#iterator: twenty needles

[littleruffian]

wanted a lineup of them for referencing purposes

[sapphicellegreenaway]

once more to see you

hockey player!aaron hotchner x figure skater!fem!reader

switching training facilities before your most important season should have been a complete disaster, but you manage to find love along the way

word count: 15.0k

warnings: cursing, alcohol consumption, moderate description of injury, needles

a/n: hi! this is the first and only time i'll publish anything in relation to the men of the bau because i wanted this story to live and exist in the world in an iteration that felt was authentic and how i originally pictured it. anyways enjoy nhl superstar aaron hotchner (yes he plays for philly bc they're my dumb little team)

⭒⭑⭒

Aaron swears he’s going to kill whoever’s in charge of renting out the practice facility. At the very least he’s going to give them a piece of his mind.

Realistically, he knows it’s impossible. The rink can be rented by anyone when the Flyers aren’t using it and he typically thinks it’s a great way to promote ice sports in the community. Aaron just wishes the facilities manager didn’t rent it out to figure skaters. They destroy the ice with their toe picks and leave it in terrible shape, which makes it hard to properly execute plays that could be the difference between a win or a loss in a game. It frustrates him because while community engagement is important, his career and the team take precedence on the rink owned by the organization that has him on payroll.

No one else seems to be bothered by the recent decline in ice conditions. Most of his teammates are used to poor ice, growing up playing pond hockey and at rinks that also housed figure skating clubs. While Aaron had those experiences as well, it’s clear he never developed the same nonchalance as everyone else. He complains in the dressing room after every practice until Derek finally says something.

“Christ Hotch, relax. It’s only for another month until renovations at the other rink finish.”

Others chime in, telling him to not take it so seriously, with a couple of them defending the right of the other athletes to use the ice as they please. The grief Aaron catches is enough to shut him up, but he still stews privately over the fact figure skaters are destroying his happy place.

⭑

You want nothing more than to return to your home rink. The Flyers Skate Zone has been nice, the staff incredibly accommodating, but something feels off. You’re having a harder time landing jumps and skating clean programs than you’ve had at another rink. The change in routine is enough to knock you off your game, which is something you absolutely can’t have. You’re coming off a breakthrough season, finishing on the podium at nationals and landing a spot on your first world championship roster. People are expecting you to replicate your success and you want to do that and more.

US Figure Skating has taken a chance placing you on the national team for the current season. Though it was expected, they could have easily chosen the fourth place skater instead. She’s much younger than you, barely fifteen, and is yet to have a serious injury. At twenty-one you’re barely an adult, but this could be the last time you get an opportunity like this. The sport keeps getting younger and you could get left behind if you don’t prove yourself. The grand prix circuit was kind to you throughout the summer and fall, allowing you to earn medals at some of the smaller competitions and hold your own against the big dogs in the majors like NHK Trophy. With its conclusion all your attention is on landing higher on the podium at nationals.

⭑

“Try the triple flip again,” Brenda, your coach, instructs. “You could be more solid on the landing.”

��It’s this fucking ice! I can do one at home that would get me a high GOE,” you complain.

She rolls her eyes and thinks about telling you off, but decides against it. No matter how many times she tells you it’s a mental block you need to get over, you find a way to blame the training facility. “Just give me five solid ones and we’ll call it quits.”

It’s your turn to show frustration, leaving the boards with an impression of your pick, but you peel away from them anyways. Some juniors are mingling in a corner and you warn them to watch out as you skate by, gaining speed in hopes of actually executing the element correctly. The first attempt feels natural, and though you could have been a little stronger on the exit it’s a significant improvement from what you were doing earlier in the session. Jumps two and three also go well, but things go wrong on the fourth try. You catch a bad edge just before takeoff and aren’t able to correct your centre of gravity while in the air. Two and a half rotations happen before you slam into the ground and the entire right side of your body feels like it’s been run over by a bus.

“Fuck!” you scream in frustration as you pick yourself up off the ice. Everything throbs, and it takes an inner strength you didn’t know you possessed to not take your skates off and throw them in a garbage can. You’re tired of the regression that’s plagued you since coming to train here. Circling back to examine just how bad the edge was you notice your pick created much too large a hole, something you’d get points deducted for in competition. Brenda signals you over to her, and your head hangs low as you skate over to the woman who looks just as defeated as you feel.

