#he was limping as he skated across the ice to the locker room

[icedbatik]

[nerdraging4point0]

Power Play// Chapter Six // Hockeyplayer!Noah AU

Tropes and tags: RPF:AU hockey player romance, angsty romance, hidden relationship, forbidden relationship, smutty, MF, multiple POV. 

Content Warning: angsty romance, hockey player shenanigans, locker room talk, smutty, aggressive hockey players, PinV, MF relationship, possessive male, protective male.

This work below is fictionalized ideas and stories involving real people but does not directly reflect their thoughts, feelings, or behaviors. Please keep in mind that this is a work of fiction.

Taglist(click to be added): @ladyveronikawrites @poisongirl616 @shilohrosechicken @th0ughts-pr4yers @meliferafaerie @curse-bearing-hips @letmeadoreyoux @transparentwitchnightmare @darling-millicent-aubrey @moranastray @cookiesupplier @concreteemo @collective-heartbreak @littlefoxkota @somebodyels3 @thisbicc @jakeygvf21

Imporant Message: Going forward. If you guys still want to be tagged please fill out the taglist form above. Thanks!

@mountains-to-move @sundamariis @caitcoreeeee @crimson-calligraphyx @starsomens @artificialbreezy @lma1986 @iknownothingpeople @lilrubles @missduffsblog @jessicafg03 @thatchickwiththecamera @mysticdoodlez @chels3a-smile @sinkingteethinwhitenoise @deathblacksmoke @roley-poley-foley @ravieisunhinged @dethronetheveil @to-be-written @somewhere-diamond @sacredthefran @cncohshit @flowery-mess @graveatspeople @cncohshit @nerdywitch20 @srorgana1 @malerieee @bloody-delusion-expert @sammyjoeee @deathofpeaceofmiiind @hayleylatour @deadboltsblog @broken0mens

We watch with bated breath as Noah crumples to his hands and knees on the icy rink, his body curling in on itself as he writhes in pain. The crowd falls into a hushed silence and the other players come to a standstill, their sticks and skates frozen in place as all eyes focus on the fallen player. I feel my body tense, ready to hurdle over the wall and rush to Noah's aid, but a stern glance from my father and Jack roots me in place. I know I must wait, though every fiber of my being strains to run to him. 

Noah's back arches, his face twisted into a grimace beneath his helmet. Then, mustering his strength, he begins to push himself up, first to one knee, then steadily to both feet as a cheer erupts from the stands. The crowd claps and shouts encouragement as Noah skates in a shaky loop, waving to let everyone know he's alright, though one arm hangs limp at his side. His teammate Anthony takes his place on the ice, and the game resumes its frenetic pace as Noah makes his way off the rink. I grab my medical bag and follow close behind, knowing his pride has taken a bigger blow than his body. 

“Don’t need your help.” Was all he said as we pushed through the locker room doors. Noah's gruff demeanor was apparent as he grumbled angrily and tossed his hockey stick across the locker room in frustration. Ripping at the gloves on his hands, he started aggressively tearing off his helmet as well, desperate to rid himself of his equipment. 

When I tried to explain that protocol mandated he undergo a medical exam after such a dangerous collision, he sneered sarcastically back at me, "No, I thought it was a love tap." 

Whipping the sweat-soaked jersey off his muscular torso, he slammed it angrily into his locker space and began roughly yanking off his bulky pads. I closed the space between us and tried to help relieve him of the cumbersome protective gear weighing down his shoulders. But he brusquely pushed my hands away with his elbow, bucking his arm up in defiance. 

"No need to be a dick, Sebastian," I admonished sharply. When he continued resisting, I put my foot down, "Knock it off, Noah. You're benched." 

He turned on his heel, pads and jersey gone, tattooed sweaty torso out on display his pecs rising and falling with each breath. I felt myself swallow down the lump in my throat, trying to look anywhere but him. 

"You can't bench me, you're just a nurse," he sneered looking down at me with a power I'd never seen before.

"No, but I can strongly recommend," I tried to keep my voice steady, no stammering, not now. I knew if I showed any weakness, he would pounce. 

"Oh that's right, you got daddy to run too," he jarred his lip curling at the words, and suddenly I felt like an arrow had been shot right through my chest. "You gonna tell him about us, maybe he will have me benched for the season."

"Don't you put that on me, Sebastian! How many teammates did you tell?" I felt the tears burn my eyes, the pressure in my face too much. I'd been burned by players before - they were all the same, with their lewd bets in the locker room that I knew all too well. Who could seduce the coach's daughter first? How many guys on the team could she be coerced into sleeping with? How much alcohol could they sneak without the coach finding out? I'd heard it all before, their objectification and scheming.

“How many more did you brag too? How many want a piece, huh?” I can see his face soften but I don’t break. The harsh words stung as they left my lips, his eyes narrowing as he took in all I was saying. I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks as I struggled to hold his piercing gaze.

I yearned to run away, to escape the sudden intensity of emotions flooding through me. I pivoted on my foot, ready to grab my bag and flee this charged encounter. But before I could, he grasped my upper arm tightly, spinning me back around to face him. In one swift motion he pulled me against his firm body, effortlessly lifting me until my legs wrapped around his waist. He carried me the few steps to the bench in front of his locker, sitting down with my legs straddling his lap. We were locked together, his strong arms keeping me from escaping as his eyes searched mine. I was cornered, forced to confront what I had been trying to avoid. The chemistry between us was undeniable, and there was no more running away. We would have to deal with the fallout of our actions, together.

“None.” I feel the warmth of his body pressed against mine as his strong arm holds me close, preventing my escape. His hand is gentle yet firm on my neck, directing my eyes to meet his intense gaze. Those deep brown eyes pierce into my very being, seeing through my facade and exposing my vulnerabilities. I feel the swell of emotions rising within me, my eyes welling with tears I desperately try to hold back. But I cannot look away from the power of his stare, stripping me bare before him. When he speaks that single word again, "None," it resonates through every fiber of my being. My struggles cease as I surrender to his will, my body going pliant and yielding against him. His voice and touch soothe me, calming the storm inside until I am putty in his hands.

"You're my little fox," he purrs forehead pressed to mine as the hold at the back of my neck releases. My hands rest on his biceps before they are sliding up his shoulders to cup his face. We stare into each other's eyes, lost in our own world. I can feel his warm breath on my face as his hands tenderly caress my cheeks. 

Despite the tender moment we just shared, I can feel the adrenaline rushing through me. My body is a hurricane of emotions right now, each one more intense than the last, and they all need to be released. As I lean back in Sebastian's lap, desire takes over and I start to eagerly pull and tug at the waistband of his pants, desperate to feel his skin against mine. "My skates are still on," he argues half-heartedly as I frantically try to undress him, my hands fumbling in my haste. But his skates are the furthest thing from my mind in this heated moment.

 "It's not your feet I need Sebastian," I whisper, my voice husky with desire. Slowly, he stands, lifting me effortlessly before setting me back on my feet. Our clothes seem to melt away as we shed the barriers between us - his pants and pads bunching just below his knees as he reclines on the bench, thighs splayed invitingly. I straddle his lap, skin against skin, relishing the heat radiating from his muscular form. Our breaths mingle as I reach between us, fingers curling around his impressive length to guide him to my slick entrance. Ever so slowly, I sink down, enveloping him in my warmth as I throw my head back in ecstasy. He fills me completely, stretching me in the most delicious way. I begin to move, undulating my hips as I ride him unhurriedly, savoring each glorious sensation. His strong hands grasp my waist, guiding my movements as our passion builds. I lean forward, capturing his lips in a searing kiss, our tongues dancing as our bodies join in perfect harmony.

“We’re gonna get caught,” he pants, open mouth breathing hot air on my neck as I move up and down on his lap. 

“Then we better make it quick, huh?”

–

I barely have my clothes back on and take a quick look at Noah’s beat up shoulder before the team doc comes in looking for him. I leave just as the portable Xray machine comes in. The game finishes quick with no more injuries other than some minor cuts and scrapes. The guys are more wounded over the loss than anything that could have happened to them on the ice. After the team has retired and I turn in my bag for the night Dad catches me on my way out to the parking garage. 

“Kiddo, wait up.” He calls out to me, his voice echoing through the concrete structure. I turn to see him jogging to catch up, the sound of his dress shoes clicking on the pavement. He asks how the game went as he falls into step beside me. I give him a rundown, explaining Noah's injury and the morale following the tough loss. Dad nods along, his brow furrowed with concern. I know it’s not what he wants to talk about, but I ramble when i’m nervous. 

As I stand there nervously awaiting his reaction, memories of my teenage years come flooding back. I feel like that angsty, rebellious girl again who was always pushing boundaries with boys, staying out too late, and giving my parents gray hairs. Even though I'm an independent woman now, an instinctive sense of dread washes over me as I prepare for the worst, just like when I was 16. I shift my weight between feet, focusing intently on the keys in my hand rather than making eye contact with him. I know realistically that the worst he can do now is lecture me, but it doesn't make this confrontation any less nerve-wracking. The power dynamic has shifted over the years, but he's still my dad, and I still feel accountable to him.

"Well, listen, I know we talked about you only being here temporarily," there it was, he was letting me go, he found out and was letting me go. I had two more months before Seattle opened a position at one of their hospitals and I couldn't bear to be without a job and be living with dad after all this embarrassment. My mind was racing with anxiety as I imagined the shame of having to move back home after working so hard to build an independent life. I almost started to blab excuses and defend myself, but instead bit my lip to hold back the torrent of nervous words.

"Yeah," I said as nonchalantly as I could, turning to walk towards my car, bracing for the dismissal I felt sure was coming. But then he threw an arm over my shoulders, following me in perfect sync.

"Well, see, Jack and I think you are doing such a great job and it's not like it isn't a real position," he continued, and I felt a wave of relief wash over me as I realized he wasn't firing me after all. In fact, it sounded like he wanted me to stay on permanently. But did I want to be permanent? 

"Dad, what are you saying?" I make it to my red Corolla and turn to face him. I can see the crows feet around his eyes, the sagging of his cheeks, the grey in his hair and goatee. He looks so much older now. As I take in the aging features of his face, I'm reminded of how quickly time passes. It seems like just yesterday he was young and virile, playing catch with me in the backyard. Now here he stands, worn down by decades of hard work and stress, asking me to take on a new responsibility.

“How do you feel about being our permanent team nurse?”

I knew this question was coming, but still the words hit me with a shock. My mind races as I contemplate my options. This job would require me to move back home permanently, leaving behind the independence I've grown accustomed to. Though part of me wants to cling to my freedom, I know deep down that my rightful place is here, helping him just as he spent so many years helping me.

“Listen, take a few days to think it over, we will be heading away for a few games and that will give you some freedom.” Dad's calloused hands gently cup my face as he gazes at me with his deep blue eyes, creased with fine lines that tell the story of years on the ice. His voice is gruff but warm, the tenderness shining through despite the directness of his words. His whiskered kiss atop my head is one of faith in me, belief I will find my way. As he walks away, I feel the weight of this decision settle upon me.

[turcott3]

you make loving you easy

kirby dach x fem!reader

warnings: one curse word, fluff

masterlist

-

watching kirby crash into the bench before leaving to the locker room limping was the last thing i wanted to see. immediately, i stand up out of my seat, gather my belongings and rush up the stairs to the exit, knowing i can’t go down to the locker room during the game, trying to remain calm at the fact i can’t be at his side right now

y/n: i’m headed out to my car ik i can’t go down there rn, please call me when you’re showered and dressed so i can take you home.

i didn’t expect nor need a response because he was coming home with me regardless. i finally reach my car, frantically unlocking the door as i feel the tears well up in my eyes. what if it’s bad? what if he changes because he can’t play? what if he pushes me away? these questions and more constantly swirling through my head until it finally all came flooding out. a few moments later my phone starts buzzing in my pocket, panicking and scramble to pull it out and answer seeing kirby’s name across the screen.

“he-hello?”

“y/n?”

“yes hi kirby.”

“if you want to come down here please do. i can’t leave until the game is over and i asked them to let you down here.”

“ok im on my way.” not even thinking to wipe my tears on the way back down to the locker room, as if they stopped. i walk through the door to see kirby on a sports medicine table with his leg out straight in front of him.

“kirby.” i say, starting to cry more as i get closer.

“oh baby, why are you crying?” he giggles, hugging me tightly.

“i’m just worried about you.” i say pulling away. he brings his hand to my cheeks and wipes my tears with his thumbs, smiling at me.

“y/n i’m going to be ok, i know i will.” he says placing both of his hands on my cheeks and kissing the tip of my nose.

“how can you be sure?”

“i can’t be sure about my knee, but as long as i’m with you i’m always ok.” he replies and i smile warmly at him. kirby always had a way of making my heart flutter and my stomach fill with butterflies, even in such a terrible unknown situation.

~~

it’s been about two weeks since kirby’s last game. the trainer has yet to clear him to play and i’ve never seen him so unrestful.

“i feel fine i just wanna play.” kirby stresses again.

“i know honey, i know.” i cooed in his ear while i stroke the hair on the back of his head gently. the last two weeks have been rough on him. his positivity quickly vanished in a few short days. he’s been unmotivated and is so beyond eager to get back on the ice.

“i’m just gonna show up at this point.”

“baby you know you can’t.”

“well it’s worth a shot. what else am i supposed to do?” he says as i see his eyes fill with tears for the first time in these two weeks.

“no kirby don’t cry.” i say sitting up on my knees, cradling his head to my chest allowing him to let his tears fall. i’d never seen him in such a fragile state and it broke my heart.

“why did this have to happen to me?” he squeaks out quietly.

“it shouldn’t have and i feel horrible that i can’t do anything to help you.” i reply.

“i can skate i know i can. i need them to let me.”

“they are obviously going to play it safe kirbs. they don’t want to put one of their best players at risk. you are so valuable. they need you to be one hundred percent. even if you feel like you are, you may not be there yet. and plus you get to spend time with me.” i say trying to crack him.

“you’re right it just sucks not being with the guys and playing with them. like of course i love spending time with you, i could spend every waking moment of my life with you but i do miss being around them and fucking around in practice you know?” he replies placing a hand on the arm wrapped under his chin.

“i understand how you’re feeling and your feelings are perfectly valid my love. i love you kirby, so much.”

“i love you y/n.” he replies as we lay back and he stays cuddled to my chest as i twist his hair gently in between my fingers. loving kirby was the easiest task god could’ve ever given me. i’ve never met someone who loves so deeply.

“hey baby?”

“yes kirby?”

“what’s for dinner?” i hear him laugh and i slap him on the back.

“we’re having a moment kirby give me two seconds of this moment and then we’ll talk about dinner ok?” i laugh.

“i mean i was hoping you would say you were dinner but i mean that works too i guess.” he giggles as i roll my eyes.

“you’re lucky i love you kirby.”

“and i couldn’t be more honored.” he smiles, grabbing my chin, pulling me into a gentle kiss.

…..ok maybe i am for dinner tonight.

[lovemeleo]

What about Logan not being able to skate well at practice because him and his boys did the ole dazzle dazzle right before practice because Logan liked begged for it.

Aka Logan getting chirped to hell because he had sexy time before practice and can’t skate well

omg Ach, I cannot tell you how hard I wheezed at “the ole razzle dazzle,” love that so much! Hope you enjoy this lil blurb of the aftermath of the razzle dazzle. 

O’Knutzy and the SW world belongs to @lumosinlove!

cw: talk of sexual content and a couple innuendos

***

It was a bad idea. Probably one of their worst ones to date. And to be completely honest, they’ve had a lot of bad ideas. This one though. This took the cake.

“Lo, babe. You’ve gotta get up.” Finn murmured, running his hand over the blanket where Logan was hiding. The only answer he received was a groan from the lump in the bed. “We’ve got practice in less than an hour and you know if you don’t eat something, you’re gonna be miserable on the ice.”

A hand came from under the blankets, pushing Finn’s face away, “Fuck you and fuck off.” Logan muttered, his voice raspy,

Finn laughed, yanking the blankets off of the shorter man, “If I recall correctly, I was doing the fucking. Or one of the people doing the fucking.” Logan hid his face in the pillow, letting out a groan.

