cornered at the cliffs, and coughed past the impact of one long arm whipping into them.

At a reasonable distance, they turned on their heel and finally drew their sword--

Only to have it tugged roughly from their grasp while something wrapped around their wrist, leaving no room to wiggle free. They might have panicked, had the perpetrators not been immediately visible: on one side, Cap’n, holding the sword like he had no idea what to do with it, and Sweet on the other, hand clamped firmly around their wrist.

“It’s not their fault!” Said the former, as the latter insisted, “Don’t hurt them!”

“I know,” Kris assured them, pressing their free hand down on the flat of their blade so Cap’n didn’t accidentally stab anyone, “Spamton’s pissed at me, and that’s why he’s attacking. He’s in a disk-- do either of you know how to get it out of them?”

“You’ve gotta pull up on their handle to get their CD slot open.”

Sweet, however, got caught up on a different detail, “Are you saying this is all your fault? What’d you do to them?”

----

The instant they stepped into the path between the portal and town, however, a familiar shockwave tore through the air and bit into them, sending them flying into Castle Town’s barricade. K_K seemed to regain control long enough to press a hand to their head and follow the attack to its source--  to Susie, advancing on them with her axe at the ready.

Before Kris had a chance to speak up, Sweet and Cap’n were gone, tripping over one another as they hurried to interpose themselves between K_K and their aggressor, heedless of the danger inherent in getting so close. Kris, as they dashed over, themselves, watched K_K’s free hand reach up, toward the pair, and tremble violently before it dropped back into their lap.

Good job, they couldn’t help but think. Fight it. Don’t let it win.

----

Keenly aware of the looks they were receiving from Cap’n and Sweet, Kris walked up and gave K_K’s handle a single, firm tug; there was a click, and the CD slot between their eyes opened. They tried not to dwell on the fact that those same eyes tracked their movement as they circled around, popped the disk out, and nudged their player shut again.

“Definitely not one of ours.” Cap’n said, somewhat unnecessarily, studying the disk over the top of his glasses.

The statement was met by an excited, “Hey!” as K_K tossed one hand-- the one Cap’n had relinquished as he leaned over-- in the air, “I can hear that!”

[...]

“The little blue boy has a whole buncha cool mp3s. I was gonna sample some for our ne-xt--” They fumbled on the last word-- almost a hiccup-- and slapped a hand over their mouth, looking abruptly from Sweet to Cap’n, who seemed just as alarmed, “I… skipped?”

[...]

“Oh, right. I was looking for the little blue boy, then someone came up behind me and gra-bbed--” They grimaced, one hand hovering, self conscious, near their face, “My handle.”

[...]

“Yeah, you guys do that,” He said, not bothering to hide the fact that he wasn’t paying a bit of attention, “We’re gonna get Cakes patched up.”

The statement was punctuated by Sweet leaning around K_K’s other side to glare at Susie, and a bemused, “But I’m not thirsty?”

[afandomroom]

Can you imagine Cry’s reaction when they come back alive lmao. He just stands in shock before he cries and then afterwards he gets so angry at them.

Hmmm I think I could imagine 🤔

Warnings: Angst (?), Angsty emotions, references to death, think that's it, ask to tag

Part One, Part Two

(Side note: I hope the ending meets the ask well enough ;-; I tried the best I could)

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Cryptor’s heart pounded in his ears as he ran through the crumbling Ninjago city, ducking under fallen support beams and tripping over cement. Eyes flicking about and ears perked for anyone who needed help.

A layer of dust drifted through the city, almost like a heavy fog. The ground below him trembled every time a new building fell.

The echoes of screaming citizens still rang in his mind- so loud that he couldn’t differentiate what was a true cry for help and what was a memory.

…..

Turning a corner without slowing down, he raised a hand to the side of his helmet, pressing down a small button on the side.

A low static joined the echoing chaos.

“This is Cryptor; I’m on the Main Road. Who else is on the streets? Copy.”

……

Nothing.

He waited a moment, an unfortunately familiar sense of dread bubbling up inside at the lack of response, before clearing his throat to speak again.

“Repeat, I’m on the Main Road. Is there anyone else out here?”

…….

His run slowed to a walk, hands shaking slightly as he neared the end of the road.

“Pix?”

……

“..Lloyd?..Skyler?”

……

“……..anybody?”

He swallowed, coming full stop.

The last time the line had gone this quiet….

“Guys please. It’s absolute chaos out here. People are dying…I-I can’t do this alone-”

His gaze flicked over to an old TV store, long abandoned after the takeover.

His hand dropped to his side, lips pressing into a thin line as he stared with wide eyes.

The displayed televisions were running Ultra Violet’s news channel. And running the headline “Resistance Members in Custody.”

……

His hands tightened into fists; he turned away from the store.

Everyone was gone.

He was on his own.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Cryptor skidded to a stop right before he reached the crevice that now split a road in half, reaching down to grab someone hanging on by the ledge and hoist them up.

They were on the younger side, with dark eyes and silver-dyed hair, battered from trying to run and falling as the ground opened up beneath them.

One of many still left in the city.

Cry tried to ignore the sinking feeling in his chest, at the thought of how many people he wasn’t able to get to, as he pulled the citizen to their feet and ushered them down a safer route he’d found.

Every life counted. That’s what he kept telling himself.

…….

Shaking his head, he turned on his heel, prepared to run back into the still-collapsing city-

Only to come face to face with a band of SOG lackeys, grinning and armed.

……

He swallowed before stepping into a defensive stance, hands flicking down to the blades at his side. A twinge of arrogance broke through as he sized them up.

Five on one. Seemed fair.

One stepped forward, swinging a hefty looking bat onto his shoulder.

“Well well, what do we have here? Another of the ninjas' wittle fwiends?”

The man turned to his friends with a grin, laughing.

It took no more than five seconds for Cryptor to knock him on his back, conscious but definitely in pain, the bat rolling underneath a nearby car.

Rolling his shoulders, Cryptor turned to the remaining four, a small smirk hidden by his helmet. The closest thing to a smile he’d worn in a while.

“Who’s next?”

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Things weren’t going as well as Cryptor had planned.

Currently, he was held down to the cement by the booted foot of an SOG member, his helmet and weapons grasped in the hands of another.

His head spun slightly from the force of getting knocked to the ground, gaze struggling to stay locked on the lackey above him.

Didn’t stop him from glaring, however.

“So much for bein’ such a cocky lil’ scrap, huh?” The SOG member cackled, pressing their foot down further on his chest, applying more pressure-

That was immediately removed when a blur of red barreled into them, knocking them straight off of Cryptor and to the ground.

……

…Cryptor jumped to his feet, pausing only to stare at the scene before him or rather, the person who’d just joined the fight.

…Part of him didn’t want to believe it, didn’t think he should. Figured it’d only hurt more when he realized he was wrong.

Swallowing, he stepped forward, completely ignoring the other SOG members surrounding him at the moment.

“K…Kai..?”

The red ninja turned to smile at him. “Fight first, brief reunion after, then we save people, yeah?”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

The minute the last SOG member fell unconscious, Cryptor pulled Kai into a tight hug. Tears streaming down his cheeks and shoulders shaking slightly with heaved sobs; things he’d usually hideaway or at least try to.

…..

Kai hesitantly placed a hand on Cryptor’s shoulder, a bit taken aback, before fully committing to the hug.

“Cryptor-”

“I thought you’d died-I thought I watched you all die.”

His voice wavered and caught, as his hug tightened further. Worried that if he wasn’t careful, Kai would fade away before his eyes.

“And I wasn’t there…I was laying around somewhere, unconscious, useless- I was gone instead of fighting beside you all and-“

“A-And then you were gone.”

“You were gone..”

……

……..

“I’m sorry...”

Kai’s voice was soft, a hoarse whisper, as he gently patted Cryptor’s back. His own tears building up in his eyes.

“We tried to get a message through, tried to make it back here sooner- I’m so sorry, Cry”

…..

Cryptor pulled back slowly, wiping the tears from his face as if that could hide that they’d ever been there…

And (rather gently) punched Kai in the arm. The fire ninja barely flinched, simply looking from his arm and back to Cryptor in annoyance, “Hey, what gives? We were having a mome-“

“That’s for making me cry, idiot. Don’t do stupid stuff like running head first into danger without me again, got it?”

Brushing past Kai, Cryptor picked up his helmet and weaponry, before turning back to give his friend a smile.

…The fire ninja shook his head, before smiling back and following Cry’s lead back into the city.

“Yeah, I got it.”

[razieltwelve]

Kill Order (Final Rose)

As the explosion raged against her glyph, Weiss activated Luna’s personal forcefield and all but threw the girl at one of her bodyguards. “Get her behind cover.” 

“Yes, ma’am.”

The explosion finally began to peter out, and Weiss began to bark orders at the other bodyguards. “Team 1, you’re with me. Team 2, I want you to split, take the buildings on either side. Sweep the rooftops.” She paused as a low, angry growl filled the air. “Zahn...” The wolf glanced at her, and Weiss gave the order. “Kill.”

X     X     X

What sets Oerban timber wolves apart from most of their lupine kin is not merely their size although they are the largest wolves in the world. Instead, what truly makes them unique is how heavily they make use of Aura during combat. Like chocobos, Oerban timber wolves have learned how to enhance their strength, speed, and durability using Aura.

An adult Oerban timber wolf is more than capable of completely ignoring small arms fire, and more powerful wolves have been known to remain combat capable even after being struck by anti-tank rounds. To maximise their combat effectiveness, the Yun often equip their wolves with collars and bracers that contain personal forcefields and Aura batteries. The objective is to allow the wolf to reach their opponent without sustaining major damage. Once the wolf reaches their target, the result is often largely academic.

X     X     X

Zahn reached the first White Fang assassin and simply clamped his jaws around the Faunus’s head. The assassin’s Aura flared briefly and then shattered like glass. The wolf’s massive jaws closed with a wet thump, and he tossed the dead man aside as a stream of gunfire raced toward him.

Instincts that had been honed by years of training allowed him to zigzag through the oncoming barrage until he reached his next target. This one drew a sword and swiped at his side. The wolf leapt over the blow and crashed into the rabbit Faunus. The woman screamed as he brought one paw down with punishing force. To her credit, her Aura withstood the first blow, so Zahn twisted, seizing her leg in his jaws, and swung her into a nearby streetlight.