“You’re done,” she sighs. You can tell it pains her to see your progress plateau, but you’re doing everything you can to get out of this rut — nothing is working. Before you can protest, try to convince her to let you stay on, she’s speaking again. “Our ice time is just about up. Go cool down and meet me in the conference room when you’re done.”

There’s nothing for you to do but sulk off the ice. The other skaters clear out of your way, not wanting to be on the receiving end of your anger. You direct it at the dressing room door, kicking it open so harshly it flies back on the hinges. It makes you feel a bit better, but you’re still in a sour mood as you untie your skates. It’s frustrating not being able to perform at the level you know you can, even in practice. If you could just get out of this rink and back into the one you’re most comfortable at.

After a much longer stretching routine than normal, you pack up your bag and head upstairs for what will no doubt be one of those meetings where you sit silently and take the heat. You realize that your behaviour today was childish, but you couldn’t help but let your emotions overcome you. The next group is well into their ice time when you pass by, and you notice it’s the hockey team that the building is named after. Most of them don’t acknowledge you and keep running drills, but one who looks to be your age is sending you daggers. His anger confuses you, and somehow fuels your own because there’s no reason for him to look at you like that.

The meeting goes much better than you thought it would. Brenda takes your anger in stride and lets you apologize for your outburst before shifting the conversation to altering your training plan. She suggests you take a few days off from the rink, working strictly off-ice, and you begrudgingly agree. There isn’t anything you can do or say to change her mind so you take the updated workout plans with a fake smile. She also tells you that your appointment with your sports psychologist has been moved up a couple of days, which you’re grateful for. It will do you good to work through the things you’re feeling with someone who can actually provide strategies for coping. Things then move to talking strategy and watching tape of competitors to see what to expect at this year’s nationals. The event is in just over a month, and you have the goal of landing on the podium once again, hopefully with the gold medal dangling around your neck.

A couple of hours pass with the pair of you holed up in the conference room, and it’s dark when you gather your stuff and head for home. The complex is deserted and you assume no one but the staff are still here. It turns out someone else was there, and they follow you out, their own gear bag slung over their shoulder. You don’t really pay them any mind, holding the door open out of habit, and fail to recognize the person as the boy who glared while you walked by hours prior. He notices you, however, and makes a point to voice his distaste.

“Hey!” he calls out, “Next time you eat shit don’t put such a big hole in the ice. Other people need it to make money.”

“Get fucked,” you yell back. You really don’t have the time or energy to be accosted by a hockey player. He continues to talk, but you don’t hear it because you slam your car door shut and drive off into the darkness.

⭑

Aaron doesn’t feel like he was in the wrong about the situation until Gideon suggests he apologize a few days later. In his mind, he has every right to be upset about you damaging the ice because it directly affected him. The hole you caused couldn’t be fully repaired, and he tripped at a really key moment during the scrimmage. His bad day was your fault.

“You can’t blame a tough practice on her man,” the captain says as the two of them skate a few warm-up laps. Hopefully taking the moment to talk to the youngster will help him understand that other people are allowed to struggle. “She didn’t mean to fall. Hell, she didn’t want to do it.”

“I get it, or whatever, but it’s still her fault. We’re professional athletes, we need to be at the top of our games.”

He gives Aaron a pointed look and taps the raven-haired winger with the nearest stick “So is she! Did you know that she’s favoured to win both the national and world championships? That things look good for her to be on the Olympic team next year?”

Aaron didn’t know, and guilt twinges his stomach. The next time he runs into you he’s going to apologize.

⭑

You spend your time away from the rink conditioning and regaining focus. The first couple of days are tough, but then you settle into a routine you believe will ultimately make you a better athlete and competitor. Your cardio and weights are upped, and you’re anxious to see how the increase improves your endurance — too often have you been out of breath at the end of a performance. At the suggestion of your psychologist you take a few more days off than originally planned, but it’s the best thing you could have done. You return to the rink ready to nail the final few weeks of training before nationals.

Any other coach would have detested you for taking a week off this close to a major competition, but not Brenda. She understands that you needed the time to refocus and that you’ll work harder than anyone else in the time until you leave for Salt Lake City. Your first practice is fantastic — every element is clean when isolated and within your programs. The timing is off a bit during your free skate on the first run-through but your nerves settle quickly and the next one is spot on. It feels good to be back in control of things.