“Why are you like this?” He muttered, sitting up slowly before he flopped right back over. “Oh mon Dieu. We’ve made a mistake… We have made a grave mistake.”

Another voice came from the doorway as Logan tried to move back under the covers, “What’s going on?” Leo asked, leaning on the doorframe. He was already dressed, of course, sipping from his cup as he watched the two of his boyfriends.

Logan sat up carefully, his face scrunched up in a wince, “We are never fucking before practice again. Ever.”

A smirk passed over Leo’s face, but he hid it quickly behind his cup, “It was your idea, mon chou. I told you we had early practice.” And he had, but that wasn’t helping Logan right now. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. His boyfriends’ had teased him for almost an hour, how did they expect him to make any good decisions?

Logan carefully pushed himself out of bed, wobbling a bit as the soreness from his ass and hips fully settled in, “Well, this is going to suck.”

After showering and eating breakfast, the three were heading to the rink. Logan had sprawled across the backseat, still complaining.

“You both have always been a pain in my ass, but now it’s very fucking literal.”

Finn couldn’t help the laugh that erupted out of him, “Oh my god, you’re an idiot.” He said, glancing back at him through the rearview mirror as they pulled into the rink parking lot. The three boys grabbed their bags before heading inside, though Logan was a couple of steps behind as they made their way into the locker room.

“Morning, boys,” Sirius said with a grin, pulling his practice jersey over his head. Leo and Finn shouted their greetings, as Logan carefully made his way to his stall. He should’ve known as soon as he showed the slightest sign of a limp, Loops was going to be on him. Fucking PT senses.

Remus’ eyebrows furrowed, watching Logan move around the locker room from where he was stretching on the floor, “Tremz, you good? You didn’t hurt yourself at practice yesterday, did you?”

The tips of Logan’s ears turned bright red as he turned to face his stall, hiding the mortified look on his face, “N-non, Loops. Je vais bien. Just slept wrong, feeling a bit stiff.” He muttered, waiting for the floor to swallow him up because oh my god.

“I’m sure Hestia would be willing to help you stretch out if it’s that bad,” Remus continued, oblivious to the fact that Leo and Finn were trying to hide their wheezing laughter. Those assholes. This was their fault.

Logan cut him off before he could continue, “No! I mean.. I’m good, Loops. Promise.”

Just as Remus was about to say something else, Cap rested a hand on his shoulder, “Mon loup, he doesn’t need a PT.” He said, a smirk spreading on his face as his eyes flickered between Logan and his two boyfriends, who were practically in tears at this point. Bastards.

Remus, bless him, looked up at his boyfriend, confused before it clicked. He fell back on the floor, letting out a loud laugh, “Oh my god, Tremz, you’re a fucking idiot.”

Tying off his skates, Talker stood up with a grin, “Right before practice and everything? C’mon, Tremzy.” The room was filled with chirping and laughter as Logan couldn’t hold back his own laughter, hiding his face in his hands.

“It seemed like a good idea at the time!” Logan laughed, his cheeks still flushed as he leaned back in his stall.

Jackson smirked, his arms crossed on his chest, “Yeah, it always does until you’re trying to stand the next morning and it feels like you’ve been run over by a truck.” 

“Exactly! Like multiple trucks.” Logan said as he started getting his skates on.

Leo glanced over at Finn, feigning surprise, “I didn’t realize you were a truck?”

Of course, he said this just as Finn was taking a drink of his water which ended up, splattering on the floor as he burst out laughing, “Ah, fuck. I thought I was more of a jeep, but I guess.”

Logan rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t help the fond smile that appeared on his face. They were idiots. But they were his idiots.

[halfabreath]

27 for holsom please? (also i love your writing!!!)

cuddling prompts | first cuddle | read it on ao3!

it only took me a literal goddamn year but here it is!! this takes place in the same verse as Novis Intiis, the trans!Ransom fic I wrote for Ransom Week. 

tw: bullying, homophobia (no slurs), canon-typical hockey violence (no blood)

Ransom’s not sure exactly how a heterosexual, cisgender white American man with an encyclopedic knowledge of Golden Girls who sings show tunes in the communal shower after practice became his friend, but by November it’s become abundantly clear that Holster is the best friend he’s ever had. They spend more time together than apart, clean up pucks after every practice, sign up for the same core curriculum classes for the spring semester (they’re going to take a geology class called Hot Rocks, how the fuck is is this Ransom’s life?), and have a one hundred and twenty three day long streak on Snapchat.

They’re RansomandHolster. It’s become second nature to automatically look for two open seats on the bus or volunteer Holster for the same frog chore before a kegster. Holster’s his best friend.

(Ransom’s never had a best friend. He’s had close friends, he’s been a part of friend groups, had teammates, but he’s never had something like this. He’s also never been someone’s best friend and sometimes he can’t believe that Holster chose him, with his superstitions and syringes and episodes that are Definitely Not Panic Attacks because Ransom really cannot fucking deal with anxiety on top of everything else.)

But Holster did choose him, and Holster is his best friend and his defense partner, so when they’re warming up before a game and Holster sends him a sloppy pass that misses Ransom by a good meter and a half Ransom immediately knows something is wrong. His stomach sinks as he banks and tracks Holster down, weaving between his teammates with ease. Jack levels him with a glare - he has routines and his expects others to adhere to them - but Ransom shakes it off as he makes his way to the bench, where Holster is staring down at the water bottles. His hand is curled so tightly around his stick that Ransom can see his glove trembling.

“Holster,” Ransom says, letting his momentum carry him to Holster’s side. His friend jerks, knocking a water bottle off the boards and onto the ice, and by the time Ransom’s bent down to pick it up Holster has his helmet tucked under his arm and his scrubbing his hand over his face. He shakes his head once, twice, and then his gaze settles on his skates.

“Hey,” Ransom says softly, flicking the tip of his stick against Holster’s shin pad. Holster’s gaze jerks up and the moment their eyes meet Ransom’s stomach twists with worry. He doesn’t know what’s wrong, but he can see it clear as day in the tightness of Holster’s brow and the set of his jaw. “I’ve got your back, Holtzy,” he murmurs.

Holster holds his gaze for a long moment, searching his face before he nods, mouth set in a grim line. He puts his helmet back on, securing the chin strap and shield, and Ransom shifts his weight so he glides close enough to press their shoulders together. Holster takes a deep breath, holds it, and when he releases it Ransom can see some of the tension drain away.

“Yeah,” Holster breathes. He leans towards Ransom, pressing more weight against him. Ransom doesn’t have to ask what caused Holster’s reaction; he’ll let him know when he’s ready. “Yeah, I know you do.” Ransom smiles, gets a crooked half-grimace in return, and he figures that’s good enough for now. They have a long night ahead of them.

Oddly enough, the game is, for the most part, unremarkable. Sure, it’s fast paced and physical, especially the right winger, #37, who slams into Holster just a few seconds after they take the ice and again during their second shift, and now that Ransom’s thinking about it #37 (who has WILLIAMS written across his shoulders in bright white letters) always charges straight towards Holster but two hits isn’t enough to prove a hypothesis so Ransom hangs back and watches. Waits. Hits back when he can, because someone has to. Sooner or later Williams will land a hit just as hard on someone else, right?

Wrong.

Ransom spends the full sixty minutes by Holster’s side. They’re on the fourth line - Ransom suspects they’ll move up to third by next semester (they might be freshmen, but they’re good) so he has a front row seat. He sees it all: every glare, every cross check that the refs seem to miss, every slash and comment murmured in Holster’s ear.

He sees Holster take it without retaliation, and that’s the most surprising part of all. Holster’s a physical player, an emotional player, a player who happens to have the size to inflict the havoc he likes to wreak. But now, he’s taking checks and slashes and isn’t doing anything about it.

Worst of all, no one but Ransom seems to notice.

Ransom doesn’t get a chance to talk to him about it in the first intermission. The game is tied 1-1 and the entire locker room is buzzing as they talk through plays and strategies. He doesn’t even try to broach the topic on the bench but the next time he’s on the ice he does managed to pin Williams behind the net while Holster digs the puck out from beneath their skates and to pass it to Shitty who tips it up to Jack who, of course, scoops it up and sends it flying past the goalie’s glove.

That makes Holster smile, for real this time, and it lingers around the corner of his mouth through the second intermission. The knotted tension in Ransom’s chest goes lax; he must have over analyzed the whole thing. Hockey’s a physical sport and Holster’s just playing the game.

The third period proves that hypothesis to be horribly false.

It’s twenty minutes of gridlock, of falling back into their own zone to defend shot after shot after shot. Johnson is brilliant, flinging pucks away right and left, but they’re making him do far more work than he should. Through sheer luck their shifts don’t overlap with Williams’ for the bulk of the period, but after Ransom blocks a shot with his left thigh he’s stuck on the bench while Holster finishes out his shift. There’s under a minute left in the game, Holster’s got maybe twenty seconds left in him, and Ransom’s just beginning to think they’ll make it out of this with just a bruised thigh and false hypothesis when Williams jumps over the boards and heads straight for Holster, who’s dangling the puck up to the blue line for a final push. Holster snaps the pass forward to someone - Mossy or Smithy, Ransom doesn’t even notice - but Williams slams into him nevertheless, momentum or malice forcing his entire body weight against Holster, who collides against the boards with a sickening thud. The sound echoes through the rink as Holster crumples and Williams skates off, unscathed, and just when Ransom thinks the ref is finally going to make a fucking call Holster straightens up and limp-skates his way towards the bench the second he has an opening.

It feels like it takes hours for Holster to make it back to the bench. Ransom can feel his heartbeat thundering through his chest, a dull roar in his ears that drowns out the clacking and scraping on the ice and the cheers of the crowd, echos reverberating through the pain in his thigh. Holster is breathing hard, face twisted in pain, as he all but collapses on the bench next to Ransom. Ransom turns, about to call over one of the coaches, when Holster grabs his arm. He shakes his head, just once, and Ransom settles for wrapping an arm around him to support more of his weight as he winces through catching his breath.

Ransom swears he can feel an ache in his side to mirror the pain he knows Holster is feeling. It feels right to ache with him. Holster might be in pain, but he doesn’t ever have to be alone.

The clock ticks down; they win. Watching Holster limp back to the dressing room, head bowed and shoulders drooping, it doesn’t feel like a victory.

Coach Hall, at least, saw the hit and has Holster’s ribs checked before he showers. The bruise is already starting to form, Ransom sees it through the steam and mess of celebrating bodies, but Holster doesn’t say anything even as the team debriefs and piles onto the bus for the short ride to the hotel Lardo booked for them. Lardo hands them their key as they step off the bus. She raises an eyebrow, Holster ducks his head. She catches Ransom’s eye, he nods to show her he’s on top of it. She tilts her head, considering.

“I’ll leave ice outside your door,” is all she says, and Ransom has never loved her more.

Ransom’s first in the room and he tosses his stuff on the bed closest to the door, leaving the bed by the window open (he always chooses this bed because on the morning after their first roadie he’d watched Holster wake to a ray of sun instead of the alarm on his phone and Holster had smiled, actually smiled, into his pillow before rolling over with a soft grumble. It’s better than the alarm, you know? More soothing, or some shit. Holster said later on the bus, and he does so much to make Ransom feel comfortable every day that Ransom’s happy to give him some small thing in return) Holster shuffles in behind him, exhaustion radiating from every slowed movement, and sets his bag at the foot of his bed. He looks down at the remote but doesn’t reach for it. Ransom picks it up and quickly finds a football game. Not the Bills, because they’ll just lose and that will make Holster sad, and not the Patriots, because they might win and that’ll make Holster angry, but replays of the Bengals/Ravens game seem like a safe choice.

Now it’s time to wait. Ransom’s not going to force Holster to say anything he doesn’t want to say. He unpacks slowly, lingering in the room in case Holster wants to talk. He leaves the bathroom door open as he gets ready for bed in so he’ll hear Holster if he speaks. He plugs his phone in by the small desk in the corner, just so he won’t look through it and accidentally make Holster think he doesn’t have time for him.

When he finishes his routine Holster shuffles into the bathroom to brush his teeth and when he exits he’s just wearing the soft flannel pajama pants he brings on every roadie. Ransom’s sitting on his bed, back pressed against the headboard as he massages lotion over the twin scars that stretch over his chest. He doesn’t like doing it in the dressing room - showering and changing with the guys is oddly more comfortable for him than this, he’s not exactly sure why - but doing it around Holster has never made him anxious. Holster pays him no mind as he weaves around the tightly clustered furniture.

That’s weird, too. Usually he makes some comment (Lookin’ symmetrical as fuck, bro!) or asks a question (Wait, so are those your original nips or is there like a nipple donor somewhere out there - stop laughing, Grey’s Anatomy hasn’t covered this yet!) but today he heads straight for his bag and digs through it, clearly searching for something. Ransom can see his frustration building in his back muscles, in his annoyed huffs, in the way he tosses the contents of his bag over his bed instead of stacking them in his usual haphazard organization system.

“What are you looking for?” Ransom asks, keeping his voice light. Holster sighs, settles his hands on his hips, and stares down at the mess he’s made.

“My sweatshirt,” he says, and sounds so defeated over an article of clothing that it would be funny if it wasn’t so heartbreaking. The bruise on his side is already several shades darker than it was in the locker room.

Ransom quickly rubs the excess lotion on his hands over his chest and plucks his own sweatshirt out of his bag. “Here,” he says, holding it out. “You can wear mine. Yours is probably in Faber.” Or his room. Or Ransom’s room. Or the library, or the dining hall, or literally anywhere on campus because Holster might be the best friend Ransom’s ever had but he’s also kind of a mess.

“Thanks,” Holster says, voice soft as he takes the sweatshirt from Ransom’s hand and wrestles it over his head. It’s a little tighter than he usually wears but when Holster turns and Ransom sees OLURANSI stretching across his broad shoulders something warm and soft uncurls deep in Ransom’s chest. He’s not exactly sure what it means, but it feels nice and Ransom doesn’t have time to dwell on it when Holster’s still just standing between their beds, looking at the sprawl of his possessions over the blankets.

“Uh,” Holster clears his throat as a shrill whistle sounds on the tv. He glances at the screen, at his bed, at Ransom, gaze bouncing around the room, until it finally settles somewhere just over Ransom’s right ear. “Rans, can I.” He takes a halting step towards Ransom but stops suddenly and cuts himself off, shoulders bunching up with tension. “Would it be okay if, um, and you can say no, obviously, but I. Fuck. Never mind.” Holster’s stumbling over his words, face red and shoulders so tense they’re creeping up higher and higher with every stunted syllable.

“No, I will mind.” Ransom says definitively, and he can tell from the defeated expression on Holster’s face that they’re not on the same page. It’s a foreign, sickening feeling. Ransom hates it. “I mean,” He hastily corrects, pushing himself up to reach out for Holster’s hand. “I don’t mind. Whatever you - it’s okay, just. Come here.” He says as he gives Holster a gentle tug.

Holster swallows, once, and color floods his cheeks as he takes a halting step towards the bed. He’s moving slowly, tentatively, and it takes all of Ransom’s patience not to just yank him into place but he keeps his touch light, letting Holster set the pace. He settles down, careful to avoid Ransom’s bruised thigh and keep pressure off his own injury. They’ve done a lot together in the almost four months they’ve known each other, but they haven’t done this. Holster’s never tucked his face against Ransom’s neck as he lowers his body over Ransom’s legs. Ransom’s never pulled Holster close, never smoothed a hand down his back once he settled in. They’ve never sat in silence, bodies pressed together and breathing synced.

It would be nice, if Holster wasn’t so miserable.

Ransom dips his hand under the collar of the sweatshirt to press his fingers against the knots of tension gathered between Holster’s shoulder blades. He digs his fingertips into the largest one, relentless, until the knot dissipates and he can smooth his palm over the sore muscle.

“Sorry,” he murmurs into Holster’s hair, but his partner just sighs and goes limp, body weight settling over Ransom’s torso and legs. Ransom traces his fingers over his spine, travelling up until his fingertips are carding through his partner’s short hair. It’s not something best friends do, but it doesn’t feel like the wrong thing to do, either. Holster’s quiet.