The metal bent beneath the force of the blow, and he shook his head and brought her down onto the pavement. Her Aura broke, and the concrete sidewalk cratered. Blood splattered the ground, and he fought the urge to howl as he bounded toward the group of White Fang firing on the members of his pack.

They saw him coming, and he understood immediately that he would not be able to dodge so many attacks. Instead, he would have to rely on his Aura and the defences his pack leaders had given him. Light flashed around him as those defences and his Aura withstood the onslaught. One of the White Fang gestured sharply, and an explosion threatened to drive him back.

Zahn roared and threw himself forward through the cloud of fire and force. He slammed into the closest assassin, and his sheer mass sent the man tumbling back. Rising to his feet, Zahn rammed another Faunus into a car, crumpling the vehicle and crushing the woman against it. A swipe of his paws sent a male Faunus tumbling through the air before he lunged at the one with the most Aura.

Another explosion bloomed to life against him, and Zahn felt the bracer on his rear left leg crack. That wasn’t good, but he still had three others and his collar. More importantly, he had managed to reach his opponent. With a blur of movement, the Faunus drew a spear and stabbed at his side. Zahn dodged as best he could, and the blow skittered off his flank. His teeth closed around the man’s wrist, and he tried to bite down. His opponent’s Aura resisted the attack, so he turned it into a throw, heaving him into the wall of the building beside them. 

“You damn monster!” the Faunus drew a knife with his other hand and drove it toward Zahn’s face. 

The wolf let go of the man’s wrist and jerked his head back before lowering his shoulder and driving it into his chest. The corner of the building broke off, and the pair of them rolled across the road. Zahn was on his feet first, and he struck with brutal force. He seized the Faunus’s left ankle in his mouth and used it to slam him into one of the trees that lined the sidewalk. Wood cracked, and Zahn bit down harder. Still, the White Fang member’s Aura refused to break. A desperate slash of the knife clattered against Zahn’s defences, and the wolf swung his head back around and smashed his opponent back into the ruins of the tree. Finally, his Aura broke, and Zahn darted forward.

“Get away from -”

CRUNCH.

Zahn tore off his head and most of his torso with one bit and then turned to scan the rooftops. One of his pack leaders was leading an assault further down the street. There was no need to go to her side. She was well protected. Instead, he would do what he did best. He would hunt. Movement from a nearby rooftop draw his eyes, and Zahn broke into a speedy lope.

X     X     X

Granite had worked for Weiss Schnee for the better part of five years. He’d been forced into battle several times while serving her, but this was by far the largest conflict he’d been involved in. In a way, he wasn’t surprised. With her wife away on a critical mission, Weiss was far more vulnerable. If Ruby had been here, it was entirely possible that all of their assailants would already be dead. Teleportation and ultra-high-speed movement were absolutely unfair sometimes.

Of course, that was what he and the others were for. Weiss packed more firepower than entire teams of hunters, but she was relatively fragile compared to her teammates. If she got hit - and that was a big if given her defensive glyphs - she wouldn’t be able to simply shrug it off the way someone like Yang Xiao Long could. But as long as he and the other bodyguards could protect her, Weiss was essentially living artillery. 

Case in point: the majority of the White Fang’s forces further down the street were currently being bombarded by bolts of super-heated ash travelling at rail-gun-like speeds. Upon impact those bolts would not only inflict hideous damage due to their speed but they would also explode, completely enveloping their target in ash that had been heated to thousands of degrees.

The only thing he and his team needed to do was keep the rooftops clear. A sniper was one of the only threats that stood a chance of getting Weiss, and they’d already eliminated several as they swept the rooftops. Once this was all over, there would definitely have to be an investigation. The White Fang had been all but destroyed for years. How had they managed to gather the resources for an attack of this magnitude?

However, his thoughts were soon interrupted as something burst out of a nearby roof. Well, crap. That was a war mech, a salvaged and heavily modified Atlas model by the looks of it. 

“Take it down!” Granite shouted. “Don’t let it fire!”

It was impossible to be completely sure of its load out, but the mech had several missile pods and what appeared to be a heavy plasma cannon on one arm. 

“Take out the plasma cannon!” Granite pointed. “Aim for the plasma cannon!”

Missiles filled the air, and he and the others were forced to take cover. He peeked around the corner in time to see the plasma cannon beginning to charge. 

“Damn it.” He raised his rifle and fired, but the bullets simply bounced off the mech’s forcefield. However, he must have done some damage because there was a sound like breaking glass as Zahn crashed through the forcefield and bit down on the cannon hard. “Watch the wolf,” he barked. 

Swinging back and forth, Zahn managed to brace his feet against the mech’s chassis. With a savage jerk of his head, he ripped the front half of the plasma cannon apart. The weapon shrieked and began spewing plasma everywhere. The wolf leapt clear, and Granite gestured wildly.

“Bring it down! Bring it down!”

One of the other bodyguards picked up a piece of rubble and threw it. The other man’s Semblance turned the projectile into a makeshift grenade, and it exploded against the mech’s side. The machine lumbered and then toppled off the rooftop. 

“Don’t let up!” Granite pointed. “Target the cockpit!”

X     X     X

Weiss took a moment to scan the street for any further danger. Good. The White Fang had been dealt with. Even so, she asked for a full sweep of the area before moving to where Luna had thankfully been kept safe. At her side, Zahn walked proudly. The wolf had proven his worth yet again, and nothing made him happier than doing his bit for his pack.

“Good boy.” Weiss reached over to scratch him behind his ears. “Good boy.” She noticed the blood staining his jaws and muzzle and paused. Hmm... she should probably clean him off a little before they met with Luna. 

X     X     X

Author’s Notes

It’s easy for people to forget because he’s so friendly and easy-going, but Zahn is more than six hundred pounds of lupine death that has been carefully honed over generations of selective breeding with years of training to hone his instincts. Backed up by technology, an adult Oerban timber wolf is extremely dangerous. That said, those same things that make him dangerous make him perfectly safe around Luna. The idea of actually harming her goes against all of his instincts and training. What makes wolves like Zahn even more dangerous is that they are also trained to work together if necessary. Together with their handlers, packs of Oerban timber wolves can and have brought down even S Tier Grimm.

The best bit is that after this, Zahn will probably spend his night being used as a teddy bear by Luna. Since she was kept safe behind cover during the whole fight, she wasn’t scared for herself so much as she was scared that something might happen to Weiss, Zahn, or the bodyguards, many of whom she has come to think of as friends since she’s known them for as long as she can remember.

If you’re interested in my thoughts on writing and other topics, you can find those here.

I also write original fiction, which you can find on Amazon here or on Audible here.

[paperdoll-hearts]

[ 📞 ] ‘ i’ll stay on the phone until you fall asleep. ’ connor/peyton

It seemed like every night ended with him in some way. It had become part of the routine of life. Connor either stayed late enough into the night that all that was left to do was crawl into bed when he went home or it was just like this… Him on the phone with her until one needed to go. It wasn’t always necessarily filled with on going conversation. Many nights it was him babbling on with her comments in between or they’d both be doing their own thing and still on the line. She had practically become dependent on it. Times when she was simply reading but she could hear the slight noise of him doing something and it brought comfort. She always thought she didn’t mind the quiet of her home, ignoring the loneliness

That was the bitter sweetness that came with Connor. He was like a warm, welcoming light but it shined on the things missing in her life. It was okay now. His high energy and dependability made it so easy to have him in her life. But it also made Peyton ultra-aware of what the absence of him would mean when the time came. And it would come. She had no delusions that this was never more than something temporary. She had the reasons that she made clear to him to why this couldn’t be more than friendship but the more he was in her life the more this became a reason. He was sweet, kind, giving but there would only so long before he couldn’t attach himself to the daughter of the town drunk. The time would come but right now he was here so why was she already missing him?

“What are you thinking about?” He disrupted her thoughts. It was crazy to her how he did that. Like he knew. They were so different in almost every way but he seemed to have this sense of her so quickly.

“Nothing. I’m just getting tired,” she let out the half lie. She was worn from the day but that wasn’t what drew the quiet tonight.

Connor could have called her out, knowing better with Peyton than to have it be so simple. Still, he knew when to choose his battles in pushing her for more. Tonight wasn’t one of those times. “I’ll stay on the phone until you fall asleep. Your snores will work as a signal.”

That perfectly described him right there. The silly joke being thrown in with promise of being there for her. She didn’t acknowledge the joke though that wasn’t unusual. She tended to be more serious in their interactions. “Okay,” she agreed quietly and let silence fall for a moment or two. “Hey, Connor?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you stay on through the night? I don’t want to wake up and not have you there.” She didn’t even have to face him and yet she felt embarrassed by admitting this. It made her feel weak. Dependent.

It took him a moment to answer, not because he was debating an answer. It was yes, but because he knew what it took for her to voice such a simple request. What it meant that she was letting herself reveal that in some way she needed him. He would have done anything he was able for her if she asked of it, but something so small and intimate pulled at his heart in an unexpected way. “I can do that,” he agreed. He was tempted to let out another joke to break the heaviness that came from the moment but that would have been for him and not her so he bit his tongue. He expected that to be it for the night. Let the silence take over for the night. Yet, he felt her hesitation. He didn’t have to be there to sense it. “What is it, Peyton?”

“I don’t want there to be a last phone call.”

“What do you mean? Why would there be?” His confusion was genuine. His mind didn’t really allow for far future thoughts and that was where she was tonight.

“Friends don’t do this forever, right? Not like this. Not like us.” For as timid as Peyton could be she never danced around the subject of them because she didn’t want to choose to be blind to what he felt. She cared about him, even in part in the way that he wished she did. Probably even a bigger part than either of them knew. The problem was there was that other part of her that hadn’t returned to be able to give him in the way she needed to. Connor was never someone she wanted to give herself partially to. He deserved all of her. Even if parts were broken she wanted to give every piece but she wasn’t in possession of it.

[hopelikethemoon]

Stircrazy (Javier x Reader) {MTMF}

Title: Stircrazy Rating: PG-13 Length: 2300 Warnings: Angst Notes: You can find everything about Maybe Today, Maybe Forever here. Set November 1991.  Summary: Javier grapples with his feelings after Reader was shot. 

@grapemama​​ @seawhisperer​​ @huliabitch​​ @beccaplaying​​ @rogrsnbarnes​​@thewallpapergoesorido @twomoonstwosuns​ @gooddaykate​​ @livasaurasrex​ @ham4arrow​​@plexflexico @readsalot73​ @hdlynn​​ @lokiaddicted​​ @randomness501 @fioccodineveautunnale​  @roxypeanut​​ @snivellusim​​ @lukesrighthand​​ @historynerd04 @mrsparknuts​​@synystersilenceinblacknwhite​ @behindmyeyes-insidemyhead​ @exrebelshocktrooper​@awesomefandomsunited @ah-callie​​ @swhiskeys​​ @lady-tano​​ @u-wakatoshii @space-floozy​​ @cable-kenobi​​ @cool-ultra-nerd @himbopoes​​ @findhimfives​​ @pedrosdoll​​ @frietiemeloen​​@arrowswithwifi​​ @random066 @uncomicalhumour​ @heather-lynn​ @domino-oh-damn​ @cyarikaaa​​ @ahopelessromanticwritersworld​​ @im-still-a-pieceofgarbage @ksgeekgirl​​  @yabby-girl​ @xqueenofthecraziesx​​ @punkass-potato​ @coredrive​​ @pascalesque​​@theduchessofkirkcaldy @queenquazar​​ @sabinemorans​​ @buckstaposition​​ @holkaskrosnou​​@yespolkadotkitty​​ @fleetwoodmactshirt​​ @seeking-a-great–perhaps @kochamcie​​ @jaime1110​​ @katlikeme​​

Javier couldn’t remember a span of time in the past five years where he hadn’t looked up from his desk and seen her sitting across from him. 

He knew where she was — logically, he knew she had been in the hospital and now she was home resting. All her shit was still on her desk, right where she’d left it that grim day. He knew she’d be back, but it still didn’t sit well with him to see an empty desk. 

She could’ve died. There was so much fucking blood and she had looked so frail laying there, bleeding out on the blacktop. 

He’d seen death. He’d caused death. 

Javier wasn’t certain he could’ve coped with her death. If her desk was vacant because she was gone. He’d tear the whole fucking drug industry apart with his bare hands.

It shouldn’t have gotten to him as much as it had. Steve was worried, like any friend would be, but Javier was devastated. 

And clearly it was obvious that he was fucked up, because he’d already had to sit through half a dozen meetings with the director. They could tell he was off his game. Wouldn’t anyone be if they’d seen their partner almost die?

At least he tried to convince himself that he’d feel this same way if it had been Steve instead of her. 

The second the clock struck five, Javier was on his feet and pulling his leather jacket one.

“Hot date?” Steve questioned, tucking his pencil behind his ear as he looked up from the report he was combing through. 

“Nah,” He shook his head, keeping his face as neutral as possible as he met Steve’s gaze. “It’s been a couple days and I thought I’d swing by and check out—“ He nodded his head towards her desk.

Steve’s brows rose upwards, “You know, Connie asked me to check in on her today. These files can wait until Monday.” He stood up and tossed the pencil back on his desk, grabbing his own jacket. “I’ll come with you.”

Javier tried to mask his disappointment — because there shouldn’t have been any. This weird feeling he felt for her wasn’t a welcome one. But seeing her like that had uncorked the bottle of emotions he felt and he didn’t know how to stuff it all back in. 

He cared about her and he knew it went beyond the lines of friendship. If Steve hadn’t shown up when he did that day — he might’ve confessed his stupid fucking infatuation, right there as she bleed out in his arms. 

But he was the same fucking idiot who hadn’t called her in three days. He’d been there when she got discharged and then—

“You good Peña?”

He shrugged, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Yeah.”

The ride over to her apartment was unnecessarily tense. Useless chit chat about work, the bullshit meetings with the director, and where Javier was headed after they left her apartment. 

In the stupid scenario he’d come up with that morning, he’d pictured himself unwinding with her on the sofa, watching telenovelas and… nope. He wasn’t going to let himself go down that path. 

Whatever he felt was just his brain over-compensating from the shock of it all. There was no them, beyond being friends and partners. 

It wasn’t like she’d called him over the past three days. It clearly wasn’t like that for her. 

Steve leaned against the wall beside her apartment door, while Javier knocked at it. It took her a minute, maybe two before she answered — and the look on her face made it worth it.

“You asshole!” She shouted with a laugh as she swung the door open. “You gave me a fucking heart attack.” She hobbled forward without hesitation and threw her arms around him. 

Javier curled an arm around her, running his hand up and down the length of her back. “Hey hobble horse.” He murmured warmly, inhaling deeply as he savored the moment. 

“Oh, fuck you.” She laughed, punching him in the arm. 

“How are you feeling?”

“Better now,” She said as she pulled back, grinning at him. “Much better now.”

Steve cleared his throat and she whipped around, “Steve!”

“Look at you up and around.”

She pulled away from Javier and moved to give Steve a quick hug too. It didn’t linger the way theirs had. And he hated himself for even comparing the two. 

“I’m so glad you assholes finally decided to come visit me.” She remarked, looking towards Javier then. “I fucking miss work.”

Javier chuckled, “If I’d known you were missing work that badly, I would’ve brought you a stack of paperwork to sort through.” His brows rose upwards as he spotted the gun she had tucked into her waistband. “Expecting a different type of company?” 

She bit down on your bottom lip, nodding your head towards the apartment. “Come in, we can talk.” She looked towards Steve, “Both of you. Please come in.” 

“Don’t worry, I didn’t think you were gonna leave me out here in the hall,” Steve offered with a good natured laugh, following them into her apartment. 

“Sorry it’s a mess,” She made a face, gesturing around the apartment m. “I haven’t really been up for cleaning and shit.” She grabbed up two empty beer bottles, hobbling into the kitchen to throw them away. 

“You know you’re not supposed to be drinking with the meds you got sent home with.” Steve cautioned, hands on his hips as she returned from the kitchen. “Am I going to have to tell Connie?”

Javier tensed as her gaze darted towards him warily. She was chewing on her bottom lip, trying to look unaffected as she hobbled over to the sofa, flopping down and propping her leg up on the coffee table. “The Percocet makes me feel like shit, I’m not taking it.” 

“Popping ibuprofen instead?” 

“Steve.” Javier warned — he didn’t know about her past, not the way he did. 

She shrugged casually, shutting the TV off. “Ibuprofen does the trick.” She rubbed her hands together as she looked between the two men. “So, what compelled the two of you to swing by? On your way out for a drink and wanting to rub it in?”

Steve scratched at the back of his neck. “Javier mentioned that he’d be coming by after work so I thought I’d tag-along.” 

“Oh,” She nodded, looking at Javier as he perched himself on the arm of the sofa. His teeth were clenched together so tightly, he could feel the way his muscle ticked under the pressure. “I thought he’d lost my number after I got discharged.” 

“Ha. Ha.” Javier snorted, shaking his head as he drummed his fingers against the arm rest. “It’s been fucking hell at work.” 

“He’s had about four-dozen meetings in regards to the shooting,” Steve admitted, sinking down into the armchair across from them. “You should be glad you’re out for the time being. You’ll get to avoid all that bullshit.” 

“I’ve had two calls with the director,” She revealed with another shrug. “And I’ve got to go through a psych eval before I’m even allowed back in the field.” 

“Shit.” Javier’s head snapped to look at her, his brows drawn together. “When do you think you’ll be back?”

“After the new year probably,” She chewed on her bottom lip. “They, uh… I don’t think they want me back until I’m fully healed.” 

Steve whistled, “Damn.” 

Javier was still staring at her, “Two months? Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Unfortunately, I’m not joking.” She sank back against the sofa, rubbing at her thigh just above where the wraps were. “I’m gonna go fucking stircrazy.” 

“If you took your pain pills, it would help.” Steve pointed out and Javier shot him another look. 

She nodded slowly, “I’ll get right on that.” 

Javier cleared his throat, “So what have you been doing to keep from losing it?” 

“Sleeping until ten, watching novellas, and I’m thinking about trying a new cookie recipe every day.” She laughed quietly, “I’ve already lost it.” 

He clicked his tongue against his teeth, “Well, stircrazy looks good on you.”

“I’m flattered.” She retorted, gesturing to her hair. “I call this the rat’s nest. I haven’t showered since I got out.”

“Why not?” Javier questioned.

“I’m not supposed to get the wrappings wet and I haven’t had it in me to do a kitchen sink hair wash yet.” She made a face, “Should’ve warned you before you hugged me.”

He shook his head, lowering his gaze to the floor, “It’s all good, baby. I think you get a free pass.” Javier was hyper aware of the fact that Steve was staring at him. “I’m just glad you’re up and moving.”

“Yeah, well… I want back in the office sooner rather than later.” She grabbed the remote again. “You wanna watch something?” She looked towards Steve then, “We can work on your language skills.”

Steve shook his head, “I've gotta get home to Connie.”

“Right.” She nodded. 

“And Javier and I came in the same car,” He gave him a look, an unspoken warning. 

Steve had a point. Even if it wasn’t ever verbalized. 

This was a dangerous game and he wasn’t about to go down that path. 

“So you did come here to rub in the fact that I can’t go out,” She snapped her fingers. “Aren’t you both real friends.”

Javier pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek and looked away, “Sometimes plans change.”

It was probably for the best that Steve had decided to tag along — otherwise, Javier had a feeling he would’ve been tempted to take advantage of the situation. To use that strange bond that was formed after a near-death experience. He had wants that were solely centered around her and he had to let them go. 

He scratched at his cheek, tilting his head to look at her then, “I didn’t tell you where I was gonna go after. I’m not rubbing anything in.”

She hummed skeptically, “Yeah, whatever.”

“I think Connie’s planning to bring by a casserole tomorrow.”

“Ohh. Well, maybe the three of you could come over tomorrow and we can have dinner together or early lunch.”

Javier rubbed his thumb over the crease between his brows, sighing heavily. “Yeah, maybe. I might have plans.”

“Alright, then Steve and Connie can just come over.” She corrected with a slight edge to her voice that made something wither and die within him.

Goddammit. He should’ve just fucking called. Then he wouldn’t have to sit there feeling like an idiot for caring. 

Caring too much. 

Javier dragged a hand over his face before rising off of the arm of the sofa, “Steve’s right, we probably should get out of your hair.”

She frowned as she met his gaze, but it was a fleeting expression that was replaced with a grimace as she hauled herself off the sofa. 

“You don’t have to get up—“

“I want to.” She huffed, letting Javier help her up off the sofa. Her fingers curled around his forearm for support, her touch like a fire that burned him. 