(Holster is never quiet.)

Just when Holster’s even breathing and unnatural stillness has convinced Ransom that he’s fallen asleep, Holster tilts his head. His nose brushes against Ransom’s neck, just a small, light, brush, but it sends something zipping down Ransom’s spine. Ransom swallows, readjusts his grip on Holster, unable to process exactly what that was, when Holster suddenly speaks up.

“I used to play with him. Williams. In Juniors.” Holster says, words muffled against Ransom’s neck. The vibrations travel under Ransom’s skin, radiating through his body to his fingertips and toes. Holster huffs out a hollow laugh, breath fanning over Ransom’s neck. “He doesn’t like me.”

“He doesn’t?” Ransom says dryly. “I hadn’t noticed.” He tugs on Holster’s hair, lightly, just to try to make him laugh. It doesn’t work, but he can feel the curve of Holster’s lips when he smiles.

“That’s why you’re the smart one.” Holster shoots back, and it’s not funny because that makes Holster the dumb one when he’s not, but Ransom knows it’s not the time to dive into that particular insecurity so he keeps quiet. “We were friends, actually, for my first coupla’ months on the team.” His words are stringing together, accent growing thicker as he unwinds. “Then I did something really fucking stupid and he’s hated me ever since. He used to check me like that in practice, fuck with my equipment, write shit in my cubby. Stuff like that.”

The warm, fond feeling in Ransom’s chest goes icy cold.

“He used to - but you were teammates.” Even as the words leave Ransom’s mouth he knows they don’t actually mean anything. Holster’s lips brush against his neck when he opens his mouth, and Ransom just knows he’s going to say oh my god they were teammates before he even gets the first syllable out. The huff of laughter that bursts from his lips won’t ease the bottomless ache in Holster’s chest, he knows, but it’s something. He knows that ache all too well from living in Toronto, when he was the only boy on every team he ever played for. Being on a team with someone doesn’t guarantee that they’ll respect you. It doesn’t even mean they’ll like you. All it means is that you wear the same colors, and that doesn’t matter much to some people. Ransom knows that better than anyone. Still, that doesn’t make it any easier, and it doesn’t make it okay.

Holster nods against his chest, fingers curling into Ransom’s bare skin. “It was my fault. I was stupid, and he -“

“No.” Ransom says firmly. “Shit like that, it’s not your fault. They make you think it is, but it’s not, no matter what you did. Not if you fucked up during a game, or missed a practice, or even if you kissed his girlfriend or some shit.” That, for some reason, makes Holster laugh, a hollow, wounded sound Ransom never, ever wants to hear again but he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to forget.

“I kissed him,” Holster says bitterly. Ransom stares at the hotel’s popcorn ceiling and estimates the pops per square meter to keep from saying something stupid. “We were close, and I thought - I thought wrong, I’m so fucking stupid, and I told myself I wasn’t going to - I didn’t want anyone at Samwell to know.” His voice breaks and Ransom tightens his grip, holding him as he shakes through a long, trembling gasp for air. There are a million things he wants to say, all of them tripping and shoving past each other on the tip of his tongue but instead of letting them out Ransom just cards his fingers through Holster’s hair.

Across the room the air conditioner rumbles to life, groaning out a sudden burst of cool air. Holster inhales deeply, holds his breath for several seconds, and lets it out in a smooth, long exhale.

Ransom breaks the silence with a smile and quickly tugs Holster’s hair again. “So do we put the G and T in LGBT, or the B and the T? Or even the L, it’s up to you, buddy.” Ransom says, and he feels Holster’s laughter as much as he hears it. Holster weakly punches his ribs but presses his big, warm hand over the same spot directly after, and it’s so distracting Ransom almost doesn’t hear his reply.

“The B,” Holster whispers into Ransom’s collarbone. He clears his throat and opens his mouth again, but nothing comes out. He shakes his head, just a small, little thing. “I don’t think I’m cool enough to be a lesbian.”

“Oh, you’re definitely not. You have zero game. Zero.” Ransom shoots back, and that makes Holster laugh so hard he winces, body twisting to try to leech the pain from his side. They tip over and then Ransom’s looking into Holster’s red-rimmed eyes. They’ve only been friends for four months but they’re best friends, and Holster needs to know Ransom’s choosing him, too.

Ransom takes a deep breath, holds it. Holster smells like Ransom’s detergent and the shitty two-in-one shampoo conditioner he brings on roadies (Ransom will never, ever admit he’s starting to like the scent but when the artificial musk and spice hits his nose he doesn’t think ugh, two-in-one, he thinks Holster, Holster, Holster, Holster).

He’s still thinking Holster, Holster, Holster when the words finally slip through his lips, a gentle waterfall instead of the catastrophic wave he’d feared. “You’re not stupid. Loving someone is never stupid,“ Ransom says, because he believes it, and because he needs it to be true as much as Holster does. Holster’s face twists, just for a moment, just long enough for Ransom to see how much he aches before his features shift to a dramatic eye roll and a crooked half-smile.

“Is when I do it.” Holster says, the rapid-fire cadence of the syllables perfectly matching Liz Lemon’s, even if his voice is still too sad for a flawless impersonation. Holster’s trying so hard to hide how he feels that Ransom almost wishes he believed him. He knows Holster too well, and they both know it, but they’re both pretending they don’t.

“Don’t quote 30 Rock at me,“ Ransom replies, because it’s easier than saying please let me help you, just this once. It’s profoundly strange to not say exactly what he’s thinking around Holster. He half expects Holster to read his mind like he usually does and respond to what Ransom’s thinking instead of what he says, but Holster just barrels on.

“It’s more of a reference than a direct quote-” He begins, and Ransom barely has enough time to cut in.

“Holtzy, let me just.” Ransom pipes up, forcing his way into Holster’s pauses instead of waiting to be let in. Holster doesn’t have the patience to wait for most people, but he always makes space for Ransom (he saves a spot for him on the bus, claims two chairs at team breakfast, makes sure Ransom gets the corner shower with the most privacy after practice, saves the last piece of tape in the rolls they steal from Jack, wraps him up in crushing hugs after an assist or goal).

Holster raises his hand, twisting it around until the back of his wrist bumps against Ransom’s. “It’s from the scene when Liz does that thing with her hands and it’s - “ He explains, tapping the backs of their hands together. Under any other circumstances Ransom would roll his eyes and pretend not to understand the reference just to wind Holster up a little bit, but today he catches Holster’s hand and drags it back down to hold it against his chest. He doesn’t think about how well Holster’s fingers slot between his or how broad his palm is or how his knuckles are so, so warm against his bare skin. Ransom takes a deep breath; Holster mirrors it.

“We don’t ever have to talk about this again if you don’t want to but I just - I can’t - I’m not going to let you go on thinking that you’re the one who did something wrong. He hurt you today and that’s not okay. You didn’t do anything wrong.” Ransom holds his best friend’s gaze as he speaks, shifting up and down and to the side to stay in his wavering line of sight. Just when he catches a patch of bright blue sky the clouds roll in when Holster closes his eyes.

“I shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t have kissed him, I was wrong to feel that way, I-” Holster says, voice thin. The words are as practiced as they are cruel; Ransom knows Holster has said them to himself a million times by now. Ransom’s going to change his mind, even if it takes the rest of their lives. He’ll put in the 10,000 hours, he’ll soothe every ache, he’ll stitch Holster up as many times as he needs until the wound is healed.

But he has to begin somewhere, so he shakes his head and cuts in, deftly slipping in when Holster pauses to take a breath. “No, Holster, no. You didn’t do anything wrong, he shouldn’t have treated you that way. He shouldn’t have hurt you, then or now, and, fuck, Holster, you didn’t do anything wrong.” Ransom doesn’t mean to squeeze Holster’s hand harder and harder as he speaks, but by the time he finishes he’s digging his fingers into the back of his best friend’s hand. Holster twists his wrist and his hand slips away, severing the connection. Something in him shifts, skipping from first gear into fourth in a moment’s time.

“Jesus, Ransom, let it go. I’m the one who fucked up.” Holster’s voice is flat, annoyance seeping through. His eyes flick up, down, around in a quick roll, and Ransom knows he’s in trouble because that’s Holster’s I’m legitimately annoyed eye roll instead of his you’re ridiculous but I love it eyeroll or his Holy hell, Justin eyeroll but Ransom charges on.

“Not until you -” He begins, but Holster slips away before he can finish his thought. He turns away to sit on the edge of the bed, OLURANSI still written across his shoulders. The letters almost look like static electricity, trembling and pulsing as Holster shakes.

“Until I what? What the hell could I possibly do to un-fuck everything that happened? It’s done, it’s over. We were friends, I was stupid enough to fall in love with him, and then I ruined it all and now he hates me but it’s done. I’m done with it, so just fuck off.” Holster stands, tension from his clenched jaw radiating down to his shoulders, his arms, his hands, his legs. He grabs the key card and stalks out of the room, leaving Ransom in a twin bed that’s growing colder and colder by the minute.

Ransom doesn’t follow him. He knows he doesn’t need to.

The next morning he wakes to a Holster-sized lump in the other bed, bathed in a pool of warm sunlight. Ransom limps to the bathroom and begins his routine. Holster’s up when he steps back in the room, the morning light illuminating the grimace painted across his face. He has the hem of the sweatshirt in both hands, clearly in the middle of taking it off, but his bruise must be complicating things.

Ransom’s across the room in a flash, hands batting Holster’s white-knuckled grip away. “What are you doing?” Holster asks, taking a half step back. Ransom chases him, pushing back into his space.

“I’m helping,” he explains succinctly. He tugs the sweatshirt up, revealing just a glimpse of the mottled bruise and the sharp v of Holster’s hips. Holster pushes the thick material back down, hands curling around Ransom’s wrists.

“No - we’re fucking - we’re fighting right now, don’t try to help me.“ Holster protests, trying and failing to twist away. He bats weakly at Ransom’s hands. “Stop!”

And finally, Ransom’s had enough. He’s only human, there’s only so much he can take. He can’t watch Holster hurt himself by muddling through a simple task Ransom can help with.

“Listen up, asshole,” The words burst out from behind Ransom’s teeth, and he’s charging onward before he can process what he’s said. “I know better than anyone what it feels like to have teammates turn on you because of something you can’t control, especially shit like this. I know how you feel, and I’m not bullshitting you to make you feel better. I actually know, and we might be in a fight but you’re still my best friend so I’m going to help you until you’re healed enough to fight again. Got it?” Silence stretches over them, a thin, fluttering sheet falling still after twisting and billowing in the wind. Holster’s eyes are so, so wide and so, so blue. He nods; his hands fall to his sides. “Good, now lift your arms so I can take my goddamn sweatshirt off you.” Ransom’s voice is softer now, almost as gentle as his hands when he guides the thick material over Holster’s head. Ransom doesn’t think about his fingers brushing against Holster’s warm skin, pressing just close enough to feel the firm muscles beneath.

Holster is quiet for the rest of the day.

(Holster is never quiet).

He’s silent when Ransom sits next to him on the bus. It’s the only seat left, because everyone knows they always sit together. Holster doesn’t watch anything on his phone or pull out a textbook. He wraps his arms around himself and leans his forehead against the window, still and small and contained and everything he isn’t. Ransom hates it. He watches Holster wince as he loads his bag onto his shoulder, waits until he’s limped away before following him to their dorm. They’re on different floors, but he’s afraid Holster thinks that’s still too close.

Ransom stares at his phone for the rest of the day, jumping at every beep and vibration, convinced that this time it must be Holster. It isn’t. Hours pass, and Ransom knows he can’t take much more of this. Holster’s woven himself into every detail of Ransom’s life. They eat together, study together, do laundry together, drink together, take shots together with their arms entwined like ridiculous viking princes. There’s barely enough space for Ransom in his tiny dorm room, much less his roommate, but without Holster the space feels quiet and dark, even with the fluorescent lights and music blaring.

He’s turned up Midnight Marauders so loud he almost doesn’t hear the staccato of a timid knock on his door. Ransom taps on his laptop, lowering the volume just a bit, convinced his RA wants him to turn the music off even though quiet hours haven’t started yet.

There’s another knock, a little louder this time. Ransom turns the volume down even further. The third knock is the strongest by far, ringing through the tiny dorm room to be swallowed by the painted cinder blocks that make up the walls.

Annoyed, Ransom rolls off his bed and jerks the door open. It rattles it on its hinges, and then, suddenly, there’s Holster. His eyes are wide and his cheeks are flushed and his hand is raised, poised to knock again until he awkwardly drops it. “Um,” he begins, hand drifting to wrap around his chest, hand curled protectively over his bruise. “So, I’m an asshole, and a dumbass, and a terrible person who gets mad when his best friend is just trying to help, and I prepared something to say if you’re willing to listen. I worked really hard on it.” The words are even, practiced. Ransom tips his head to the side, considering, pretending like there’s even the slightest chance he won’t let Holster in.

(Ransom will always let Holster in).

He takes a step back; Holster takes a step forward. The door closes behind him. The room feels brighter. Holster leans against the closed door, chest expanding as he takes a deep breath, and lets it out in a single controlled burst, just like he had when Ransom had curled around him in their shitty motel room. They’re not pressed together anymore but Ransom swears he can feel Holster’s ribs expanding against his chest despite the space between them.

Holster straightens up and finally meets Ransom’s eyes. “I’m sorry,“ he says, sincerity shining through the syllables, sunshine streaming through stained glass. “I’m sorry,” He repeats. “And I didn’t do anything wrong.” His voice hitches, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows his emotions once, twice, three times. Ransom takes a step forward.

“Say it again.” Ransom instructs, desperate for Holster to understand what he’s saying. Ransom wants him to feel it in his bones, wants the light to burst from the tips of his fingers, from his eyes, his hair, his chest. He wants Holster to stitch the words into his skin the way Ransom did, because it’s the only way for them to thrive. Holster inhales, exhales shakily. He’s trembling, just a little, but Ransom stands his ground.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled when you were helping me.“ The words are true and sincere but Ransom just shakes his head and takes another step forward.

“Not that part, Adam.” Ransom says, his friend’s name soft as velvet on his tongue. Adam. He didn’t know red clay could taste so sweet.

Holster finally looks away, gaze rising to the ceiling, tears gathering in his eyes. He tries to speak and his voice gives out, throat too thick for the words to trickle through. He swallows, forces out a laugh, swipes the back of his hand over his eyes. “I didn’t,“ he begins, the words painfully slow, and Ransom never, ever wants to hurt him but Holster needs to let himself bleed before he can heal. "I didn’t do anything wrong,” he says, raw and real and split apart in every single way. Ransom gathers the pieces of him and pulls them together, holding him as he shakes. Holster presses his wet face against Ransom’s shoulder, hands curled into the thin fabric of his shirt.

Ransom isn’t sure how long they stand there. It doesn’t matter. Ransom would hold Holster until the end of time if he needed it. He waits until Holster’s breathing has evened out before speaking.

“Which season?” He asks, voice draping over the sniffles muffled by his shoulder. Holster looks up, brow knit in confusion instead of pain and fear and Ransom counts it as a victory. “Which season of Cheers are we on? Please tell me it’s the last one.” Holster laughs, thick and wet but real as he scrubs his hands over his eyes to clear the last of his tears away.

“It’s the second to last one, but there’s a spin-off series about your favorite character we’re watching after,“ Holster’s smiling now, eyes red-rimmed but sparkling, cheeks damp but flushed with excitement. Ransom groans and buries his face in his hands.

"Fucking Frasier? Out of everyone they gave Frasier his own show?” Ransom knows he’s being melodramatic, but Holster’s eating it up so he flops down on his bed. Holster follows, moving at his own pace, settling down next to Ransom. He tucks his face against Ransom’s neck. Ransom pulls him close and smooths a hand down his back. They’re quiet, bodies pressed together until their breathing syncs.

It’s nice. Even after three episodes of Cheers, it’s nice.

(Ransom knows it will always be nice).

[ivyneverfallsonadrien]

A Heavy Rainfall

Summary: 

A Reveal fic. Adrien has always wondered who Ladybug was under the mask, little did he know he was going to find out so soon. When Marinette’s secret is uncovered by him, it already makes a double life tougher. 