“Just don’t hurt yourself.” Steve retorted, arms folded across his chest as he watched the pair of them. 

“Not planning on it,” She retorted with a thumbs up, releasing her hold on Javier. “Thank you for coming. Both of you.”

Javier gave her a faint smile, “I’ll call.” 

She nodded, looking away from him then. “Not gonna hold my breath.” 

“I’ll let you know about tomorrow,” Steve told you, winding his fingers through his hair as he started for the door. “I’m sure Connie will want to come over.”

“You’re both more than welcome.” She told him, hobbling on her bad leg as she followed them to the door.

“You never mentioned what the gun was for,” Javier pointed out, stopping a few feet behind her. 

“If you called you’d known,” She shot back without hesitation. “I’m not stupid. I know I should be watching my back.”

Javier sighed heavily, “I’m sorry—“

“Don’t.” She shook her head as she pulled the door open. “You have nothing to be sorry for, Javier.”

Javier lingered in the doorway, staring straight ahead at Steve in the hallway, before he turned back towards her. “I’ll call you tonight, alright?” He worked his jaw slowly as he looked down at her. 

“I’d like that.”

“You have a good evening, now.” Steve drawled out, cutting into the moment and dispersing whatever new tension has formed there. 

“The Past Does Not Forgive has been on every night.” She told Javier as he lingered in front of her, “I’ve been dying to hear your thoughts on it.”

Javier chuckled, “I think Esteban should cut his losses and get the hell out of that situation.”

She laughed, “Oh, he’s a fool blinded by love.”

“Aren’t they all.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, glancing back at Steve who had propped himself up against the wall — watching them. “I should go. Take care of yourself.”

“I am.” She reached out and gave his arm a squeeze. “Thank you again.”

“For what?”

“Being there.” She pulled away and took a step back, shutting the door between them. 

Steve cleared his throat, “You good, man?”

Javier shrugged, “Seeing your partner get shot fucks you up.” He said dryly, “Don’t get jealous. I’d be just as torn up for you.”

He fished a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, sticking one between his lips and lighting it up. “That’s horse shit and we both know it.”

He bummed a cigarette off Steve, lighting it up and taking a drag. “I don’t know, I think if we lost you it would throw this whole shit show on its head.”

“Good thing I’m not leaving.” Steve said a little too quickly.

[earthstellar]

It’s Deaf Awareness Week, so I’m posting my hearing disabled Drift fan fiction in full below the cut! 

I am still fundraising for my hearing aids, so if you like the story and would like to donate, you can do so at my Ko-Fi or via PayPal. 

You can also see my post on Chirolinguistics and Sign Language in Transformers media here! 

Auditory Error by Capricorn_Stellium - Word Count: 2733

Summary: 

The Lost Light visits a marketplace on a newly identified planet in the hopes of restocking on a few crucial supplies.

Unfortunately, things go less than well, and Drift is hit with some sort of energy disruptor-- Which results in processor damage.

Once everyone is back on board and clear of the fight, Ratchet and First Aid get to work attempting to assess Drift post-injury in a MedBay that is suddenly far, far too noisy.

"Stay where you are. Don't move! First Aid, get over here, get on his left side."

It was Ratchet's voice, or at least, he thought it was.

Drift was in the MedBay, so evidently they'd made it back to the Lost Light.

He quickly tried to assess himself: No missing limbs, so that's nice. Doesn't seem to be much frame damage, no evidence of blaster shots or blade damage anywhere across his armour that he could see.

Not that he could see much, as Ratchet was aggressively trying to get him to lay his helm back down flat against the medical berth.

"He's awake. Aid, titrate the sedative, I don't want him dizzy but keep it level so he's not running around." Ratchet moved to the side of the berth from where he had been standing so far, somewhere behind his helm, but it was odd. His voice seemed to come from all directions at once, and it was disorienting.

"Drift, can you focus on me? You were hit in the helm by one of the marketplace traders; Turns out Rodimus was wrong about the locals being friendly, because of course he was. Nobody else is hurt, so don't even try getting up! I don't know what they hit you with, some kind of focused disruptor of some kind. We're running additional scans to try to figure it out, but stay down for now. You aren't restrained, no painkillers. Just a mild physical sedative in the event you woke up swinging. I'm too old to keep having to fight my patients, you know."

It was bizarre; He felt totally fine. He could hear that Ratchet was speaking, but the words were... Missing, here and there. All of the sounds in the room were equally as loud, completely drowning each other out. It was overwhelming and disorienting.

He'd been in the MedBay enough times both as a patient and just waiting for Ratchet to get off shift that he was well aware it shouldn't sound like this. It was as if every piece of machinery was at maximum volume and surely Ratchet was whispering, but why would he be whispering? Was there something else going on? Was Ratchet's vocaliser damaged somehow? Why would Ratchet lie about the situation, unless it was serious?

Ratchet noticed Drift's increasingly heavy frown; He looked fairly alert, but confused. Running another quick diagnostic scan, nothing new was coming up. Drift had been concussed, he'd already known about that. The more extensive diagnostic panel wouldn't be complete for another minute or two.

"Aid, I told you to moderate--" First Aid interrupted by holding up what was the needle end of a clearly disconnected fuel line drip.

"He's not being sedated actively at all anymore, Ratchet. It should work it's way out of his systems soon, low level dose should remain for the next three to five hours but not significantly enough to produce a frame relaxing effect. Intensive scan is just about ready, give it a moment. We'll figure it out."

Ratchet huffed. He was proud of his star apprentice, but it was irritating to get blatant reassurance from a junior doctor.

Not that First Aid was wrong to comment; It was hard to administer emergency care to your own conjunx. In other circumstances, it would never be allowed at all, but the Lost Light was a perpetual mess. A good mess, most of the time. But still not quite as organised as some might prefer-- A fact that Ultra Magnus never let anyone forget.

Speaking of Magnus, the paperwork for this would be a nightmare, but Ratchet had other concerns on his mind.

Drift raised a servo to his faceplate, careful not to lift his helm lest Ratchet come after him again. "I... feel okay, I think. But I never had a concussion that made everything sound so... I don't know. Things sound wrong all of a sudden."

Ratchet and First Aid looked at each other from across their respective sides of the medical berth. Aid pulled out a data pad and began taking notes once Ratchet nodded in the affirmative to proceed.

"What do you mean? Can you describe what you're feeling?"

Drift ex-vented. "Physically, totally fine. Not even a headache, really. Everything else seems okay, but it's like... Everything is at the same volume, and is coming from everywhere all the time. I can hardly make out what you and Aid are saying, every other word is gone, it's easier for me to focus on the vague sort of rhythm of the noises you're making rather than what you're actually talking about. Like the words are messed up and lost in the sounds of everything else. But, I don't know. It's like everything is a flood of noise, except for speech, I guess? Keep talking to me, I'll figure it out."

It was Ratchet's turn to frown. "Hmm." He backed up a little from the side of the berth. "Drift, can you shutter your optics for a second? I won't touch you, but I want you to listen as best you can, okay?" Drift nodded, wondering what Ratchet was up to.

Closing his optics felt awful; It made the noises seem even louder and more all-encompassing, somehow. Hopefully this wouldn't take long. He was glad Ratchet had kept him on the berth; It was a dizzying sensation. Like the noise was giving him vertigo.

"I'm going to snap my digits in different areas and at different distances from your helm. I want you to tell me where you hear the sound in relation to yourself, so for example, upper left from your point of view, or lower right, or straight ahead. Okay?"

Drift nodded, hoping he'd heard the instructions correctly. It was suddenly much harder to fill the gaps in Ratchet's speech when he couldn't watch his faceplate while he was speaking.

The exam went on for a while until finally Ratchet snapped his digits for the last time to Drift's righthand side, but Drift stated the sound was coming from straight ahead and slightly above his helm.

"Maybe a little to the right?" He could hear Ratchet ex-vent, but from where, he couldn't tell. "Nope. Open your optics, Drift. Sorry to say you didn't exactly pass that test." He turned to face First Aid, who had apparently been following along and taking quite a few notes.

Turns out both of them were stood exactly where they were when the exam had started. Weird. To Drift, it had seemed like their intermittent words were floating around him while his optics had been shuttered. Had they moved at all, the entire time?

The noise of all the medical machinery was getting awful. How were Ratchet and Aid okay with it?

Then he realised they probably couldn't hear it. Somehow...

Ratchet's voice knocked him out of the state of distress he was rapidly falling into the more he tried to think about all the noise. "Aid, note a general lack of directional hearing. No loss of hearing overall, his audials are registering sound as usual, but..."

First Aid looked up from the data pad. "But the way his processor is interpreting the sounds he's hearing is wrong."

"Correct. It's processor damage. Damn."

Drift had missed what was probably a very important word, there. "Sorry, what kind of damage?"

Ratchet, to his credit, only looked upset for a very brief moment. But Drift could tell; He could always tell with his Ratty. And that look was never good.

"Sorry, Drift. We shouldn't talk about you like you aren't here, anyway; It's a bad habit medics can develop."

That got a small smile out of Drift. "Since when are you worried about bad medic habits? You routinely throw wrenches at your patients."

"Hey, that's usually only Whirl. And Rodimus. And..." Ratchet took one of Drift's servos into his own. "Fine, you have a point, but this is serious. We need to run more tests. And by more, I mean you're going to be in here for a while."

Drift nodded, not wanting to speak himself lest it break his intense concentration on Ratchet's intake. It definitely seemed like trying to follow Ratchet's faceplate movements made it easier to guess what words he was missing.

The words he could no longer hear. For some reason.

It was only years of experience performing various mindfulness meditations that prevented Drift's anxiety from escalating.

First Aid walked towards the foot of the medical berth to be more fully in Drift's line of sight before addressing him.

And he proceeded to say something that Drift totally missed, because First Aid's battle mask made it impossible to read his faceplates in the way that he could with Ratchet.

"Uh... I don't want to interrupt? But two things: Aid, can you retract your mask?" Both First Aid and Ratchet stiffened immediately.

"I'm so sorry--" "Drift, if you can't understand us, just say so and we can--"

And it was too much noise.

Instinctively, his servos flew up to cover his audials, which hadn't helped as much as he had hoped it might.

"Stop! Stop, I'm sorry, it's okay. Don't worry about it. But the second thing, is that it's way, way too much in here. The noise, I mean. It's a lot."