1<                                                                                                         3>

2

"Louella, this was supposed to be a make up date. Can you just pay me some attention?" The boyfriend sighed. He was a tall man with long limbs that didn't seem to want to stop growing. His hair was in due need of a haircut as it came to rest by his shoulders.

The woman laughed. "No. It's your fault. I didn't want to come ice-skating. This is your idea of fun." The woman was the compete opposite to him, short with a pixie hair cut that suited her black hair.

"My idea of fun? You're the one that wanted to do this!" The man screeched.

Both Marinette and Adrien turned around at that point. The couple were in the middle of a shouting match. Adrien had let go of her hands and she had to use the side rail to balance herself.

"You don't think one of them is going to be akumatized, do you?" Marinette mumbled.

Adrien gritted his teeth. "Too early to say for sure. Chat Noir and Ladybug will save us anyway so need to worry,"

"You're right." She agreed.

He gave a wink and Marinette felt her cheeks flush.

"I say we get back to what we were doing." He said taking hold of her hands again.

"Marinette nodded and watched his feet as he started to glide. They did two full circles of the rink and she felt like she had gotten the positions right.

"Do you want to try on your own?" Adrien asked.

"I suppose." She mumbled.

He let go of her hands and she steadied herself.

She made sure not to look at her feet and started the skating motion. First she put her left foot out and then her right. She wobbled a little but was able to catch her balance. Adrien watched her closely as they did another full circle. Marinette had to rest on the side after though, her feet were beginning to hurt.

"Doesn't this hurt your feet?" She asked.

Adrien shrugged. "A little bit. You're doing well though, Marinette." He gave her a wink.

"Thanks." Marinette said, not meeting his eyes.

"That's it! I'm done!" A voice cried. Marinette and Adrien both turned to see the couple from earlier. They both watched as the woman skated across the rink.

"Louella! Please wait!" The man called. He walked with a small limp but Marinette put it down to the ice-skates being heavy. He followed after her and their voices carried across the whole rink.

"That doesn't look too good." Adrien said, rubbing the back of his head.

"No, hopefully they can sort it out." Marinette then winced as she tried to move her left foot.

"Feet still hurting?"

"Yeah. I may go and rest." Marinette pointed to the seating area. She started to make her way around to it.

"I'll go and join Alya and Nino." Adrien waved to her and he left her.

Once Marinette had sat down, she breathed a sigh of relief. Her feet were really aching from the heavy boots. She took one of them off and stretched her toes.

"Are you having fun?" Tikki flew from out her jacket and gave her smile.

"Yes but keep your voice down Tikki. There are still people around." Marinette looked around. The music was still quite loud and most of the people off the ice were too preoccupied with talking to each other.

"I'll be careful! You actually managed to talk to Adrien properly!" Tikki said with a smile.

"Yeah," Marinette agreed. "I think I was too preoccupied with trying not to fall over."

"Are you going to go back to him?" Tikki said batting her eyelashes.

Marinette laughed. "Maybe but my feet are really hurting. Give it five minutes and I probably will."

She sat talking to Tikki for a while. Once or twice, she looked over to her three friends who looked like they were having a good time. She really wanted to go and join them but her feet were just hurting too much. Another five minutes passed and Adrien came over. He put his hand on her shoulder and she looked up at him.

"Are you coming back on the ice?"

"If it's with you yes-no, I mean maybe." Marinette stammered as she noticed the gaze he gave her. She felt like he was staring for far too long.

"I'll wait for you-," Adrien never finished his sentence.

"I'm the Arguer! From now on, I will never have to argue with her!" A man's voice shouted. Both of the teenagers looked up to see a man floating in the air. He was wearing a long coat and a large top hat. His hair had turned blue and stuck up in tufts. He looked like he had been electrocuted. He held a large cane.

"Instead people will be have to argue with each other! See how you like it!" He yelled. He started to zap some people. They started to mumble something to each other. Their companions looked shocked.

"Is that the man that was arguing with his girlfriend?"

"Yes but we need to get out of here." Adrien mumbled.

"Yeah." Marinette agreed.

She unbuckled her ice skates and pulled them off as quickly as she could. She slid them across the room. She was now running in just socks.

"Come on, I'll hide you." Adrien muttered.

Before she could object he grabbed her hand and started to lead her towards the changing room. He opened the door and quickly ushered her inside. Luckily there was no-one around. It was just an empty corridor with some lockers.

"Stay here. I'm going to find another place to hide." Adrien said and left.

"But wait, what about you?" Marinette cried too late. That was werid. Why wasn't Adrien hiding with her?

"Marinette! It's time to transform!" Tikki yelled from her left ear. It pulled Marinette out of her thoughts.

"You're right," She shook her head. It could wait til later.

"Tikki, spots on!" She yelled and then felt the familiarity of the transformation as her famous suit surrounded her body. She felt the yo-yo appear and was out of the corridor.

When she ran back into the ice rink, chaos had ensued. Everyone that had come to the ice rink seemed to be arguing with each other.

"This doesn't look good." Marinette said as she eyed Alya and Nino in the middle of a very loud argument. Alya looked like she wanted to rip her hair out.

"No it doesn't M'lady." A familiar voice said and she turned to see Chat Noir leaning on his baton.

His lips were parted in a smile. He picked his baton up and draped his arms across it like he always did.

"Hawkmoth's taken another victim." Ladybug mumbled glancing at the arguing people around them.

"Yes. I believe it was someone arguing. Where do you reckon the akuma could be?"

"Not sure yet. Shall we go and find out?" Ladybug smiled.

Chat smiled again. What he wouldn't do for his Lady.

"We shall." He said with a bow and followed her lead.

She zipped on her yo-yo out of the ice-skating rink with Chat closely behind her. She heard him jumping and then stopping as they landed on a building's roof. They both scanned the initial area, trying to see if they could more arguing people.

"This might be a bit more tricky than usual." Ladybug said as she noticed a taxi driver arguing with some people on the street below them.

"Well you always pull through m'lady. So let's go and put an end to this argument!" Chat Noir cried as he ran on ahead of her.

Ladybug rolled her eyes but found herself having a small smile on her face.

They darted across the rest of the rooftops and watched as people started to point accusations at each other. Drivers were honking their horns at pedestrians. It was total chaos.

"We need to find him quick." She scanned once more and found the floating figure a few streets away. Both of the superheroes started to run towards him. He was pointing his cane at everyone he could see.

Oi! You need to play nice!" Chat Noir called and launched his baton at him.

It knocked the Arguer off balance for a bit but he was able to steady himself.

"Ladybug! Chat Noir! So nice of you two to join us!" He laughed whipping his cane in the air and turned to face the the two superheroes. "What a delight it will be to see Paris's famous team arguing!"

"Yeah, I would rather not." Ladybug smirked. She zipped on her yo-yo in a circle. She needed to find out where the akuma could be.

She thought back to the ice-skating rink and when the man had passed her. What could he have had on him? The cane hadn't been there before. She thought back harder and remembered that he had a limp. Did that cane help him walk then?

"Kitty, the akuma is the cane!" She yelled, moving across the street to another building.

Chat Noir laughed. "How do you know that M'lady?"

"Just trust me!" She shouted back.

She was half tempted to use her lucky charm but didn't want to risk it so early in the battle.

The Arguer took aim at Chat Noir a few times and the cat managed to dodge the laser beams once or twice. Ladybug watched as he launched himself. He landed on the man's shoulders.

He managed to restrain him but it wouldn't be long until Arguer broke free.

"M'lady, now would be a good time to use that lucky charm of yours." He said trying to keep his hold on the flying man.

"Lucky Charm!" Ladybug called as she launched her yo-yo into the air. A small kitchen counter-top landed into her arms.

"What the heck?" She whispered.

Cat Noir jumped off the man and landed next to her. "That's our counter-attack?" He said with a grin.

She inwardly groaned at the pun. She scanned the area and saw a small street corner and looked back at Arguer. All the dots were connecting.

"Come on Kitty, we need your cataclysm!" She shouted as she pulled him by his tail.

"Of course Bugaboo," Chat Noir said and followed her.

"Cataclysm!" He called.

The bubbling power of destruction appeared in his clawed hand.

"We need to gain some height."

Chat Noir nodded and their started their attack on Arguer. They made their way upwards to taller buildings as he tried to zap them a couple of times.

"We need to knock that cane out of his hand. Are you ready?" Chat Noir said.

They both jumped at the Arguer.

"Now!" Ladybug shouted.

She put the countertop in front of them and Chat Noir touched it with his hand. It disintegrated and the bits started to fall on the man. He put his hands up to stop the falling bits but Ladybug snatched his staff out of his hand. Chat Noir did a roll in the air and landed on all fours next to her.

"No!" He shouted as he watched her snap it in half. He landed on the floor and fell to his knees.

Ladybug swung her yo-yo and caught the black butterfly.

"No more evil doing for you, nasty akuma!" She called and then let it go. A white butterfly emerged and flew into the air.

"Bye-Bye little butterfly," She said with a smile.

"Miraculous Ladybug!" And everything went back to normal.

""Pound it!" Chat Noir offered his fist and she copied him.

The man who had been the Arguer looked around stunned.

"What happened? Where am I?" He asked.

Ladybug knelt down and put her hand on him. "You're safe now. Next time I would break up with your girlfriend."

"I was akumatized? I guess it's better if I do, thanks Ladybug." He said with a smile.

He got up and picked his cane. He walked away with a small limp.

Chat Noir was staring at Ladybug with a dopey grin on his face. He wanted to stay in her presence for as long as he could. However fate had other plans. Her earrings and his ring started beeping.

"Woops! Looks like it's time to split, Kitty! See you next time!" She called and off she went flying on her yo-yo through the streets of Paris.

Marinette transformed back to normal in an empty street just in front of the ice-rink. She saw Nino and Alya hugging.

"Guys!" She called.

"Marinette! You're safe!" Alya hugged her. Then she pulled Marinette's shoes out of her bag.

"I think you forgot these."

"Thanks. It was so chaotic. I just wanted to find a safer place to hide." She slipped her shoes back on. Then noticed that someone was missing

Where's Adrien?" She asked.

"No idea. The dude just disappeared!"

"I'm here!" Adrien's voice said from behind her.

Marinette froze up and saw the taller boy standing right behind her. She could already feel herself stuttering without even talking.

"That new akuma was annoying. I can't really remember what happened. I just have a feeling I had a massive argument with Alya." Nino scratched his head, then sighed.

"I didn't see too much off it. I hid." Adrien laughed.

Alya grinned. "I bet it was with Marinette."

"Actually no. I was trying to find a safer place for us two but guess it didn't work out." He said with a shrug.

Marinette turned around. She could only just managed to nod.

"Why did you move Marinette? You should have been safe there." Adrien asked, turning his head to the side.

"Some people came in sharmguing." Marinette mumbled.

"Sharmguing?" Adrien said with an eyebrow raise.

"I meant arguing! I had to leave."

"Come on, I think we've all had too much excitement for one day. It's best we all head home." Alya said, hiding her laugh.

Marinette shot her a death glare before gaining her agreed and started their way home. Adrien's bodyguard picked him up. He waved goodbye to his friends and was driven away.

An hour later, Marinette landed on her bed and Tikki flew right in front of her.

"I can't believe I went ice-skating with Adrien!" She said with a smile.

"You did well Marinette! You also stopped Hawkmoth's new akuma!"

"Well without Chat Noir, I don't think I would have. Can you imagine if we had been hit? I don't know what we would have argued about it. It could have been a disaster." Marinette stood up and went over to her dresser.

"But you didn't! Now let's hope you can talk to Adrien properly tomorrow!" Tikki said with a smile and perched herself on her Marinette's shoulder.

Marinette herself got changed into her pyjamas. Once she was changed, she went up on her balcony. There was a full moon out and she gazed into it. Her thoughts drifted back to Adrien. Why hadn't he hidden with her? Did he not like her? Or had he been telling the truth? She shook her head. It didn't matter now, the akuma attack was over for now. Well until Hawkmoth decided that he was going to go after another victim.

[joeys-piano]

A thousand pieces on the floor

Rating: Teen Notes: Injury, healing, Yuuri and Viktor learning how to be honest with themselves and each other, shower-thoughts, Yuuri’s self-doubt, Viktor reaches out to understand Yuuri, Yuuri comes to understand that he can be himself Inspired by a talk with @victuuri-is-relationship-goals & @dreaming-fireflies

Companion fic: 4,000 Heartbeats: You and Me

His footsteps sounded flat, even reluctant, when Yuuri stumbled into the locker room at the Ice Castle. With a limp bothering his hip, his ankle popped with even a reasonable amount of pressure, Yuuri clung to the small spaces between the wall tiles. His sweat stuck him to the fixtures as Yuuri slowly shuffled towards a bench. A towel slipped off from his shoulders and spilled onto his feet. Damp with every fear and worry that stuck up like a pinnacle over his skin when Yuuri’s fingers fumbled, ripping his gloves off. They, too, spilled onto his feet like the first drops of rain. Yuuri reached down, but his fingers twitched before he could pick them up.

A tiny voice, hidden behind his locks, whispered: “What are you skating for?”

Yuuri’s teeth grazed over his bottom lip, an answer at the edge of his tongue. However, it slid back into his throat and he kept the thought to himself. Unsure if he could respond with what he wanted to say, unsure if it was the right thing to say. Having hurt himself, having gotten up multiple times to perform a single leap of fate but failed, having twisted his body as far as he could when Viktor held his attention elsewhere...what was Yuuri skating for? His glasses slid to the tip of his nose, dangled between the clear and blurry outlines that he could make-out from the fallen towel and gloves below him.

What Yuuri needed was a shower if he could get up from the bench. Yuuri supported himself with his arms. Gently easing pressure onto his injured ankle and hopped a bit to one of the shower stalls. He could worry about a towel later. He could worry about a new change of clothes later. He could worry about the soaps and shampoos tucked in his sports bag later. What Yuuri needed was a shower, even if it was unconventional. Even if he barely pulled the curtains behind him when he crept inside, eyes threatened to spill all the words he couldn’t admit to himself right now.

Yuuri didn’t strip out from his practice clothes, though he didn’t need to for what he wanted to do. Back propped against one of the tiled walls, Yuuri eased the pressure off from his right ankle. Ripples of relief comforted his muscles, but tension made it as rigid as a board when Yuuri pulled his leg up and touched his injury. Massaging the skin around it with the lightest touch before he turned the showerhead on. Water sprouted at his command, and trickles ran down the length of Yuuri’s face.

Much like salty tears, but this was rain compared to the turbulent storm stirring beneath his skin. Yuuri held his breath when he tipped his head back, letting the water consume him. He closed his eyes and his glasses collided with a thud onto the floor. Swirled around by the moving water and rested near the drainage hole.

Forgotten.

Much like how Yuuri felt when he breathed again, spitting up water that cascaded down into his mouth. Choked by his own misery. No, Yuuri was neck-deep in a pain that he couldn’t tackle on his own. When Yuuri slid onto the floor, he did so with a low thud. Water splashed all around him, he was drenched to his bones. Weighed by an anchor thrown by his heart, weighed by the clothes that were as battered as him, and weighed by these conflictions that Yuuri believed he had to face on his own.

Here he sat, in a pool of his own demise. Where his past washed down from his skin and projected as images across the tiled floor. To the left, was his childhood when he skated to be as cool as Yuuko and Takeshi. To the left, were memories of competitions and little medals and trophies he scored because Yuuri found something that he was good at and no one could take that away from him. In front were swirling bits of doubt, bred from the Detroit days when Yuuri watched as his rinkmates surpassed and surprised him with every jump and turn. And hovered over Yuuri’s shoulders...Just the thought of it sunk Yuuri lower than he thought it would.

Knees tucked close to his chest, his chin rested over his kneecaps, Yuuri blinked slowly. Steadied his breathing and tried to stand. The walls were too slick for him to grip onto, and he fell. A hiss escaped from his control, and pins and needles jabbed into his ankle. Burrowed past his muscles and into his bones. Hitched his breath to the back of his throat, and Yuuri shook his head. Driblets of water flew around the shower stall. Just as the locker room opened, and a familiar whistle caught Yuuri’s ears. It was Viktor.

Viktor and his shuffling feet, coming close to the showers before entering a stall right next to Yuuri’s. The slide of the curtain rings against the metal pole, meandering steps as Viktor inspected the shower before he seemed satisfied with what he saw, and the showerhead slowly drizzled in hot water. Steam poured into Yuuri’s shower stall, mesmerized him for a moment before Viktor’s voice jogged him back to reality.

“Yuuri, are you there?” A knock against the wall, and Yuuri knocked back. Barely able to hear it because of the roar of his showerhead, but he felt the vibration against his back.

“Uh, yeah.” Yuuri craned his neck to the side, noticing a familiar silhouette near the curtain. A towel draped over Viktor’s arm, along with a sports bag. Yuuri’s sport bag, to be exact.

“I’m going to leave these near the curtain if that’s--”

“Thank you!” The words came out sooner than Yuuri expected, and he waited until Viktor’s silhouette disappeared before he crawled near the curtains. Scooted over, actually.

The shower was still going, freezing to Yuuri’s touch when he crept away from the waterfall and near the stiller parts of his surrounding ocean. His clothes clung onto him tightly, twisted with each of his movements. He fished for his glasses, and they dangled at the collar of his practice uniform by the time he got to the curtains. His towel and sports bag were on the other side when Yuuri stuck his hand out into the opening. Only to meet Viktor’s touch when he grabbed Yuuri carefully around the wrist.

Time stood still for but a moment. Yuuri didn’t know what to say when Viktor asked if he could peel the curtain back a little bit. Perhaps it was how Yuuri didn’t pull away from Viktor’s touch, or Viktor might’ve noticed a shadow of a nod from behind the curtain. Whatever it was, Viktor moved slowly. Peeled the shower curtain back with his pinkie, inches at a time until he met Yuuri’s gaze. Even then, the curtain wasn’t flung open. Viktor simply crouched to meet Yuuri’s level. The majority of his body hidden behind a wall, but his face was visible for Yuuri to see. Even so, Viktor kept his attention near the floor where he could see Yuuri’s hands to give his student privacy in the chill of this moment.

“Yuuri, can you promise me that you’ll be honest?” Viktor’s tone never rose above the calm that Yuuri was used to. Even on the rink when Viktor acted as Yuuri’s coach, he always kept his tone friendly and easy on the ears. Whether a mistake needed to be corrected or encouragement was needed before Yuuri could spread his wings for the leap of fate. That never changed, even now when the situation was graver than what Viktor originally thought when he turned his sight away from Yuuri for just a moment before a fall.

“I can try?” The curve of the question-mark at the end wasn’t intentional, but it sort of slipped out when Yuuri couldn’t find anything else to say.

“Trying is good because you’ve weighed out your options.” A smile blended nicely over Viktor’s words. He loosened his grip over Yuuri’s wrist, and Yuuri was able to pull out if he wanted to. “Earlier at the rink, did you hurt your ankle?”

“If you thought I did, why did you let me go?” Yuuri brushed his mop of bangs to the side. They clung to the side of his forehead, stuck to his skin like glue because of how drenched he was. Almost shivering in the chilled pool that he sat in. Viktor passed him a towel, and Yuuri scrubbed it against his hair. Droplets flew onto the shower curtain, a few touched Viktor’s skin.

Viktor didn’t pull his hand away from the water, viewing it more as simple lashes for him being lax as a coach. He had to remember that Yuuri wasn’t him, that Yuuri was getting back onto his feet after a pseudo-retirement from skating to clear his mind and to find himself again. Yuuri wasn’t used to performing a same technique over and over again, or perhaps he was and often ignored the signs that his body was at its limit. As Yuuri’s coach, Viktor should’ve noticed these signs sooner. However, he still had his skater-mentality and urged Yuuri to try again. If anything, Yuuri didn’t have to shoulder this burden on his own. Viktor shared half of the fault as well.

“I guess it was wishful thinking,” Viktor finally said. He lifted his hand and pulled the curtain back a little farther, and Viktor pulled his body away from its hiding space.

If he was going to be transparent to Yuuri, verbally and physically was the only way Viktor knew how. He couldn’t hide any secrets if Yuuri could see him. However, Yuuri darted his eyes away. Out of respect because Viktor had his shower warming up, and he may’ve been vulnerable. But then again, being vulnerable was what Viktor wanted to do. Despite the fact that he was still clothed and dry while Yuuri shivered in his wet practice uniform as a sneeze burned the back of his nose.

“You wanted me to be like you?” Yuuri titled his head to the side.

Viktor wore a closed-smile, unlike anything Yuuri had ever seen before from the television screen to news articles that used to flicker on his phone. “In some ways, yes. But, I didn’t come here to be your coach just so that you could be my perfect copy. As much as you want me to be...well, me; I want you to be you. From your Stammi Vicino performance, I could see how far you’ve come from being inspired by another. So I thought to myself…”

Viktor leaned in and took Yuuri’s towel. He dried the back of Yuuri’s neck and helped peel the wet practice clothes off from Yuuri’s body. Slowly, consent coming from a firm nod from Yuuri before Viktor pulled down the jacket zipper, and a weight slipped from Yuuri’s shoulders.

“How enthralling can he be, to capture the world as well as the audience, through a performance written for his own?”

Afterwards, Viktor asked if Yuuri could stand. When Yuuri shook his head, he had to internalize his yelp when Viktor hoisted him into his arms. The dense weights that had suffocated him before were left behind on the shower floor when Viktor carried him to a bench, promising that he would find more towels to dry Yuuri with as soon as he could. Viktor returned to the shower stalls and turned them off, gathered his things, and he offered his towel to Yuuri.

“You don’t have to do this.” Yuuri snuggled deeply against his shower towel. Shook his head a bit to fling a few droplets off from his bangs.

“I feel that this is a better apology than just words alone.” Viktor pressed his hand against Yuuri’s shoulder, a slight jostle to give his student strength. Perhaps, to keep Viktor from crumbling to the ground because Yuuri paid for his mistake with an injury as a little gift in return. Perhaps, it was a moment where Viktor and Yuuri accepted themselves as human.

Humans weren’t indestructible, nor were they immune to the consequences of a goal. But through weakness, people found strength in trust. And maybe it started here or a little later, but Yuuri found a bit of trust that he could give to Viktor. For Viktor, he found comfort in being honest with himself. Aware that mistakes weren’t dangers, but guides in shaping a better him. Through Yuuri, Viktor could embrace that part about himself.

[sevenfists]

s/g robots in disguise

And the-undoubted-queen asked for accidental love confession. So here’s some tragic hockeybot Geno. I interpreted these prompts kind of loosely, uhhh the heart wants what it wants?

(I think I’ll do maybe one more of these? Some of y’all sent me fantastic prompts that are too much for a little tumblr ficlet, so I won’t fill them now but maybe check back in six months.)

Geno was charging in the locker room when Sid got to the arena: slumped over at his stall, the flap open at the back of his neck, the long cord extending to the outlet near the door. His eyes were open and unseeing, fixed on a random point on the floor. Sid hated to see him like that, had always hated it, but it was worse now than it had been before. He didn’t need the reminder that Geno was a thing: an object. He knew.

By the time Sid had looked over his gear, the indicator light at Geno’s nape had turned from orange to green. This was Dana’s job, usually, but Sid knew what to do. There was no reason to go pry Dana out of the skate room.

He unplugged the cord from Geno’s neck and shut the flap, smoothing his fingers over the skin until the seams closed. Geno always felt hot when he had just finished charging, like a person running a high fever. Sid tugged up the hem of Geno’s shirt to expose his lower back and the activation button there, tucked beside his spine, where it was protected by his pants during a game. He pushed and held, and waited for the three beeps before he let go.

He stepped back. Geno blinked a few times, and then straightened from his slouch. His hands settled on his knees. He stared vacantly ahead of him, still booting up. Finally he blinked again and turned his head, looking around the room.

“You’re at the arena,” Sid told him. “It’s Thursday. We’re playing the Kings tonight. I just got here and I’m about to go tape my sticks.” It never took Geno long to reorient, but Sid didn’t see any reason to let him drift in confusion for even thirty seconds.

Geno nodded. “Thursday. Okay.” He nodded again. “Thanks, Sid.”

“No problem,” Sid said, and then forced himself to leave the room. Geno wasn’t his to care for any longer.

+ + +

Geno got into a fight with Williams early in the third. Sid didn’t see what started it, but by the time the whistle blew, Geno was on top of Williams on the ice, punching his head. Geno wasn’t much of a fighter; he hadn’t gotten in a single fight last season, and there had only been a handful in the years before that. But he was fighting now, and then he started glitching in the penalty box, the distinctive jerky hand to face motion that had the box attendant leaping to his feet and calling for a stoppage of play.

Stewie and the team’s bot tech were in the box with Geno for way longer than Sid would have liked, but Geno was upright when they emerged—sagging, but on his feet and skating between Stewie and Noah. The crowd clapped, the guys tapped their sticks against the boards, and Sid exhaled and sat down hard on the bench.

“The fuck’s wrong with Geno?” Kuni muttered to him, and Sid shook his head. He knew a fair amount about bot maintenance, but glitching wasn’t maintenance, it wasn’t common, and it meant that something was pretty wrong.

Geno didn’t come back to the bench, and he wasn’t in the locker room after the game. Sid talked to the press. Nobody asked him about Geno. They had shut out the Kings; it was a good game. Nobody even asked him about Geno’s fight.

When he was done, he went down the hall to the mech room. The door was closed, but when Sid tried the handle, it wasn’t locked. He let himself in.

Noah had Geno sprawled face-down on the exam table. The big panel of Geno’s back was hinged open, exposing the mess of wires. Geno’s feet twitched slightly, dangling over the end of the table.

Noah looked over at Sid and frowned. “You need something?”

“Who is it?” Geno asked, muffled. He was still powered up, then.

“It’s Sid,” Noah said. The league was pretty serious about bot rights. The door to the mech room stayed closed when they were being examined; they got to have their privacy. Noah was fiercely protective of Geno and Olli both, and he wouldn’t hesitate to tell Sid to fuck off if Geno didn’t want him there.

Geno didn’t respond for long enough that Sid’s heart sank. But then Geno grunted and said, “Sid is okay,” and Noah shrugged and went back to poking around in Geno’s back with his sensor, a slim metal rod like a knitting needle.

Sid pulled up a stool and sat at the head of the table. There was a cutout for Geno’s face, like a massage table. He couldn’t turn his head to look at Sid, but he reached out with one hand, and Sid brushed their fingertips together: hi, I’m here. It was the most they ever touched off the ice, these days.

“What happened?” he asked quietly.

“Don’t know,” Geno said. “You know, it’s fight, maybe I’m angry. But I fight before and no problems. But then—”

“Yeah,” Sid said.

He sat quietly with Geno while Noah prodded and muttered. At last Noah sighed and returned his sensor to its charging stand. “I’ve gotta run full diagnostics on you. I’ll set the door so nobody else can get in, okay?”

Geno didn’t say anything as Noah closed and sealed his back panel. When he sat up, he was frowning. “Nobody?”

“I mean, the fire department has override access if the place starts burning down,” Noah said. “But nobody else. I’ll boot you up first thing when I get here in the morning.”

“Okay,” Geno said begrudgingly. He was paranoid now about powering down overnight anywhere except his own house. Nobody blamed him, not after what had happened to him.

“Come on, let’s get you in the dock,” Noah said.

That was Sid’s cue to leave. “See you tomorrow, G,” he said, rising to his feet, and Geno gave him an absent wave.

Sid went home. There was a dock for Geno in his bedroom, but it hadn’t been used in months. Maybe it didn’t even work anymore.

+ + +

Geno was fine for a few games, and then they went on the road and he glitched out while they were playing the Wild, pretty horribly, twitching and spasming on the ice near the net. The arena went silent as Stewie and Noah rushed out. Geno looked and acted so human that it was easy to forget he wasn’t, and this was the real uncanny valley shit, watching him move in a way that no human could.

“That’s bad,” Olli said.

Sid glanced at him. “You know something?”

Olli shrugged. Even if he knew, he wouldn’t tell Sid. He and Geno had been thick as thieves before the Olympics, and it hadn’t taken them long to get close again afterward. Bot solidarity.

Geno couldn’t skate off, this time. He left the ice on a stretcher.

Somehow they won that game. Sid phoned it in with the press. Nobody asked him about Geno, but one of the local beats said, when they were wrapping up, “Really hope Geno’s going to be okay,” and everyone murmured agreement.

“He’s a tough guy,” Sid said, and what he meant was, Me, too.

He went to check on Geno when he was done. The Wild didn’t have any bots, and they didn’t have a designated mech room, so Geno was face-down on a table in the trainers’ room, getting his innards poked through while Stewie worked on Tanger’s hamstring.

Geno was powered down, limp and unresponsive. His arms were raised above his head and crossed at the wrists. Sid touched his shoulder, where Noah couldn’t see. “Is he, uh.”

“I’m working,” Noah said tightly, without looking away from Geno’s back.

“Okay,” Sid said.

Geno wasn’t on the bus back to the hotel that night, but he was on the flight to Winnipeg in the morning. He seemed fine. He played cards the way he always did. Sid could worry about him, but it had to be the worry of a captain for his alternate, and Sid couldn’t remember what that felt like. After more than six months, his feelings were as fresh and raw as they had been the day they all boarded the flight to Sochi.

+ + +

The game against the Jets was physical and wild. Even fucking Flower took a slashing penalty. They won in overtime, and the locker room was in giddy turmoil afterward. Geno was grinning and jumping around with Suttsy: dancing. Back to his new self.

The next day was a travel day, with a late morning flight. It was inevitable that they would go out. Sid didn’t care where they went as long as he could order a steak.

There was steak, and also shots. Sid sat next to Flower and watched Geno across the table, laughing with Olli, neither of them eating or drinking anything, but out with the team nonetheless, to celebrate.

Sid drank steadily. Flower’s frown deepened, and after Sid’s fifth shot, he said, “You’re going to regret that in the morning.”

“Probably,” Sid said.

“I know you’re worried,” Flower said, “but—”

“I don’t want to talk about this,” Sid said. He was riding a hard buzz. He knew he should stop, but he wasn’t going to.

“Not with me, no,” Flower said. “Maybe you should talk with him.”

Geno balled up a napkin and threw it down the table at Suttsy. It uncrumpled in mid-flight and landed on Desi’s plate. Sid said, “There’s nothing to talk about.”

Flower sighed. “Sid—”

“He doesn’t remember,” Sid said.

“Maybe he will, if you tell him,” Flower said. “You know. Like you forget about something until someone reminds you.”

“It doesn’t work like that,” Sid said. “It’s gone.”

“Fine,” Flower said. “Okay. Keep making yourself miserable.”

“Glad you approve,” Sid said, and reached for another shot.

The Russian national team hadn’t wanted any conflicted loyalties, in Sochi. They had done a soft wipe: not a hard reset to Geno’s factory settings, but a wipe to his base personality. He came back from the Olympics as the guy he had been as a rookie: shy, volatile, unable to speak English. He still liked animals and McDonald’s, but he had forgotten the team and everything that had happened to him since he came to the NHL.

The Penguins had a personality backup, of course. But backups were expensive, time-consuming, and infrequent. Geno’s was a year out of date, and there was stuff he would never get back. The brutal playoffs sweep by the Bruins. The birth of Max’s daughter. His entire relationship with Sid.

“They murder me,” Geno had said, cold with fury, and that was the clip that made the rounds on every news channel for a week, until the next scandal hit and people lost interest.

All Sid had left was a few pictures, and the unused dock in his bedroom. Otherwise he might have thought he invented the whole thing.

The night went on. Sid didn’t feel too drunk until he got up to hit the washroom, but his head spun profoundly as he stood at the urinal, and he knew he would regret everything. His chest hurt. He needed to leave.

“I gotta go,” he said to Flower, when he got back to the table.

“Good plan,” Flower said. “Hey! Geno!”