Ratchet gently grabbed Drift's wrists, getting closer in the process.

"The scan we were running has finished by now. Aid, turn off everything we're not currently using, let's see if it makes a difference in the ambient noise level. Go ahead and start interpreting the results, construct a summary, you know what to do."

As First Aid got started as directed, looking somewhat upset that he hadn't thought to retract his battle mask earlier, Ratchet moved in even closer to speak directly into Drift's audial.

On the other side of Drift's helm, he cupped a servo over the opposite audial to help block out the surrounding noise and force Drift's processor to focus on the most immediate input: His voice. "I'm sorry. I'll try to make this as easy on you as I possibly can, okay? We're not hearing things the way you are, so we'll have to figure this out as we go. But that's fine; You're okay... You will be okay."

Vision obscured by Ratchet's shoulder armour while intensely trying to focus on his voice, suddenly, it hit Drift.

He could hear, but he couldn't hear. Not really.

A thousand scenarios flooded him at once, each one more terrifying than the last.

Being in a battle, unable to tell where bullets were coming from. Hearing a ship-wide alarm go off, and being incapacitated by the noise, unable to react otherwise. Unable to help. Unable to protect Ratchet. Never being able to parse anyone's speech, always missing words, never having all the information.

Going to a racetrack and being disoriented by the hum of all the wheels and engines at high speed, causing an accident. Anywhere noisy, anyone talking. Anywhere sound exists, it would be too much or not enough and never in-between.

He couldn't fight effectively. He wouldn't able to communicate effectively, not if he constantly misheard every single thing. The stress just from the MedBay noise was horrendous; What about in the middle of a conflict, or the command deck, or even someplace like Swerve's? Totally unbearable.

He would go right back to being isolated. He would be a problem for others. A burden, an annoyance.

What if this wasn't fixable?

He gasped like he had been choking, causing Ratchet to startle and pull back. "Ratchet! Ratchet, Ratty, what if-- What if you can't fix me?"

And he knew that look.

He felt Ratchet's arm move slightly somewhere behind him, and First Aid swiftly and silently left; He would finish looking over the results in his own office space. Ratchet had probably flashed some kind of medic secret code hand signal or something.

Or maybe it was just awkward to watch your mentor's partner start crying in your shared workplace. It was probably that, and the thought would have made Drift laugh if he didn't suddenly have a terrible headache.

Ratchet made the most of his wide set medical frame type, and completely wrapped Drift in a hug.

It helped. Everything seemed like too much right now, but this, he could never possibly get enough of.

Fluid had pooled behind his optics; Some started to trickle down in small streams. Ratchet wiped some of it away gently.

"Drift, I'm not going to lie. I already know what those scan results are going to say; There's nothing wrong with you, aside from whatever is going wrong with your processor. And I'm going to be honest, because you know I don't lie when it comes to my diagnostics... If I'm right about the nature of your processor damage, it's most likely not something that can be repaired."

Even though on some level he figured that might be the case, it felt like Ratchet had jammed the Great Sword through his spark.

Before he had the chance to completely break down, Ratchet carefully grabbed the sides of Drift's helm, gently rubbing soft swirls in his faceplate and ensuring Drift didn't just fold in on himself and completely collapse.

He wanted Drift to be able to understand; Keeping his helm up like this would help Drift read his faceplate, too.

"I know. It's not good news. But we can work with it. You can work with it. We'll figure it out. If we don't have the supplies we need to make whatever assistive device we might have to come up with, we'll find a way to get them, or make them. You have me, Perceptor, Brainstorm, a whole ship full of people who can and will help you. Okay?"

Drift wanted to nod, he really did, but the tears welling up in his optics had blurred his vision, and the thought of being unable to see clearly while being unable to hear clearly was so completely distressing to him that he simply threw his arms around Ratchet's neck strut and let himself cry it out.

Not for long, and not very hard; He found that the sound of his own crying was odd and grating to his audials, both muted and sharper than it should have been.

While he could stifle his tears, he couldn't stop his upset and frustration from seeping out through his EM field.

Ratchet's armour plating shivered a bit, before he met Drift's EM field with his own and wrapped him in another hug, spark to spark.

A surge of love, care, devotion- Ratchet's EM field helped soothe Drift's headache, and slowly, he calmed down. His vents evened out, the sound of the fans rattling no longer another sound adding to his distress.

"Sorry, Ratty. I just, this is... really bad."

"Yeah, it is. But we'll figure it out."

Drift's voice fell to almost a whisper. He couldn't fully hear himself speak, although he felt his vocaliser warm up. "There's this weird dissonance, like everything is too loud and too quiet all at once. Like all the small noises are massive and I can't hear anything I actually want to listen to. It reminds me of coming down from a syk hit, when my sensory data would get a little messed up."

Ratchet stilled, then tightened his hold on Drift. He was careful to speak directly into Drift's audial. "Rung is here too, you know. We're all here for you. I'm here for you."

He pulled back just enough to kiss Drift's faceplate, where the tears had left stains. Drift stared at his intake; He wasn't sure if it was to return the kiss, or if it was an attempt to try to follow along with his words.

"How about this: While Aid finishes up the report on your scan results, we can lay down in our hab suite and hopefully it'll be quiet enough there for you to get some real rest. I can give you a painkiller before we head out; Nothing heavy-duty, but sensory sensitivity can be unpleasant and I want you to actually recharge if you think you can. I can call Velocity in to handle my other patients for the evening."

He hadn't been this tired earlier, but he definitely was now. Drift nodded, leaning his helm up a bit to return Ratchet's kiss.

"Yeah, that sounds good."

[horrible-monstrosity]

I find myself increasingly concerned with the direction Legends Arceus is taking the relation between humans and Pokemens. No, I'm not talking about the bit with Pokemans attacking the player directly when you don't have your own Pokeymans ready, that was going to happen eventually, but just... the Sinnoh myths had stories about humans and Pokemon being so close they were considered the same sort of being, there's marriages, what have you, coming from thousands of years back. But this game apparently taking place only some hundreds of years ago... and it's "before Pokemons and humans lived together uwu"? The fuck? I feel like the games have been significantly moving away from humans and Pokemon being equals of a sort who both benefit from being together to Pokemons being some superior beings who humans benefit from but not vice versa and Pokemans are the superior creatures who humans should grovel in gratitude to and put up with all the shit from while never daring to burden them in any way. See gen 7, where living in haaaaarmony means having their lives and culture corralled by some asshole fairies because people can't be arsed to fight the ultra beasts, except the trainers who're forced to become kahunas fight the UBs themselves anyway (where they're forced to become fanatical enough about fighting to become strong enough to do so, but they're not even expected to be strong to fight UBs it's to lead their community... don't try understanding it just eat fairy shit and get excited for more fairy shit I guess). Why not just have a culture of the trainers who want to be strongest, or who have the greatest talent, being lauded as UB-fighters and becoming community leaders as well? Naw man, doing everything as the fairies want is haaaaarmony. Humans can't be strong enough with their Pokemon teams to fight the UBs, but have to be strong for other reasons ordained by The System, but then the ordained stronk humans have to fight the UBs anyway. But the fairies help, I guess. I fucking hate fairies man. Fucking elves of the Pokemon world. Smug sparkling fucks, fuck em I keep forgetting about the ride Pokemon but it still feels like the humans are supposed to bow and scrape to earn the gift of basic movement services so I don't think it really counts Gen 8 I don't know as well but it seems to go like this: Doggos are responsible for all good, their trainers or whatever their human companions are might as well not even exist. The postgame story is about those eeeeevil humans thinking they have some relevance to the doggos or something, eeevil I must say, so they have to do something evil to prove that.... um, something. Just some dumb shit that feels like a strawman argument against humans having any place in this world. Grovel to doggos.

Gen 6 was around the point where the weird cynicism started to creep into the franchise, mostly ORAS's weird abandoned ship segment, but it's pretty clear of this... aside from one random ace trainer or something late in XY who asks you, humans benefit from Pokemons, but how Pokemons benefit from huamn??? huh??? You're expecting an answer from him but he's just like, I bet you can't think of anything huh, hmmm??? Grovel, human.

You compare this to gen 5, and I'm not even talking about the Plasma plot (which was clearly bait on Plasma's part to get the public's sympathy anyway), but things like using Excadrill to dig out the mines. The 'drills were getting to do what they loved- dig- and being treated well by the humans in exchange for digging this spot in that way as directed. An equitable relationship that produced resources. This sort of thing existed as a counterpoint to N and Plasma's stated beliefs that humans were nothing but horrible for Pokemon and that they could never live together... Ironically what the later games are leaning towards, except that there is a way, and that's for humans to go fuck themselves. And again, Sinnoh's old myths, as well as any other myths that involve people and Pokemon together going back thousands of years.

I'd really thought the idea of this series was that Pokemon and humans were practically made for each other, that they were together from the very beginning. Raising Pokemon allows them to have a crafted moveset including TM and tutor moves, gain EVs, use held items aside from the few random ones they find in the wild... it's baked into the game itself completely incidentally. But no, I guess it's a Pokeyman's world and humans are just intruding on it somehow. What the fuck. Sigh.

I'm hoping that "Pokemans are so dangerouse man" line is just about the red-eyed frenzied Pokemon and that we aren't going into all Pokemons attacking humans and humans living forever at their mercy and deserving to scrape and grovel just to survive their onslaught.

By the way, my autistic retard fanfiction: First off, when the wall breaks and the doggo statues are found that make everyone realise who the "real" heroes are (something we can THANK Bede for by the way, because if he hadn't destroyed a priceless cultural artifact Eternatus would have gone off unopposed... but no one ever acknowledges this, as Bede is shat on and disowned by Rose for following what Rose taught him and then forced to trune out by trunny granny. figures she's a fairy trainer, I fucking hate fairies)- the idea that the doggos alone are the "real" heroes is actually a misconception brought on by people/society's tendency to elevate Pokemon, similar to why people bought PLasma's bullshit back in Unova. So when Eternatus is starting its nukes, people are just waiting for the doggos to get going and beat it... but when Hop sees the doggo statues, his budding professor brain immediately sees the truth- both the doggos and their human trainers are needed to unlock the true power of the sword and shield items. This even makes some sense with the game mechanics, as Pokemon typically can't use items more complicated than a berry... so with Leon and co busy fighting the dynamax mons and knowing no one would listen to him, Hop turns to the only person he can ask- you, who saw the doggos in the foggos at the beginning with him, to go retrieve the items so the doggos can actually do their thing. Also, Rose was radicalised and groomed by some crazy apocalypse cult, an ironic inversion of his supposed grooming of Bede (here he actually has a heartwarming father-son relationship of sorts with him). They pushed him to push the darkest day plan up like he did, convincing him there's a desperate energy situation but secretly just wanting the maximum apocalypse-ness out of a single action (while possibly believing themselves that there's an energy crisis but that the real solution is to destroy shit so less people and things use energy). So there's that. In the end he's taken to jail, but it's not some absurdly mundane ending where he just gets arrested for apocalypse crimes, rather he's being questioned for what he can tell them about the cult, on understanding that he was coerced into this, and that he can pay for his crimes by giving information on the cult itself. Bede relates this to you with some concern for his sort-of dad. The Swordward and Shieldbert plot (I forget if that's their actual names but whatever) has the two bros asking you to aid in investigating the apoc cult while preparing to accept their destiny as the doggos' masters. You see, they've been raised for this, learning all about Pokemon companionship but having no actual close contact with Pokemon at all (to prevent any Pokemon from forming a bond with them closer than what they'd have with the doggo- your first Pokemon is special, after all). Book smart but street dumb, in other words. You know, as opposed to some inexplicable dumb shit because Mother 3 ruined an entire generation of game writers. They call on the doggos to battle the baddies and are disappointed they go to you and Hop instead of them, but ultimately accept it. Afterwards, Hop contacts Sonia with a request... soon he has the two brothers over to choose their very first Pokemon. Swordbro was going on about Swordog's nobility and Shieldbro about wanting to touch Shieldog's fluffy mane, so Hop has out a Yamper and a Wooloo, presented as a choice, but he knows exactly which one they'll each choose. This is another manifestation of his potential as a professor- not only doing the professor thing of handing out first Pokemon, but considering what Pokemon they'd work well with. Isn't that nice? Also there's something in there about Bede's long lost identical twin who's also being used as a pawn by the apoco-cult but I'll explain that later

My idea for the origin of the Pokemon world as we know it- Arceus didn't create Pokemon, or the world itself, but it is responsible for the way the world is now. Once upon a time, when humans and Pokemon were one kind of being, there was too much strife and disagreement among the groups and nobody was learning their lesson, so Arceus got fed up and split the world into two types of beings that would have to get along in order to thrive. It instated the "rules" of Pokemon battles, that attacks have set damage ranges and types have well-defined interactions, that attacks in battles only deplete some abstract hit points level instead of causing the damage they "should" for what they are (this doesn't apply to wild-on-wild predation necessarily, so it's a privilege enjoyed by Pokemon being aided or advised by a human). Outsider beings- aliens, maybe ultra beasts, etc- are "converted" into Pokemon when they enter "Earth"'s airspace, which is why even beings from the furthest depths of space follow the rules and biology of earthbound species. These "rules" require Arceus' powers but don't rely on its constant action, so it can be captured and hang out with a trainer for a while, play by its own rules to see how things are going, without disrupting the system. I'd never expected anything even vaguely like this to turn canon of course, because it's so specific and particular to the sort of ideas I tend to have, but... not like this man

[seriouslyhooked]

Lost Souls and Reveries: The Sequel (1)

Original Story on Tumblr, Fanfiction, and AO3. This sequel on Fanfiction and AO3. Amazing and exceptional @cssns series artwork created by the ultra-talented @clockadile​. Thank you for bringing my wolfy world to life!

The sequel to Lost Souls and Reveries, this fic follows Emma and Killian in their continuing journey as fated mates. In the span of one summer their lives have completely changed. Finding each other helped reveal key truths, heal old wounds, and put their lives on a whole new trajectory. Part one left everyone in a good and happy place, but only half the battle has been won. This sequel blends Emma and Killian’s continuing story with the perspectives of their family and pack. Pockets of angst, but ultimately this is a story about love, hope, and the bonds that bind born and chosen families. Story has 13 planned chapters.  

A/N: Hey everyone!! It is so exciting to be back with the CSSNS event this year, and to get to revisit a story that has had a tremendous impact on my writing life. Lost Souls and Reveries is the longest fic I have ever written, and it pushed me in ways no other story ever had. I did my best to blend the fluff and true love mix I am known for with some more plot twists and intrigue, and though I always felt like I was out on a ledge, all of my readers showed me tremendous love and support. That kindness means the world to me, and it also left me with another first in my numerous years of fic writing: a multi-chapter sequel. So many of you have asked for more of this story, and there is still more to write for sure. After all, there’s still a big bad lurking out at the horizon – and everyone knows that happy endings are meant for peace, not fighting villains. That being said, this story tracks Emma, Killian and their friends/family in the hunt for Gold. It will be different from the original in that there will be more chapters and POVs from other characters that are not just CS, but I promise you’ll all get that needed dose of our favorite ship. Anyway, I hope you will enjoy this first chapter told from Emma’s POV, and can’t wait to hear what you all think!!

Sprinting through the woods as fast as her legs would take her, Emma knew it was only a matter of time until she was caught. Still, she would do everything she could to buy more time and try and get away. She and her wolf were in complete agreement about this – she had to keep moving. She had no other choice.

The rush of greenery around her was all new. These woods were unfamiliar, the area unknown, but instincts commanded her in the direction of the river. She ran and ran and ran, and she realized that if she could just get to the waterway, she could use the current to wash away any trace of her. That would buy her time, and what she needed more than anything was time.

In wolf form, the frenzied pace of a run was different. As a human she saw flashes, never fully picking up on everything before her, but this way she felt and saw it all. The animals in the forest stood stock still in fear, or darted into the brush to get away. Birds squawked in alarm from the tree line, and she heard the flutter of wings taking flight even through the wind cutting past her ears. Still she kept moving, pushing, fighting, trying her best to stay ahead.

When she finally reached the clearing and could see the river, she felt another rush. She’d done it! She made it! She just needed to –

A blow came from her side and she tumbled to the ground, rolling in the dirt until the other wolf came above her. Her heart lurched painfully, the adrenaline of being caught swarming her system, but then the black wolf above her nipped at her neck and her own wolf let out a low whine. It was a happy sound, even if she was submitting, for despite her want to win, she never could resent being caught by her mate. In unison, she and Killian shifted back to their normal form, both of them out of breath but smiling after the rigor of their game.

“I was so freaking close that time,” she said. “Admit it, you almost didn’t get me.”

“Your ability improves each and every day, my love,” Killian said, not admitting anything but pressing a kiss to her lips instead, thus successfully distracting her. She moaned into his mouth as her hands went to hold him closer, but just as she was about to really give in, he stood, carrying her in his arms and causing her to shriek. Too late she realized where he was headed, and in another few seconds they were both submerged in the icy cold mountain water.

Breaking the surface and gasping for air, Emma shoved Killian playfully, but he only pulled her closer, turning the tides toward a delicious kind of tension instantly. Here in the water, Killian allowed the heat that was between them to really crescendo. His mouth claimed hers as his hands roamed over her curves in a possessive, demanding way. Emma arched against him seeking friction and strength, loving the feel of his hard body accompanied by the crisp cool water of the riverway they were in. In her mind Emma knew his reasons for this not so subtle relocation; alone as they were out here at her Aunt and Uncle’s retreat deep in the forests near Acadia National Park, Killian would never risk them being seen by anyone. He was the best man she knew, loving and sweet and kind, but he was also all alpha, and if anyone ever caught them like this… let’s just say Killian would never allow witnesses to this kind of scene.

“No one sees you like this. No one but me,” Killian growled out in the kiss as Emma shivered. He was using that damned mind link they had again, but she couldn’t blame him. As hot and bothered as she was right now, she was probably yelling all her thoughts. She certainly wasn’t trying to shield them from him.

“Only you,” she agreed, running her fingertips along his jaw as her other hand lay over his chest. She felt the steady beating of his heart, keeping time with hers down to the nanosecond. “And no one sees my mate either.”

“Not a soul,” Killian agreed. “All this was made for your eyes only.”

“Just my eyes?” she asked, her voice dipping low as she ran her hand down his body. She was totally playing with him and the way his eyes grew dark at her words made her want to even more. “That’s a shame. Here I was thinking…”

She purposefully trailed off, causing Killian to growl again. He nipped at her neck, a primal move she always loved. She gasped at the bite, loving the pressure but knowing it was never too rough to handle. She forgot herself a moment until Killian’s voice rumbled out once more. “What were you thinking, love?”

“I was thinking we should play another game. Same rules, only this time, if I make it the house before you catch me, I get to have my way with you. And I’ll be using way more than my eyes.”

“And if I catch you…?” Killian asked, hunger in his eyes.

“You get to have your way with me. You interested?”

“More than you could ever even imagine.”

With that, they raced back to the house, and though she never would admit it, Emma slowed down just a touch in the final stretch, allowing her mate to catch her and to make good on all the hotness that came when he was running the show. She had no regrets on that choice either, not when her man was a master of knowing what she needed and giving her everything her heart could ever want.

They stayed like that for hours, cooped up in the house, moving from room to room, sating every need, and then, when they were finally spent (at least for now), they gave in and relaxed. The rest of the day was lazy, just as every other day on this honeymoon had been, and Emma for one was thrilled. By the late afternoon they were out on the back deck, soaking up the sunshine and taking it all in.  In all those harrowing moments over the past few months, the ones fraught with worry and stress and uncertainty, this was the kind of bliss that Emma was praying for. The feel of the sun on her body, the breeze on her skin, and the heat of her husband – yes, her husband – just beside her on the lounger that they currently shared.

Her eyes were still closed as she dozed out here in the last of the summer sun, but Emma couldn’t keep her smile at bay. This had been a fantastic honeymoon, a whole series of moments, carved out of time for her and her mate. It was just them out here, and though they weren’t very far from home, it was the perfect kind of quiet that they’d needed most of all. Two whole weeks away from her friends and her parents and any and all responsibilities. It was amazing, and she would be sad to see it end in a few days’ time. But even though she was luxuriating in every moment with Killian, and soaking in this calm they both desperately deserved, she couldn’t help the tingling sensation that she missed her home and the people she loved most.