“No,” Sid said, but it was too late: Geno had looked over, and then he and Flower were talking, and Sid drained his water glass and waited for someone to tell him what to do. Everything was fuzzy. He wanted to lie down.

“Come on, Sid,” Geno said, there beside his chair, one hand on Sid’s shoulder, and Sid stood up and pulled his coat on with clumsy hands. It was cold outside: Manitoba in November.

They walked for a while. The hotel could have been two blocks away or twenty. Sid could walk mostly in a straight line. He didn’t know where he was going. It was good that Geno was there with him, to keep him from getting lost.

“You’re glitching,” he said.

Geno glanced at him. “Not right now.”

“You know what I mean,” Sid said. “I’m so fucking worried about you.”

“You drink too much,” Geno said.

“Yeah,” Sid said. “Oh, God. I really did.”

“You drink water, get in bed,” Geno said, and then the hotel was there, or at least Geno was steering him into a lobby, and then into an elevator. Sid slumped against the wall as Geno pushed a button. Sid didn’t remember which floor he was staying on. He didn’t know if he had a room key. Did he have his wallet? He patted his pockets a few times.

“Here,” Geno said. He reached into Sid’s coat pocket and extracted his wallet, and pulled out his key card. Geno had everything under control. He wasn’t drunk. He was a bot, and his memory was perfect, except for the things that had been erased from him.

Sid blindly followed Geno down the hall. Geno opened a door, and herded Sid inside. That was Sid’s bag on the end of the bed. This was Sid’s room.

“Get undress,” Geno said, and went into the washroom.

Sid fumbled out of his clothes. He left his underwear on, because he didn’t get naked with Geno anymore. He sat on the bed. Geno came out of the washroom with Sid’s water bottle, filled with nasty hotel tap water that Sid didn’t want to drink. Geno put the bottle in his hand, and Sid drank.

“Good,” Geno said.

“I drank too much,” Sid said.

“I know,” Geno said gently. “Sid, why you do this? It’s not like you.”

“I don’t know,” Sid said. “I don’t know. I still miss you. I’m sorry. I still love you. I tried to stop. I don’t know how.” He took another sip of water. His throat hurt. “I’m sorry.”

“Sid,” Geno said, and Sid glanced up. Geno had a weird look on his face. He was so handsome. The pain in Sid’s chest and his throat squeezed tight, merging together into something that felt shameful. He was going to embarrass himself. He probably already had.

“Sorry,” Sid said.

“You—love?” Geno said.

“When they wiped you,” Sid said. “You don’t remember me. Noah said—it would confuse you. So I tried not to—but I miss you. I’m so sorry.” He raised one hand to his face. His skin felt hot and tight.

“Sid,” Geno said. He moved in close and put his arms around Sid. He smelled the same. He was a little too warm to be human. Sid hadn’t been so close to him since before the Olympics. Sid leaned against him and closed his eyes.

“I know you don’t remember,” Sid said.

“Okay,” Geno said. “I stay here tonight. Okay? Wake you up, make you drink more water. Then you plug me in. We talk in morning.”

“You need your cord,” Sid said.

“Yes, I go get,” Geno said. “Tell Olli what I do. Then I come back.” He pulled away slightly and cupped Sid’s face in his hands. Sid was too drunk to interpret Geno’s expression, but it made him feel sick and scared and hopeful all at once.

“I didn’t mean to,” Sid said, and he didn’t even really know what he was talking about.

“It’s okay,” Geno said. His hands were still on Sid’s face. “You get in bed. I come back soon.”

“Okay,” Sid said. Geno pulled back the covers, and Sid swung his legs up onto the mattress and lay down. He tugged the blankets up around his shoulders. He was so tired. He was going to pass out right away.

“You sleep,” Geno said, and ducked down to brush a gentle, earth-shattering kiss against Sid’s cheek.

[smoshfanficcs]

Accident (one shot)

\|\This is based on headcannons written by @smoshimagine which you should read my dudes, they're really damn good. I am terrible at links and can't figure anything out on mobile, I'm really sorry!

So here's a wes getting his ass beat in hockey! I'm bad at second person, so have fun\|\

"Come on Wes, you're doing great!" Your voice got mixed in with everyone else's, hands clenched into fists. The team they were playing were absolute monsters. At least two players were pulled out and on the bench already. You were worried to say the least, but you knew your Wes. He could hold his ground. He'd been hurt in a game once before and didn't even sit out, he'd be okay. He had a straight shot at the goal, with one person by him, he'd be fine.

You definitely spoke too soon.

You watched in horror as someone stuck their stick out in front of him, tripping him on his skates. He'd shot his right arm out to catch himself, holding his stick with his left. The guy had just taken the puck from him, leaving him on the floor.

You could practically hear it snap. The whistle blew, everyone stopping in their tracks. You couldn't breathe. You couldn't speak. You were frozen in place. The ref skated over, helping him up slowly. You heard him groan slightly, the guy who tripped him smiling.

"Wes!" That's when you could move again. You ran back up the stands, quickly getting over to the medical station by the locker room.

You went inside the open room, automatically seeing Wes.

He had one hand gripping the edge of the table, his knuckles white. One of the coaches was looking over his arm, which was bent in a way no bone should be. He had one of his benched teammates holding ice on his opposite shoulder, grimacing at his side.

You almost threw up. You'd never seen him this hurt from a game, and you'd seen him limp inside multiple times.

"Do you have anyone here with yo-" "me." You walked forward, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Y/N, he needs to be seen at the ER, considering this looks like a definite fracture." "I'm fine for god's sake, I can go back in." He glanced up at the coach, annoyance in his eyes. "Wes, just let Y/N take you to the hospital." After that, he didn't object. He just stood up, taking the bag of ice. "Fine, but if we don't win this game-" "your team is ten points ahead and there's five minutes left Wes. They'll be fine." You got an arm around him, walking out with him. Once you'd left the building and gotten in his car, then he'd started freaking out. His right arm was across his lap, his left hand clenched into a fist. You leaned across the middle console, softly kissing his cheek. "It'll be okay Wes. You'll be okay." You placed your hand on his, softly rubbing circles with your thumb.

He slowly nodded, gripping your hand as you drove.

And damn did he almost break it. He kept mumbling your name, small tears brimming in his eyes.

You were speeding at least five miles over, pulling into the parking lot of the emergency room. After helping him get out, you'd checked him in.

Your handwriting was so messy the nurse almost asked you to write it again. "We'll see him in about five minutes."

You sat down next to him, rubbing his left arm. "It's okay Wes. Don't worry, everything's going to be alright." He nodded slowly, watering eyes set on his bent forearm.

You were trying to assure yourself too. Seeing him this hurt broke your heart. It always hurt to see him upset.

"Wes Johnson?" The second his name was called, you perked up. He did as well, still gripping your hand.

As you both walked into the doctors office, you felt his grip on your hand tighten.

"Only three months huh?" "What can I say, you are my good luck charm." He smiled, planting a small kiss on your forehead. "Can I sign it first?" "Of course." He smiled, glancing around your shared bedroom. You dug around for a marker, Wes watching with a huge grin. He glanced down at the white cast, his expression falling for a moment. He'd be a bench warmer for three months, how could be possibly keep a smile? That was until he looked down to see you scribbling on his cast with 'Y/N' written in the middle. "That okay?"

He smiled again, his hand holding onto yours. "It's perfect Y/N."

[katsudonbang]

Posts: April 1st

Pairings:  Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov

Summary:  When Yuri Plisetsky faces a career-threatening injury during practice in the days following Yuuri's arrival in St. Petersburg, Victor and Yuuri take up the task of helping get him back on his feet as they juggle training, competition, and their evolving relationship. Life is what happens off of the ice, and love in all its forms--romantic and familial--is what makes that worthwhile.

Keep reading for a sneak peek!

The fourth time in an hour that Yuri Plisetsky crashes to the ice--body slamming into the unyielding surface of the rink with the full force of a quad salchow and skidding until he’s nearly kissing the boards--it’s the silence of his rinkmates that has him snarling as he shoves himself upright.

The first time, Yakov had yelled at him, foaming at the mouth about his sloppy technique, how he needed to watch his free leg. The second time Mila teased him gently, throwing up a spray of ice at him as she snowplow stopped beside him, hauling him to his feet with a wink and a shove before Yakov could turn back from his phone call and catch that it happened. The third time, Georgi called out to ask if he was alright from across the rink with Victor, probably locked in another stupidly dramatic discussion on the woes of being in love with people on the other side of the world.

Blue eyes narrowed critically at him across the ice had sent him speeding into this final ill-fated jump, away from the questions he could see Victor barely holding back by the finger pressed to his lips.

Now he’s fallen again and this silence is damning, judgmental, and complete. There’s no slice of blades across the ice, no murmuring of discussion. Everything is still and quiet. Yuri can feel eyes on him as he grabs hold of the wall like a stupid foal-legged fool on the ice for the first time, and it makes him spit a quiet curse just to fill it.  He hates this silence, almost as much as it seems hateful to him.

But fuck-all if he’s going to stand here and wait for someone to try and talk to him.

He doesn’t want Yakov to tell him that he’s done for the day. He doesn’t want Victor’s asinine singsong voice as he outlines what he could do better. He doesn’t want Georgi’s mournful commiseration or Mila’s stupid concern. He doesn’t want any of them to even look at him right now, and he’s not going to give them the chance to try to do more than that.

Yuri doesn’t limp as he launches himself into a glide across the ice to the gate, savagely embracing the sharp stab of pain through his shin and knee as he makes it take his weight, a spiteful twist to the metaphorical knife. He doesn’t acknowledge Yakov’s attempt to speak to him as he slaps on his skate guards and stomps towards the locker rooms, and he doesn’t slow when he hears Victor leave the ice to make excuses for him.

He’s done crying in front of people. He can barely handle that he did it in victory at the Grand Prix Final, he draws the line at letting them see him cry in defeat. He promised a long time ago, he’d never let that happen again.

[nomanonold]

Inherited Scars - Old Memories

1/13 [Next]

Victor thought he’d escaped. What he didn’t realize was that someone had to take his place. 

Yuuri lost track of time in the showers. The hot water was like a sedative, pouring down his hair, over his body, and suspending him from reality. By the time he finally turned the water off and stepped out his whole body was wrinkled with saturation.

Toweling off, he stepped into the locker room and found Yuri. He was easing his costume off with a wince as it scraped over a sizable bruise on the front of his hip.

“How did you get that?” Yuuri asked. Yuri startled, hitting his head on the locker as he jumped and cursing off Yuuri as he turned to hide the mark. It wasn’t quite his normal fury, either. He opened his mouth to reply twice before snarling:

“If you would actually try the quadruple loop maybe you’d know.”

“Quadruple loop?” Yuuri gaped. It was virtually impossible. “You can do a quadruple loop?”

Yuri hissed again, “Does it look like it?!”

“Sorry,” Yuuri frowned. He turned away from Yuri, taking his clothes out of his locker and slipping them on without further incident.

——

“Something’s missing in your program,” Victor said when Yuuri skated to him, panting, having run through it for the fifth time that day.

Victor was exhausted too, in the middle of reworking his own performance, but he always made time for Yuuri.

“You need something… hmm,” Victor said. He gave Yuuri a sly grin. “Perhaps you should start training for the quadruple loop.”

Yuuri paled. “Victor…”

Victor laughed, “Yuuri, it was only a joke.”

Yuuri’s look of relief only lasted for a moment. “But… Yurio’s training for it,” Yuuri frowned.

Again, Victor laughed: “No he isn’t.”

“He is. He said so,” Yuuri insisted. “I saw his bruises from it.” And Yuuri set a hand on his hip where he’d seen the marks.

Victor froze.

No, he didn’t just freeze; he looked like he’d been shot. He looked like he couldn’t breath. His eyes widened, pupils narrowed, and his mouth contorted into a pained, voiceless cry.

“Victor?” Yuuri asked in alarm. He touched Victor’s hand, brow furrowed. “Victor, are you okay?”

No response.

“Victor?!”

Victor shuddered, choking as he finally breathed again, and wrapped Yuuri in his arms. Not a hug like they shared alone, in the evenings, when they were both tired and desiring comfort. Not a hug like they shared on the ice, when they were both elated and in love. This was something desperate. Something a child might do to a teddy bear when they heard thunder.

“Victor,” Yuuri said again, because he was worried, genuinely worried, and the pressure of his arms around Victor’s waist didn’t feel like enough.

“It’s not true."

——

Victor went to the lockers, not bothering to take off his skates. He walked in his guards on the tiled floor, hoping he wasn’t too late. The area was empty, most of the other skaters having left long ago, but Yakov always made Yuri stay until he was satisfied for the day.

Victor found him just as he was shouldering his skate bag. He pushed it off Yuri’s arm, grabbed Yuri’s wrist as it flailed in response.

“What are you doing?!” Yuri asked, kicking at him, but Victor took the hit. He pushed Yuri against the lockers and grabbed at his clothes.

“Stop! STOP!” Yuri cried out, but Victor was deaf to it, and at some point, some point when Victor’s hand landed on the front of his hip, Yuri froze, and didn’t cry out anymore, and went limp under Victor’s touch.

Victor pulled down the waistband of Yuri’s pants, revealing an ugly, blooming bruise across his hip. Skaters were no stranger to bruises - any athlete’s body might have a half dozen at any given point in time, some stacked atop each other to create sickly rainbows of blue and purple, yellow and green.

But skating bruises didn’t look this.

Didn’t have fingermarks.

Victor trembled. Tears welled in his eyes before he could stop them and poured over.  Memories long suppressed rose unbidden. Hands at his hips, holding onto him, crushing his skin against the bones below. Heat and heaviness behind him. On top of him.

Inside of him.

Victor looked up and found Yuri still immobile, staring upwards with blank, hollow eyes, like he wanted to cry, too, but had run out of tears long ago.

[mizchips]

Drop the Puck

Rey, Gwen, and Rose stood in front of the onscreen schedule at Crystal Ice Arena, gaping at the three-on-three pairing they had received from the rink.  As women hockey players, they should be teamed with another group of women at the same level of play.

“The Knights of Ren?” Rose said.  “We can’t play them for this scrimmage.”

“Why not?” Rey said.  “We have Gwen.  She’s as tall as Kylo Ren.  He who names a team after himself.”  She laughed, shaking her head.

“Knights, huh,” Gwen said.  “I’ll knight them.”  She was close to six feet tall and muscular as hell.  A fierce player on the ice.

“Those dudes are pretty crazy,” Rose said.  “I don’t know why you want us paired with them.”

“For the glory,” Rey said. “And, anyway, I didn’t request them.  Usually, the rink just randomly pairs groups.”  She laughed and poked Rose.  “Don’t worry about it.  We can take them.  They are just boys, basically.  Grown boys, but, you know, boys.”

“Ok, well, if you girls are sure,” Rose said, hoisting her bag.  “Locker room 1, of course.”  It was the only locker room designated for women at the rink.  They had all spent a lot of time in it.  Fortunately, they had made it livable with a good scrubbing and some serious incense.

The outside door blew open.  The freezing draft ripped through the foyer of the arena. It was an icy blast that shivered Rey’s senses.  

She looked over.  He strode in, hockey bag on his shoulder, big stick in his hand. Kylo Ren, tall as ever, big as life. In two giant strides, he walked up to the board.  His buddies, Finn and Poe, came in behind him with their bags and sticks.

“Where are we, Kylo?” Finn asked.

“Locker Room 2,” Kylo said in a deep, dark voice.

Rey had seen this giant man often at the rink. In his skates, he was at least six foot six.  At least. He was long and lean and wore all black in every beer league game.  He and his buddies, Finn and Poe, were the heart of their league.  They tended to take their hockey way more seriously than the others, who played for the brewskis and the bragging rights.

Poe looked at the board.  “Who is that?”

Gwen and Rose were just about to walk away. Rey stopped, though, to see what kind of reaction these boys would have to a co-ed three-on-three.

Finn read off the screen.  “Half-ice scrimmage with the Knights of Ren and Rey’s Herricanes. That’s weird, they spelled it wrong.”

Rey interjected, “It’s not wrong.  The Her-ricanes…get it?”

Poe and Finn looked at each other.  “Pardon?” said Finn.

“Her…i…canes,” Rey said slowly.

Finn rolled his eyes.  “Oh, I get it.”

“Took you long enough,” Rose said.

Kylo cleared his throat.  “It’s ok,” he said, looking at Rey.  “If Rey of Sunshine here wants to get spanked, we can do that.”

There was a chorus of whoa’s from the others.  

Gwen stepped up and almost looked Kylo in the eyes. “Bring it, friend.  We aren’t afraid.  I’m just as big and bad as you.”

Kylo Ren looked among the three women.  He said nothing but tapped the butt of his stick on the ground.  

“Aww, Kylo, this game’s gonna suck,” Finn said. “We can’t do shit with these girls.”

Kylo said nothing.  He tapped his stick again.  “What would you like to do with them, Finn?”

Poe said, “Uh, check them into the boards like real and actual hockey players.”

“Hey,” Rose said, “We are real, actual hockey players. We check in our leagues, too, ya big butthead.”

Rey walked up to Kylo.  Kylo’s eyes snapped to hers.  “Knight of Ren, you can play with us if you like.  But I am the baddest of them all.  I will take you down.”  She was not afraid of this creature, mask or no.

“Let’s go, gentlemen,” Kylo said.  “Looks like they want to go down.  Ladies.  See you out there.”  He touched Rey’s face with one big hand.

She would have swatted it away but didn’t feel like giving him the satisfaction of knowing he had elicited a reaction.

He walked off, whistling anyway.

 Rey had never gotten dressed so quickly in all her life.  She snapped the clear tape around her leg pads like she was on fire.  She had to get out there and beat some big boy ass.

The women skated out on half ice for the warm-ups. Rey enjoyed the swooshing sound of her skates as she pumped her legs across the ice.  It was a bummer that they only had half ice, but other three-on-three teams were also playing and there were only two sheets available to rent. The rink could have four teams play at a time if they did half-ice.  It wasn’t much room for the big boys, but Rey considered that an advantage.  They couldn’t skate with such long strides and would be forced to rely on stick work and technique instead speed.

Rey watched Kylo Ren stomp out to the ice, all geared up, skates and pads on tight, helmet strapped to his head.  His black waves peeked out from under the back of the helm.  Rey admired his sleek skating style and his ease on the ice.  But she had to beat the hell out of this man’s team.

They flipped a coin to see who got the puck. Of course, it was the Knights. Kylo took it to the goal, but Gwen swept in and pushed Kylo to the side, so his shot went wild and bounced off the pipe.

Rey caught the puck on her stick and barreled to the other side.  Finn stopped her by feinting to one side and nipping the puck away.

Back and forth the teams went, skidding, snow-plowing, and sneaking the puck away from each other.

Kylo used his size to corner Rey along the boards. He pinned her tight, while she fought to maintain control of the puck.

“Poe,” he yelled.  

Rey tried elbowing Kylo, which was illegal, but she was desperate.  Plus, her elbow met his waist where his hockey pants were.  He probably never felt it all.

Poe rescued the puck from Rey.  She growled at Kylo and he shouted, “Give it up, girlie,” as he skated away.

“Never,” she hollered back.

The Knights hit their stride and whizzed the puck right by the Herricanes.  Kylo was on fire as he slammed the thing into the net with a huge slapshot.  Rey had to jump to miss being hit in her boot.  She landed on her skates, fortunately, but turned to stare at the giant man skating toward her.  He showered her with ice and snow with a snowplow stop.

“Funny,” she said, breathing hard.

“Ready to call it, Rey of Sunshine?” he asked.

“No.”  With that, she rammed him with her stick in a highly illegal cross check.  He was not expecting it and staggered back.  He caught himself before he fell on his ass and stared at her through his visor.  Then he rushed her and slammed her on the ice.  She lay there, giggling madly.  Between the hockey gear and adrenaline, she felt nothing.

“Penalty box for you, girlie,” he said, grabbing her glove and lifting her up.  He didn’t even put her down on her skates.  He carried her over his shoulder to the team’s box.  He sat her on the edge and put his visor in her face.

“Do that again, Rey, and I will slapshot you into the net.”

Rey laughed.  “You can try.”

She jumped down and skated off.  Just for good measure, in the next five-minute period, Rey managed to check both Finn and Poe and knock them on their asses with two completely legal hits.  She didn’t have their weight, but she was fast and fearless.  She caught them unawares, which was her usual tactic.

The Herricanes scored a goal with the boys down. Kylo couldn’t stop Gwen alone. Gwen took a victory lap, waving her stick.

The buzzer sounded much too soon for Rey’s taste. The teams were tied.   The others skated off the ice, ribbing each other. The men were fist-bumping each other and the women were doing victory dances.

Rey stayed behind to grab the puck.  

She motioned to Kylo.  “Shoot out,” she hollered.  

They heard the Zamboni in the background.

“No,” he said.  “They are resurfacing.  We have to get off the ice.  You are way too reckless a player, and you’ve been making illegal moves throughout this whole damn game.”  He skated over to move the closest net back to a corner.  He turned and shouted, “You need some discipline.”

“I am not reckless, you giant creature in a mask,” Rey yelled.

She gritted her teeth and shot the puck into the net with all her might.  It missed the net and came right at Kylo.  It came in low on him.  He took a full force puck in his inner thigh, at the weakest part of his leg pads.  In fact, there was no padding there at all.

Rey hadn’t meant to hurt him.  He fell on the ice, holding his leg, gritting his teeth.

“Kylo, I’m so sorry.” Rey skated to him and knelt. She touched his arm, though he couldn’t feel it.

She tried to help him up, but he waved her away. “I will be fine,” he said, limping as he skated.

Rey didn’t know whether to leave him alone or follow him to the locker room.  She stood undecided, chewing her lip and watching him.  He said nothing but painfully, slowly walked into the locker room.

Rey told the other women what happened.  They were already undressed and packed.

Rose said, “Was he mad?”  She shivered.  “I wouldn’t want that guy mad at me.”

Gwen looked sympathetic.  “Hey, don’t sweat.  All’s fair in hockey.”

Rey raised her eyes to look at Gwen.  “He had just told me I was too reckless.  Then I fucking nailed him.  It wasn’t like a hit during a game.  I was screwing around.  Shit.”

The women patted her shoulder as she began to peel off her pads.  

“I have to get going now,” Rose said.  “But, Rey, it will be ok.  He’s not dead.  Just mad.” She and Gwen exchanged looks.

“That may mean I’m dead,” Rey muttered.

“See you later.  Call me,” Gwen said.  

They left Rey alone in the locker room, kicking off the rest of her gear.

She heard the boys laughing and jostling outside the door of the women’s locker room.  She peeked out and saw Finn and Poe.

They stopped mid-laugh.

“Is he ok?” Rey said.

“Oh, he’s fine,” Finn said.  “But that’s gonna leave a mark.”

“Mad as a wet hen,” Poe said.  “He wouldn’t tell us the whole story, but that bruise is swelling up pretty good.  What the fuck did you do to him?”

“Aw, shit,” Rey said.  “Shit.”  She packed her stuff slowly, feeling wretched.  Kylo was a good man.  He didn’t deserve to be whacked in the thigh with a puck.  She had been hit before and it hurt like hell.

An ice pack.  Rey suddenly realized that she could get one from the concession stand. She ran jogged out of the locker room and ran up to the guy behind the counter.

“Hey, Hux, you got an ice pack?”            Hux looked her up and down.  “Yeah, what’d you girls hurt?  You never should have been playing the Knights of Ren.  That’s just nuts.”

“I nailed Kylo on the thigh,” she said, taking the pack from Hux.  “I’m not hurt.”

He sucked air between his teeth.  “Oh, that’s gotta hurt.”

Rey nodded and skipped off to the men’s locker room.  She knocked hesitantly, ice in hand.  There was no answer.  She poked her head in.  “Kylo?” Nothing.  

She heard the shower running.  She caught her lip in her teeth.  Should she nip in and leave the ice pack for him?  She wasn’t allowed to be in the mens’ locker room at all. There were strict rules at the rink.

No one else was in the room.  His gear was by itself.  She decided that she could get in and out without a problem.

Of course, she was wrong.  As she was leaning down to place the ice pack near his equipment, she heard the shower stop.  Before she could react, Kylo Ren walked out, rubbing his hair with an impossibly small towel.  Beads of water dripped down his chest and into the soft nest of hair where his…

Rey squeaked.  “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” she said.  “I brought you an ice pack.”  She turned her back on him.

“Thanks,” he said in a soft, low voice.

She heard him drying himself, rubbing that tiny towel all over his body.  She closed her eyes and tried not to imagine him wet and naked.

She heard him chuckle and pick up the ice pack. “Well, Rey of Sunshine, you managed to mark me as yours,” he said.  “I think we just got hockey married.”

Rey whipped around.  “What?”

He had pulled on some shorts and was rubbing deodorant under his arms.  “Want to see the ring?”

Rey couldn’t help herself.  She stepped closer.  He showed her the big red mark on the inside of his thigh.  It looked like a red circle, darker red on the outside and lighter inside.  It was turning a shade of purple.

“I am so sorry,” Rey said in horror, looking at the painful mark.  She reached out a hand without thinking.

“Would you like to touch my thigh, Rey?”

She looked up and drowned in his tawny eyes. His black hair was tousled and damp. His lips were full, with a small smile growing on them.  He was gorgeous.

“Uh, no,” she said, softly, staring at his face.

He grinned.  He didn’t seem to believe her.  “Hmmm,” he said. “I believe you owe me something for marking me.  Now that I’m yours, you need to give me something.”

Rey’s brows snapped together.  “I am not yours,” she said.  Then she felt her blush rising.  “I’m not yours, I mean.”

The man laughed out loud and slapped his other, uninjured leg.  “This is worth all the pain, my Rey of Sunshine.”

She ground her teeth.  “You know what I mean.  You’re not mine.”

“We’ll see,” he said.  “You gave me a ring.  It counts for something.”

“I’m not even supposed to be in here,” Rey said. “Someone might be wanting to get in.”

Kylo stood up, walked to the door, and with a quick twist, turned the lock.

Rey’s mouth went dry.  “Now, look here.”

He walked toward her.  “Not gonna hurt you, Rey.”  He stood in front of her with his bare chest and legs.  She gulped and looked upward about fifty feet into his face. “I’m just making sure you feel comfortable when I kiss you.”

“Um,” Rey said.

Kylo took her hand, sat himself on the bench, and pulled Rey on his lap.  She didn’t think to fight him.  She didn’t even want to try.

His big hand slid into her hair.

“You’re showered and I’m sweaty,” she said, looking at him cautiously.

“A little seasoning,” he said.

Then he kissed her.  Slowly at first, a simple touch of lips.  He pulled back to look at her.

“Is this ok with you?”

She nodded.

He said, “Good.” He pulled her close and she met his lips with abandon.

They kissed hard and long, tongues twining. He was delicious and warm.  He murmured sweet words to her about her taste as he kissed her deeper and deeper.

“Kylo,” she whispered.

“I need to taste more of your salt,” he said. He sat her on the bench and knelt in front of her.  

“Oh,” she said, when he tugged her jeans and panties down.  She was sure someone would be knocking on the door of the locker room any minute.

“Home?” she asked.  

He shook his head.  “You owe me,” he said.

He buried his face between her legs, licking her slowly while she stifled soft moans.

She dug her hands in his hair.  “Someone will…” She couldn’t talk, much less think.

“Your fault, my love.” He stopped licking to look at her.  “You marked me as yours and you owe me for hurting me.”

He teased her with his tongue until she had trouble keeping herself quiet.  He focused his loving attention on her favorite spot.  Her release came soon after.  He clapped a big hand over her mouth to stop her outcry.

Rey slumped on Kylo’s shoulder.  “Kylo,” she said.

“Yes,” he said.

“Do it all,” Rey panted.  “I need it all.”

He pulled himself out of his shorts while Rey scooted to the edge of the seat.  He fitted himself into her slowly.  She had trouble again being quiet, so he covered her lips with his as he pressed into her.  She bit his lips gently as he filled her.

He moved in her and circled her with a thumb until she came again.  Then he pulled her to the ground where his abandoned black jersey lay.  She lay legs spread wide while he pumped himself into her. She dug her hands in his damp hair and put her heels on his sexy behind.  

Rey buried her head in his shoulder to stop from crying out.  This man, this beautiful man was all hers and she reveled in the power she had to make him happy, to mark him, and to make him hers over and over again.  He growled low and long in her hair as he came inside her.

Kylo raised himself up on an elbow and kissed her. “My Rey of Sunshine,” he said.

This time, Rey did touch his thigh gently.  He lay back to give her a good look.  “Damn, I am so sorry.  I did you in, didn’t I?  Are you really mad at me?”

Kylo sighed and rolled his eyes.  “No more than usual, I guess.  Girlie, you have got to be careful.  I am not made out of iron.  A couple of inches over and we would have been in real trouble.  I’d be singing soprano right now and no little Rens would be in our future.”

She pursed her lips and looked remorseful. “I need to be grounded from hockey.”

“You are a damn menace,” he agreed.  “But you are my menace.  We can still play, I guess, if you promise to harass that power shot of yours.”

She smiled at him warmly and stretched. “I need a Gatorade.  Want one?” she said.  “I need to get off the floor of this gross-ass locker room, Kylo.  For heaven’s sake.  Our locker room is so much nicer.”

“You are the one who came in here,” he said, packing his bag.

“Yeah, yeah, to think I was actually worried about you,” she said.

“Get your shit,” he called, unlocking the door.

Kylo had bought Rey a Gatorade and was swallowing his down when she came out with her gear.

Hux smiled at the two of them as Kylo put his arm around Rey.  “Goodnight, Rens.  See you another day.  Hope your wife didn’t do you in, Kylo.”

Kylo raised one hand to Hux.  “I’m all right.”

“I didn’t kill him this time.  Just gave him a nice scar.  Night, Hux,” Rey said, hugging her beautiful husband close as they carried their gear to their waiting car.

[imatastyporkcutletbowl]

Yakov and some of Victor and Yuuri's friends deal with the devastating news as Victor's captor lays out his plans.

Kazimir slowed his car as he reached the entrance to an old, dilapidated building in a poor, rundown section of town, south of central Saint  Petersburg. He stopped at the broken front gate, looking around to make sure that he was alone, then he exited the car and opened the gate. He returned to the car and drove inside, then closed and locked the gate behind him. He turned the car’s lights off and proceeded by moonlight to the covered area he had made to hide the vehicle. Once inside the makeshift carport, he slid a metal sheet across the entrance, concealing the car from view.

He moved around to the back of the car, and immediately heard thumping sounds and a muffled male voice shouting. He scowled at the sound and returned to the driver’s seat of the car, where he touched a button he had installed under the dash. He heard a little hissing noise and gradually the thumping and shouting quieted. He waited until the person in the trunk was still, then he opened the trunk slowly and found Victor collapsed again and sleeping deeply. He moved carefully, threading his fingers into the skater’s thick bangs and yanking his head back, watching for any sign of a reaction. Seeing none, he lifted the unconscious man into his arms and carried him up a set of cracked steps, through a doorway with doors that barely clung to the frame, and into an old, forgotten skating rink. He paused for a moment, looking into the recently restored rink.

“You have no idea how much work it was, getting this place up and running on the inside, setting it up so that it works, but no one can see from the outside. I even had to find a way to provide the power I needed without it being obvious. Yes, I went to a lot of work, Victor…all to bring you back here. I wonder if you’ll even remember being here before.”

He looked down at Victor’s limp body and huffed softly.

“Don’t worry. If you can’t remember, I’ll remind you. See, I haven’t forgotten, Victor. I…remember everything.”

His blue eyes looked into the gently lit ice rink, admiring the restoration job, then sinking back in time for a moment.

“Pasha!” his coach snapped, “Mind your free leg!”

His teeth gritted in reaction to the harsh reprimand, but he knew better than to complain. Even as young as he was, he was well aware that professional coaches had plenty of choices about which skaters they could train. He held his free leg more carefully, earning a satisfied grunt from the skating coach. The sound of someone skating to join him made Pasha stop and turn slightly, and he found himself looking at a teen boy barely older than him who had bright blue-green eyes and the most unusual long, silvery hair.