The last time she’d seen them all was the morning after their wedding. Her friends and family had congregated together to wish Emma and Killian well on their trip and say goodbye for even this short amount of time. Emma was touched at the thoughtfulness, and she loved how all of them had come, her parents and Neal, Elsa and Liam, Anna and Kristoff, Ruby and Graham and Granny and Emma’s own grandmother. It was like another mini party all over again, and as swift as it was, Emma adored that precious moment, especially since she was still riding high after the best night of her life.

Looking back, she could definitively call her wedding night the best night of her life, at least so far. It had just been so… well, magical, for lack of a better work. Every component of the evening was something she loved. She was surrounded by her people, her pack as it were, and the more extended friends and neighbors who may not know everything about her now, but who loved and supported her all the same. There was music and dancing, great food and a great vibe, laughter and joy, and a resurgence of hope among all of them that never wavered and never strayed away. It was almost like the battles they’d faced had never happened. She barely thought of the tough times, the darkness or the fear. It felt liberating, loving Killian and choosing to be with him forever, and she knew her friends felt their own sense of rightness, having all found their own mates to love as well.

At one point, when all of them were on the dance floor, Emma broke through the fog of her desire for Killian and took a look around. All of her loved ones were dancing, her parents, and her friends, and in everyone’s eyes she saw real and true love. It was amazing, to bear witness to people who all had their own pasts, and scars from harder days, coming together and choosing to hope. Even Kristoff, who was still adjusting to everything after his months in captivity, had looked happy and calm. He stayed glued to Anna the entire night, and never took his eyes from her, filling Emma with the same joy she’d felt when Liam and Elsa found each other just a short time ago. It was all coming together.  Everyone was finding who they were and what they wanted, and it all started with her and Killian, finding each other just as fate had foretold.

There was only one part of the whole wedding that left Emma slightly off balance, a blip in her elevated mood that struck her as curious. It was near the end of the night, only a few songs before she and Killian departed. She had looked over to try and keep track of her friends and she saw Elsa, Ruby, and Anna all huddled together. Ruby was talking in an animated way, but the worry on her face wasn’t meant for this moment. Emma knew she must have seen something, must have glimpsed a vision or something along those lines, but she couldn’t exactly be sure. Then she was even more puzzled, because it appeared to be Elsa who drew everybody’s focus, and then, just as Emma was beginning to realize something might be up, her best friend turned, saw her curious expression and smiled, shaking her head.

Elsa’s meaning was clear: Don’t worry about it. Nothing that needs handling tonight. And though Emma usually wouldn’t agree to such a mindset, she made an exception. If it was really a problem, Elsa would tell her, wedding or not. And in the days since, no one had reached out. No one had tried to get them home or break into their honeymoon, so it must not be so bad. Right? God, please don’t let it be too bad.

“You know I hate to see your smile waver, my love,” Killian said, his voice a low and rumble as he pulled her into him. Emma sighed, cozying up next to him, loving how he always knew what she was thinking and how he always, without fail, sought to raise her spirits. “What’s on your mind.”

“It’s nothing,” she said automatically, looking up at him and shaking her head. “Okay it’s not nothing, but since I don’t know what it is, and we’re still on honeymoon, there’s no use talking about it.”

“Emma,” Killian urged, only saying her name but relaying his feelings very clearly. He wanted to hear her thoughts, to help her hold her burdens. Always.

“Okay it’s just, did you notice at the wedding. Elsa and Anna and Ruby got a little cagey at the end there.” Killian stiffened and immediately Emma knew he did notice and that not only that, he knew more than her. Damn it! How did he always manage to know everything? “You did notice. Do you know what happened?”

“No,” Killian said honestly, “But that’s because I purposefully avoided asking. If it was truly serious, Liam would tell me, just as Elsa or Anna would tell you.”

“But what if they actually need help, but they just didn’t ask because they don’t want to interfere?”

“I may not have known your friends very long, Emma, but I can assure my cousin is not the kind of person to stand on ceremony.” Killian’s summary of Ruby’s predisposition made Emma smile despite herself. “If we were needed, Ruby would let us know through a text or a call, hell a damn carrier pigeon. She’d let nothing interfere with delivering the message.”

“You’re right,” Emma agreed, nodding her head, but still unconvinced. “I know you’re right… it’s just…”

“It’s just that you specialize in caring for others,” Killian said, running his thumb along her bottom lip as he smiled at her warmly. Before she could respond, he stole a kiss laced with purposeful distraction, and despite how intertwined they’d been for days, Emma still got caught up as ever. By the time he’d pulled back she was clinging to him, her head a little foggy from the want to be close. “I love you for a million different reasons, Emma, but your earnest heart is among the most prominent.”

“You always know just what to say,” she said, letting go of some more of the worry.

“I always speak from my heart,” he promised. “And I know what we said before love, the promises you made me, about taking the sidelines.”

Emma nodded, averting her gaze to his chest as she trailed a delicate line against his skin. She had made that promise, and she wouldn’t go against it, but it still didn’t sit well with her. She didn’t feel good removing herself completely, but she also would not put Killian through more pain and fear.

“I was hasty in that request,” he said and now her eyes shot back to him. He was what? Really? She was so shocked that he said this. She never expected it, even when he explained. “My sentiments are exactly the same, love. I cannot lose you. Not now, not ever. But locking you into a promise where you feel you must choose between my wishes and your family… that was never my intention.”

“I didn’t feel that way,” she said, and she hadn’t. It wasn’t pressure. She totally understood his feelings after her very near miss in the confrontation against George. With her, and their baby on the way, he had every reason to worry.

“I know, love,” he said, running his hand along her face tenderly. “You’re predisposed to think the best of me. I just need to try and be a man worth putting such faith in.”

“Do you think I ever would have married you without you already being enough?” she asked and he shook his head and smiled, a boyish grin, filled with wonder. Just the mention of their being married seemed to lighten him up, and it made Emma’s heart flutter to see that happy pride. Then he took her hand in his and kissed the top, then the side, then the palm. Each brush of his lips was delicate and dear. Like he could never get enough of her, no matter how hard he tried.

“I simply meant that I’ve thought on all of this and come to realize I cannot hold you to that  promise. When we get back, we’ll hear them out and whenever the next phase comes we’ll face it together. We’ve been a team since the start, and we’ll be one now and always. All I ask is that for these last few days we stay grounded here, together, just you and me.”

Emma’s eyes misted over with happy tears, for about the billionth time since she’d found Killian and given him her heart. This man was so effortlessly right for her, and while he was getting better at seeing himself through her eyes, he still didn’t realize just how good he was. She knew though, and she felt so damn lucky to have him. She was too choked up to really speak, so instead she nodded, whispered that she loved him and pulled him in for another kiss, falling back into her favorite person once again.

Over the next few days they managed to make good on that new choice. They savored every last moment of their honeymoon, and even on the night when they came back home to Storybrooke, they did so shroud in a resilient quiet. Their world was calm and unassuming. There was no congregation of their loved ones, no celebrations still in store, just peace and space and a last little taste of freedom. In that blissful, fleeting window, they shared as much as they could, the passion between them burning as bright as it had in the forest, and every day before then. But when the night was over, and sleep came calling, Emma knew that tomorrow things would change. For soon they’d be back in the thick of things, finding out the truth and diving once more into something they didn’t yet know, but they had no choice but to conquer.

…………

Stirring awake in the morning, Emma felt the warmth of Killian in her bed and she knew the dawn had only just broken. The day was still so new, the hour still too early, even for her mate to be awake yet. She stretched her limbs and debated curling up into him. She should go back to sleep or savor the moment, but despite her wish to do so, she felt a gentle tug from deep within her chest. At first she ignored it, content to linger here, but soon the feeling grew too dominant. She sat up, careful not to rouse Killian, and looking down at his still sleeping form. He was so peaceful in this moment and she smiled at the sight, but the tightness continued. It felt like a string was pulling at her and she didn’t know why. Then she heard the voice, soft, but familiar. It said only one word.

Emma.

Looking around, she saw no one, and knew it must be in her head but the light in her room changed. The dawn’s crisp colors blended with a burst of silver and gold. It was subtle, but she recognized it. Magic. Here in her home, calling to her.

Without thinking she got up, intent on following the pull. She looked to Killian once more, and thought about waking him, but she didn’t want to disturb him. Instead she moved out the back door and into the land behind their home. The details from there were hazy, she wandered to places unknown, even in the midst of the one place she’d ever called home. She couldn’t tell how long she was out there, but soon the paths she’d often tread were not enough. Instinct drew her away, past a thicket and into a dip in the glen she’d never seen. Large rocks stood there that she couldn’t quite remember but felt she’d seen before, and still the string pulled tighter. She saw then the small passage in the formation, wide enough for someone to go through. She hesitated for the first time, wondering if it was right to go this far. Again the voice spoke.

Have faith, Emma, and remember. Remember to forget.

Remember to forget? She didn’t know what it meant, but she walked through the rocks the darkness creeping in, but just as it felt like she was blinded by it, light came from further in that she didn’t expect she followed it, slowly but surely finding her way, and on the other side of it all she gasped, her breath stolen by the sight before her.

Toto, I don’t think we’re in Storybrooke anymore.

The thought was mired in a joke, but it did nothing to dull what Emma saw before her. A place out of time surrounded on all sides by rocks. It felt like something out of a storybook, both ancient and too beautiful to be real. Emma wanted to take it all in, to linger here, but the string drew taut again and beckoned her to a willow tree across the way. The willow was big and tall, brimming with life as its leaves whistled with the wind. It sat at an embankment, a body of water that went all the way back to the far rock wall, and then perhaps beyond. She couldn’t see beneath the surface, she only felt the call of the water and the tree.

The swirls within the pool were reminiscent of a turquoise sea, like Caribbean waters, land bound in this hidden, special place. Looking inside, she couldn’t tell how deep the water ran. The bottom appeared to be crystalline, with some kind of precious, aqua colored stone sticking up towards the sky but never breaking the surface. At the same time every current swirled and swished in a visible way. The water seemed to pulsate and the light reflected from it and retained a shimmering glow, reminding her of magic.

Were these the kinds of springs of old that witches spoke of? The ones where magic used to live?

The call of the water was strong and sure, and Emma longed to draw nearer to it. The closer she got the sweeter the sound. It was a song, she realized, gentle and soothing and like nothing she had ever heard. Only after a moment did she understand what it was, a version of her wedding song to Killian, enchanted in some way. It flooded her senses before she’d even touched the water, and then she heard a sound intermingled in the chimes of the melody. The laughter of her friends, swelling and light. The water shimmered, a vision came. Everyone was happy and everyone was whole. Was it the past or was it the future? She wanted to know, but as soon as it came it melted away. This time another image. Children running in a field, so many children, none she knew but still familiar. Her hand came to the swell of her stomach, a premonition. A sign of hope and then she reached for the water, wanting to touch.