I know him!

“Victor Nikiforov?” he whispered in shock, “What are you doing here?”

“There was a fire at my home rink,” Victor explained cheerfully, slowing to a stop in front of Pasha, “I’ll be here for a month or so, until they fix it. I guess that makes us rink mates for awhile.”

“I’m Pasha,” the smaller, blonde youth introduced himself, “It’s nice to meet you, Victor.”

I’m a big fan of Victor’s. He’s the reason I started skating. I never thought I would even meet him!

“It’s nice to meet you too, Pasha,” Victor answered, “I’ll be seeing you around.”

Victor skated back to his waiting coach, who looked around the small rink and made a dissatisfied sound.

“I can’t believe they couldn’t find anything better than this…ridiculous!”

“Oh, don’t be so grouchy, Yakov!” Victor laughed, turning and skating away backwards.

His skate caught on a small rough patch, and the usually graceful skater started to fall. Pasha swept forward and caught his arm, steadying him.

“Watch out,” the younger boy said, smiling, “There are a few bad places they just can’t seem to fix. I’ll show you where they are, so you won’t hit them when you practice.”

“Thanks,” Victor laughed, blushing.

“How do the poor kids here manage to skate without breaking a leg!” Yakov shouted, “Don’t worry, Victor. We will get this fixed. Come off the ice now.”

“Don’t worry so much,” Victor said off-handedly, “Pasha knows where the rough spots are. And I need to practice.”

“Stubborn ass,” Yakov muttered, scowling, “It will serve you right if you break something!”

“I won’t tell you my real name yet. Let’s see how long it takes you to remember,” Kazimir suggested to his sleeping captive, “We have plenty of time, Victor. We have the rest of our lives.”

He carried Victor around the side of the rink, to a set of offices that he had remade into two rooms. He carried Victor into one of them and laid him down on the cot in the room.

“It’s hard to believe you’re finally here,” he said in a slightly shaking voice, “Victor finally came back, and this time, you will stay, won’t you?”

He bound the unconscious skater’s slender wrists to an iron bar he had fixed securely in the wall, then bound his feet to a second metal fixture he had placed at the foot of the bed. He leaned over the restrained man, removing an odd looking device that he laid over Victor’s closed eyes, sealing it carefully to the pale flesh.

“You won’t want to try to remove this, unless you want to mess up your beautiful face, Victor,” he warned the skater, “I can remove it later, after you’ve come around, but I don’t want you trying to get away while I sleep or something. You’ll be out for awhile. I’m going to shower and make some food for us. I will be back.”

He left Victor sleeping soundly and headed for the restored locker room.

XXXXXXXXXX

Otabek stirred and grunted sleepily as the phone next to the bed started to ring, and Yuri Plisetsky’s slim hand reached over him to grab the receiver.

“What the hell do you want? Do you know what goddamned time it is, Yakov?” he snapped, “This had better be important!”

“This is no joke,” Yakov said in a low, dispirited voice that Yuri had never heard his coach use before, “Yuri, Vitya is dead.”

The receiver dropped from Yuri’s hand, making Otabek sit up and loop an arm around him as he reached down to pick it up off the floor. Yuri stared blindly at the phone in his hand for a moment as Yakov’s voice called his name several times.

“Ya, I hear you,” he managed finally, “You’d better be kidding. You’re not serious, right?”

“I’m afraid I am,” Yakov continued.

“I don’t want to hear this, damn it!” Yuri hissed, “Tell me you’re making this up!”

“I wish that I was,” Yakov answered, his voice breaking, “Vitya and Yuuri were coming back from the interview tonight and their limo went off the edge of a cliff.”

“What?” Yuri whispered, his slim body shivering, “Pork cutlet bowl is dead too?”

“No,” Yakov explained, “They aren’t sure how…whether he was thrown out as the car went over the edge or if he jumped out, or was pushed out. They found him on a ledge. He’s hurt pretty badly, but he’s alive and he’s awake. I just left him to call you. He says he doesn’t remember anything about what happened. He remembers leaving the TV station in the limo with Vitya, then nothing more. We haven’t told him about Vitya yet, only that the search for him is continuing. His doctor told me that he may or may not remember more later.”

“Yakov, you said the car went over the cliff,” Yuri said through clenched teeth, “Did they find it yet?”

“I heard that they did. They found it in the river, about a mile downstream. There were no bodies, but it was certain that anyone in the car would have died. They are still searching, but they don’t expect to find anyone alive.”

“But they don’t know he’s dead, right?”

“They found his cell phone in the wreckage.”

“That doesn’t prove anything!” Yuri yelled, “You tell me where they’re searching. I’ll go and look too!”

“They can’t search anymore tonight. It’s too dangerous in that area. Too much of a chance of rock slides. They’re going to continue looking in the morning.”

“But if Victor’s hurt and waiting out there…!”

“They’ve flown a helicopter over the area and there was no sign of anyone. Yuri, there isn’t anything you can do. You need to rest. The media will be all over us in the morning.”

“I don’t give a damn about that!” Yuri raged, “I want to know, okay? I want to know for sure!”

He made a sound of disgust and ended the call as Yakov tried to answer. Otabek kept an arm around Yuri and squeezed his hand.

“Something very bad happened, didn’t it? Something happened to Victor and Yuuri?”

Yuri huffed out an agitated breath.

“Their limo went off a cliff,” Yuri said in a low, disbelieving voice, “They found pork cutlet bowl alive, but he doesn’t remember anything about the accident. They didn’t find Victor or the driver, but they found Victor’s cell phone in the wreck.”

Yuri stiffened and a rebellious look came into his eyes.

“I’m going to go there,” he hissed angrily, “I’m going to go and look for him!”

“It’s really late,” Otabek said, quietly but firmly, “Where did it happen?”

“Up a hillside, near a cliff on the way back from the TV station. The car ended up in the river.”

“I know that area. I’ve been through there,” Otabek said, keeping his voice calm, “There are a lot of drop offs, and this late at night, we won’t be able to see where it happened. It’s only a few hours until it will be light. I will go with you as soon as it is light outside, okay?”

Yuri went rigid, his eyes and nostrils flaring indignantly, but as he read the honest concern on Otabek’s face, he took a shaky breath and nodded.

“Fine, but I’m not going to be able to sleep.”

“It’s fine,” the elder skater said solemnly, folding both arms around Yuri and holding him against a strong shoulder, “Just rest as much as you can.”

XXXXXXXXXX

Yuuri laid on his back in his hospital bed, his distraught brown eyes staring up at the ceiling.

“Why can’t I remember?” he whispered desperately, “Victor…Victor, where are you?”

No one will tell me anything about Victor!

Yuuri’s eyes filled with tears.

I know what that means.

Either they haven’t found him, or they have and Victor is…! No! No, that’s not going to happen! Victor is hurt, or he’d be here, but he’s not…Victor isn’t…

“I thought I told you to try to sleep,” Yakov scolded him in a tired voice as the skating coach entered the room.

“Has there been any word about Victor?” Yuuri asked, turning his head to look at Yakov, then loosing a sound of torment.

He called Victor’s name again in a ragged voice, then his eyes glazed over and he began to lose consciousness. Yakov sat down beside the bed and slipped a comforting hand into his.

“Go to sleep, Yuuri. Get what rest you can.”

Yuuri only managed to sleep fitfully, waking every few minutes to throbs of intense pain that radiated all over his abused body. Yakov scowled and left the room, looking around outside of the room until he found a nurse.

“Yuuri is in unbearable pain. Can’t you give him something yet?” he asked, “The boy needs to rest.”

“I’m sorry,” the nurse apologized, “but he has a head injury, and we need to be sure that we can rouse him periodically.”

“You don’t need to rouse him!” Yakov snapped, “He wakes up practically screaming every few minutes! I’ll wake him as often as you want, just do something so he isn’t hurting to damned badly!”

“I’ll call a doctor to examine him and see what we can do for him,” the nurse promised.

Yakov looked ready to argue, but he let out an impatient breath and returned to the room, where he found Yuuri awake again and staring up at the ceiling, and panting softly in distress.

“V-victor?” he called feverishly.

A doctor entered the room and leaned over Yuuri, quickly examining him, then motioning to the nurse, who gave him an injection. She watched alongside the doctor as the medication made his body slowly relax.

“This will take the edge off the pain without reducing his level of consciousness,” the doctor explained to Yakov, “His mind will be foggy, so he won’t be so focused on asking questions.”

“That should help,” Yakov sighed, settling at Yuuri’s side again and watching as his eyes blinked slowly and faded in and out of focus, “He needs to take care of himself right now. There is nothing he can do for Vitya.”

“Wh-what are you doing?” Yuuri whispered weakly, “What are you doing?”

He drifted off, still whispering incoherently.

“Yakov,” a woman’s voice called from the doorway.

Yakov’s eyes rotated to the door and found Georgi and Mila entering the room.

“What are you two doing here?” the skating coach asked gruffly, his voice betraying an edge of sympathy, “You have practice in the morning.”

“I don’t think there will be any practice,” Georgi projected, “Not with every TV station parked outside the skating rink and the mountains of flowers that are showing up there for Victor and Yuuri.”

“We saw for ourselves on the way over,” Mila added, her eyes tearing, “The owners had to set up some security to keep everything orderly.”

“Vitya is a skating legend,” Yakov said solemnly, “and half the world has fallen in love with the two of them.”

“Well, if many more flowers come, the rink will be buried in them,” Georgi said, shaking his head, “That is a lot of love.”

“I need to go to the rink and speak to the owners about what to do,” Yakov said, standing, “Can the two of you sit with Yuuri until I come back?”

“We’ll stay,” Mila promised.

Yakov nodded approvingly.

“Don’t talk to him about Vitya. If he wakes up and asks about him, just say that the search is still going on, and that someone will come to update him soon. He doesn’t have much sense of time, with how they are drugging him to lessen the pain, but he does wake up sometimes. Make sure the doctors keep on top of his pain.”

“We will,” Georgi promised.

“Yuuri’s family has been notified, and his sister is coming, along with another friend. They can take over sitting with Yuuri as soon as they arrive.”

Yakov paused and let out a sigh.

“I want to warn you also not to speak to the press about what you know,” he warned the two.”

“Well,” Georgi said, shrugging, “we don’t really know anything that other people don’t know already, so we won’t be much help.”

“Yakov,” Mila said suddenly, her voice filled with tension, “I’ve just had a thought. With all of the people camping out and sending flowers to the rink, do you think people are showing up at Victor and Yuuri’s home too?”

“They are,” Yakov affirmed, “But I notified the group that provides our security, and they are watching the house and sending anyone who shows up there to the skating rink. There should be no problem there.”

“That’s good,” Mila sighed, “Sometimes people get sort of crazy…”

“People forget their manners sometimes,” Yakov said, lowering his eyes, “when these things happen. But, we will watch out for them…Yuuri and Vitya.”

[junker-town]

NHL scores 2017: It’s time for a Dallas Stars culture change

The latest collapse signals the end. Or, it should.

Facing their biggest game of the season on Sunday, the Dallas Stars withstood early fights and took a 3-0 lead in Nashville.

Five unanswered goals and a 5-3 loss later, Dallas’ playoff hopes are effectively done. Or, they should be.

The collapse will seem stunning to those who haven’t followed the team closely. And many will try to tell you that this means the Stars require a goalie trade for the likes of Marc-Andre Fleury or Ben Bishop to fix what ails them.

That’s a simple, short-sighted and wrong solution to a more poisonous problem. It’s easy to say “this one move will right the ship.” It’s much harder to accept the ship needs to be sunk.

The truth is that goaltending has been decent for the Stars this year; a strange culture and mindset of self-defeat has torpedoed their playoff hopes. When they get a lead, they stop skating. In the 16 minutes since Dallas took their 3-0 lead, Nashville scored four goals and outshot the Stars, 19-2.

Maybe that’s a brain thing; years of watching themselves crumble late in games started making them sit back on their heels waiting for their opponent to launch an assault. For two-thirds of the game, Kari Lehtonen was the only reason the Stars were hanging in there.

Yet he’ll absorb the blame because that’s the easy conclusion to reach for and the easiest to solve.

General manager Jim Nill gets paid to reach further and make the hard decisions. As he watched the Stars limp back to their locker room in defeat (the worst of the season), he had to be wondering the same thing fans were: What more can coach Lindy Ruff say? What could be said in that locker room to change the self-defeating nature that’s inexplicably set in on one of the league’s most promising rosters?

Now there’s a question with a tough answer. And one that’s hard to swallow, especially just a year removed from almost winning the Presidents’ Trophy. Maybe nothing can be said. Maybe nothing will be said.

Maybe the solution is finding new people in that locker room to say it.

Scores

Sharks 4, Devils 1

Wild 6, Red Wings 3

Predators 5, Stars 3

Islanders 5, Avalanche 1

Canucks 4, Sabres 2

Bruins 4, Canadiens 0

Get the biggest NHL news, rumors, and analysis in your inbox every morning!

Three Things We Learned

1. Zdeno Chara can dangle

The Bruins captain is the most nimble giraffe ever to wield a hockey stick.

BIG MAN DANGLES http://pic.twitter.com/8eHRvGFeve

— Pete Blackburn (@PeteBlackburn) February 13, 2017

2. The NHL is here to fill your violent sports needs

No football on Sundays for the better part of a year. So the NHL stepped in and dropped the gloves across the board.

Andrew Shaw and Torey Krug do not like each other http://pic.twitter.com/jnjSNS1kFg

— Pete Blackburn (@PeteBlackburn) February 13, 2017

JUSTIN FALK FROM THE TOP ROPE https://t.co/jIEKyIVKqO http://pic.twitter.com/OQE2DBzXFo

— Pat Iversen (@PatIversenSBN) February 13, 2017

Gotta draw in those casual fans.

3. NHL team Twitter accounts are willing to make fun of the NBA

So the NBA is prohibiting teams from antagonizing each other on Twitter. The Kings and Hawks mocked their own league soon after.

And then the Stars and Predators decided to mock those teams AND the NBA. As usual, an early lead came back to bite Dallas.

.@DallasStars looks like you guys took an L on Twitter and on the ice

— Sacramento Kings (@SacramentoKings) February 13, 2017

Impact Moment

Gustav Nyquist is going to get suspended six games or more for this vicious spear on Jared Spurgeon. He’ll have an in-person hearing this week with the NHL Department of Player Safety.

Stat of the Night

In the last 6 games the Sabres have had 7 power plays. The opposition has had 20.

— Paul Hamilton (@pham1717) February 13, 2017

CONTHPIRACY!

Soundbite of the Night

Jamie Benn on giving up the lead in tonight's game vs. Nashville. http://pic.twitter.com/VYWux9iMxv

— Dallas Stars (@DallasStars) February 13, 2017

Post to Post

Nathan Beaulieu spears Zdeno Chara below the belt https://t.co/TS4giF0dr9 http://pic.twitter.com/3bxrX43udD

— StanleyCup ofChowder (@cupofchowdah) February 13, 2017

Islanders 5, Avalanche 1: Home streak continues https://t.co/ZBjyMEZIP3 http://pic.twitter.com/nGnzYp9GAX

— Dominik & LHHFriends (@LHHockey) February 13, 2017

Avalanche scoring nowhere to be found, stranded by Islanders 5-1 https://t.co/83ujfnuEC2 http://pic.twitter.com/D8y4lEfd6R

— MHH (@MileHighHockey) February 13, 2017

Stars Allow Five Unanswered Goals, Lose 5-3 https://t.co/TVs6NYoH17 http://pic.twitter.com/bBLU8B4Nmp

— DefendingBigD (@DefendingBigD) February 13, 2017

Nashville Predators 5, Dallas Stars 3: Embarrassing Start, Great Finish https://t.co/caSIAy6oJ7

— On The Forecheck (@OnTheForecheck) February 13, 2017

Wild roll 6 goals on Red Wings. https://t.co/IP92DzGds9

— Hockey Wilderness (@hockeywildernes) February 12, 2017