“Emma,” a voice called, but this one she knew. It was Killian.

She froze and as she did, she watched the water begin to swirl and her own reflection twisted away. As she hovered there, she watched the water change. The aquamarine went from the healthy warming color to something frosted over, icy and colder and sharp. The music was gone, and her heart skipped. She was gripped by the fledgling force of fear, anticipation washing over her. Another image danced below the surface of the pool, and she swore she saw her friends, Anna and Elsa and Ruby, but she couldn’t be sure. The water was clouded and the music from before sounded less like a melody and more like a plea. The only problem was she couldn’t understand it. The only thing she knew was that time was running out she had to fix this she had to –

“Emma!”

Opening her eyes, Emma’s first sight was her husband’s face filled with worry and concern. Instinctively she rose, holding onto him and letting him wrap her up in his embrace. The relief she sensed from him was huge, and she didn’t understand. When she pulled back from him and cupped his face, feeling the scruff of his honeymoon beard, which was longer than the norm, she tried to make it out, but something danced at the corner of her eyes. She looked over and gasped.

“Magic,” she whispered, knowing nothing else could explain what had happened in their room. The ivory color of their walls was now offset with silver and gold and tinted color remnant of light from a thousand prisms. All of this color was in the air around them. It was some kind of substance suspended in time, and the particles looked like dew handing in the air. The ivy vines from outside had crawled into the window, curling around all of their things winding around the dressers and the bedposts. And though it was shocking, it was one of the most beautiful things Emma had ever seen. “But why?”

“The baby,” he whispered, putting his hand where their child was still so small, and Emma covered his without so much as looking down. When they did, everything changed. The particles radiated out, slamming into the walls and leaving a trace, a blend of color and design no human brush could ever make. The vines too changed, and what were once green leaves became metallic kinds of etching in wooden structures themselves. All of it was there and then gone, but it wasn’t gone, and no matter how many times she blinked, the traces still remained.

“It’s amazing,” Killian said, and Emma nodded.

“She’s amazing,” Emma agreed and the two of them shared the moment of awe, letting quiet fall between them.

“You took a minute to wake up,” Killian said, his worry evident once more. “I tried and you didn’t hear me the first time.”

“I had a dream…” Emma said, trying to remember it, but finding that she couldn’t. Strange. She swore only seconds before she’d had it in her head. Why couldn’t she remember?

Remember to forget.

“What happened in it?” he asked and Emma shook her head, unable to recall.

“I don’t know.”

But as she said the words Emma knew whatever it was had been important, and she was eager to figure out what it was and what it meant. And in the meantime, she’d choose to see this unexpected moment as a sign of her daughter’s strength and everything they had to fight for. For nothing in the world could mean so much as the love of this family, and Emma would do anything and everything to see them protected, sheltered, and safe.

Post-Note: So there we have it. I know, I know, I have thrown some big what the heck moments into this early, but I just couldn’t help myself. Also, I’ve told you all this will still be a CS story but it also is a story fixated on Emma’s friends and their loved ones too. They will be back with us in the next few chapters as we try and figure out what they heck is going on. Be advised, there is a battle left ahead and a lot to come in this fic, some of which might be a little angsty, but I don’t think this small glimpse has given too much away and I promise to always circle back to the feel goof love that I cherish in my fics. Anyway, I would love to hear what you all think and hear what you expect may come in part 2 of Lost Souls and Reveries. Thank you all so much for reading, and I hope you’ll join me next time!

Taglist (pulling from all the lovely people who I was tagging for part 1, let me know if you’d like to be included or removed):  @jennjenn615, @kmomof4, @winterbaby89, @teamhook, @ultraluckycatnd, @resident-of-storybrooke, @artistic-writer, @snowbellewells, @snarkycaptainswan4, @allofdafandoms-blog

[transformersvn]

Thoughts on Transformers: War For Cybertron - Earthrise

My thoughts on this are less cohesive than last time, so I hope you're ready for a long ramble as I try to figure out exactly what I think about the series.

Tl;dr - still looks really pretty, but Siege’s weak writing hasn't improved.

Spoilers below the cut.

Earthrise generally suffers from being part 2 of 3. It's focused on getting characters from point A (Cybertron) to point B (Earth) and doesn't really do much in the meantime. You could've cut episodes 4 and 5 and it wouldn't have affected the plot all that much.

Megatron and Optimus

They need to stop having fights. It'd be best for their characters and the plot if they hadn't spent several minutes pointing guns at each other and saying that *this* time they were actually going to kill them. Just follow through already and if you can't then keep them apart until the climax.

Optimus getting distracted by Cog running up and going 'Optimus! What are you doing?!' was stupid. Cog should've been glad that Optimus was finally at the point where he wouldn't sacrifice every last Autobot to save Megatron if given the opportunity.

Them being trapped together was pointless and stupid (aside from that one screenshot we all made). Megatron's point that Optimus keeps screwing up and it's Megatron who pays the price was interesting - but it was surrounded by so much nonsense that it fell flat.

Speaking of…

Autobot Decepticon teamups

Are they trying to lean towards ending the series with mutual cooperation and peace? Their 'we all need to work together' moments were always horribly shoehorned and the Autobots didn't once try to put measures in place to defend themselves when the Decepticons inevitably betrayed them.

I like hero/villain teamups, but it doesn't work if the heroes are stupid about them.

Scorponok fight

There is a big room with a big enemy in. The Autobots have shut themselves in a corridor on one side of the room. They need to reach the other side of the room without getting killed. Whose idea was it to try and kill Scorponok instead of just evasive maneuvers to the other side of the room?!?

To be fair, Optimus did try and run distraction, but Bumblebee decided that was a stupid plan and standing still and shooting at the enemy - that none of their blasters had even scratched - was a better one.

It was a stupid fight. If they wanted a Megatron/Optimus moment so badly then, hey, the Autobots have rigged the station to blow and the Decepticons don't know that - have Megatron set off an explosion by accident and trap him and Optimus (who could've been diving forward to try and stop Megatron, thereby getting close).

The Dead Universe

You could've replaced this with Optimus getting a vision from the Matrix and Megatron having a short visit from future!Galvatron. It wasted time that could've been spent on actual character development.

Skylynx had about 3 lines that he just repeated variants of the whole episode.

Was it clear to anyone who hadn't seen the 1986 movie exactly what the Megatron/Galvatron link was? They were pretty vague about it.

Also, if Skylynx's advice made Optimus go 'hmm, yes, I should stop looking back and actually kill Megatron to prevent my own death', then Galvatron's advice to Megatron should've made him go 'I don't hate Prime this much/if he’s dedicated all his effort into stopping Prime and still failed, there must be another way'. I suppose, he didn’t kill Optimus when given a perfect opportunity, but that also just felt like an extension of their endless *points gun* “one-liner” *tables are turned* cycle.

Elita

Poor, poor, badly written Elita. She can't get anything done without Jetfire - the big strong man - questioning her or being the one to save the day, or making a desperate plan to try and fight their way out of captivity when they're going to be sacrificed, but we never see their escape attempt.

I don't think she acts like someone who is on a doomed planet. Breaking into prisons camps makes less sense than trying to find a way to fix things. Let her fail, fine, but give her a fighting chance to try and reignite Cybertron or, say, find someone who is rumoured to be able to create synthetic energon - which could've been a reason for prison breaks at least.

And it was probably meant to be read differently, but Elita's silence over her name when Megatron called her Ariel to her face, versus Optimus snarling that ‘her name is Elita-1!′ when Megatron used 'Ariel' around him, kinda makes me wonder whose decision it was to rename her.

Cog

They don't get to make me sad about a character death when that character had previously stopped Optimus from finally trying to kill Megatron and also failed to just bloody shoot Deeceus. And had he really taken the enemy ship? Really?

Misc

We never found out why the station was trapped halfway through the Spacebridge.

Optimus's voice actor still sounds like a bad Batman when he's angry, though he might've gotten away with it if Megatron's voice actor didn't have such a good "Prime" snarl.

Everyone is miserable, which isn't necessarily a bad thing in a series about the struggles of war, but when it's aimed at kids you have to ask the question: are they enjoying it? It is fun to watch?

Ultra Magnus's head was sort of flagged up as important - specifically its location was noted by Elita - but never appeared again once Megatron left Cybertron. Did he take it with him?

For having such a hard-on for the 1986 movie, their decision to have Megatron beg for mercy (something quite out of character for this version of Megatron) and not include Optimus's 'you who are without mercy now plead for it?' line was a weird whiplashy moment.

Showing Glavatron and Unicron in the trailer when they literally appear for one episode and five second respectively was seriously false advertising. When did people forget that watching a trailer is supposed to give you an idea of the type/style of plot the media is supposed to deliver?

The editing is bad in several places. There were often moments where there would be an explosion in place A, then it'd cut to a battered character in place B getting up in a ruined room, making it look like they'd been in said explosion. Confusing in a series where palette-swapping and similar character designs already make it difficult for newcomers to tell what's going on.

The velociraptor-bot at the end looked like 90's CGI and I really hope Kingdom doesn't all look like that.

If Hot Rod doesn't show up and get the Matrix in Kingdom I'm going to be severely disappointed.

Starscream really likes speechifying to a tiny audience. He makes his bid to become leader in front of a nameless Decepticon, Soundwave, Ravage, and an injured Megatron - who promptly shoots him. I have to admit that he’s probably the character they did best by, his coup moments were pretty good and captured Starscream as we all know him.

Like the question of what exactly was under siege in Siege, Earthrise only gets to Earth at the end of the last episode.

Wheeljack felt weirdly useless. He didn’t get to go through with his plan of blowing up the station and couldn’t open a pair of blast doors that Soundwave had 0 problems with. After not being the one to fix the Spacebridge in Siege, he’s not feeling much like an engineer.

You had to guess motivations and plans and fairly often piece things together backwards after the fact. Having an idea of who everyone was made that easier for me than for non-fans, but I still ended up running on incorrect assumptions about what people were going to do and why.

...

So, there you go. I guess I’m still going to watch Kingdom when it comes out, but I think I’ve lost all my optimism for it being any good.