“I think you’re over that mental block kid,” Brenda laughs when you stop along the boards to get some water. “You’re skating better here than at home.”

You can’t help but agree, a small smile breaking out on your face. “You know, I hate it here slightly less than two weeks ago. Think we should move here permanently?” The comment earns you a slightly aggressive hair ruffling, but it’s worth it. You spend the last hour of ice time alone, running through both of your programs in a mock competition setting.

It’s nearly silent in the complex when Aaron sneaks through the doors. The only thing he can hear is the faint sounds of music he presumes belongs to you from inside the pad. He had begun to think you were never going to reappear at the rink, but learned you were just taking a break when he cornered your coach in the parking lot. The middle-aged lady had told him when you’d be returning and Aaron immediately put it in his calendar so he wouldn’t forget. Now, as he stands against the glass watching you, he’s slightly nervous. What if you don’t accept his apology? No one has ever rebuffed him in the manner you had, not even opponents on rival teams, and he hates the idea of someone smearing his name in the media.

Aaron knew you were good. Well, he was pretty sure you were. He spent the short three-day road trip to Florida watching as many videos of you competing on YouTube as he could find. Though he’s murky on the specifics of what makes a good figure skater, he knows you put heart and soul into every performance and that your elements are strong technically — your scores reflect those facts. Regardless, Aaron is surprised how much better you seem when he’s watching you from the corner of the rink.

You’re looser than in the videos he’s seen, probably because there isn’t any pressure, but you don’t give it any less than a hundred percent. The music drives you forward in a way he’s never seen before — you’re an extension of it, and it of you. As you round a corner to pick up speed Aaron finds himself holding his breath. From watching footage of this program on the plane home, he knows you’re about to attempt the hardest element in it. The quadruple salchow is one of the most difficult jumps female skaters are attempting at the moment, according to his research, and it’s been your most inconsistent element this season from comments online. You’re completing the jump before Aaron even realizes you’ve taken off the ground, but you don’t fall. He exhales and watches the rest of the program with a reserved awe and intrigue. Top-quality athletes recognize greatness, and he now understands everything the team has been trying to tell him for months — he just had to see it to believe it.

When the music stops and you float back to reality from wherever it is you go in the moment to take in your surroundings, you notice the applause. Thinking it’s just from Brenda, you shrug it off, but when you turn around she isn’t clapping. It’s coming from someone else — the boy who was a douchebag the last day before your break. The chances of him being here to make another snide comment are hight, but Brenda insists you should talk to him. You wave him over to a section near the benches that doesn't have glass so you can hear him over the sound of other people’s blades scraping the ice.

“What do you want?” you ask bluntly, taking a sip of water.

Aaron’s taken aback by your abrasiveness but does his best to recover quickly. After all, he’s more than deserving of it. “I wanted to apologize for what I said last week. That wasn’t very, uh, professional of me. I was having a bad day and took out on you, I’m sorry,” he rambles, reminding you he’s human and trying to figure out life the same way you are. “And you’re really talented.”

“It wasn’t fucking cool,” you agree, not quite ready to drop the frosty tone your voice holds, “But it’s fine. I had just been kicked off the ice for a week when you caught me, so I’m sorry too. For snapping.” There’s nothing more for either of you to say, and Brenda is calling your name, so you skate away from him. Over your shoulder you call out, “Thanks for the compliment unnamed Flyers player!”

“It’s Aaron!” he responds. “Aaron Hotchner.”

⭑

A sort of truce befalls the two of you. More of your ice time overlaps, but neither acknowledge each other more than the occasional nod in each other’s direction. It doesn’t bother you in the slightest because preparing for nationals is the only thing that matters currently, and trying to navigate a possible friendship would be too much of a distraction. Aaron is a little put off you don’t try to extend pleasantries, but when it’s explained to him that you’re entering a period that is similar to the lead-up to playoffs he understands. It’s becoming clear that the lives you lead are more similar than he ever could have imagined.

Despite there being no reason to do so, he finds himself making up excuses to stay at the rink to watch you practice. He blows off dinner with Reid and drinks with Morgan when you have the slot after their practice, and when you skate before him he’s at the rink hours early. His schoolboy crush becomes the topic of locker room gossip. Though Aaron swears up and down that he just likes to watch you skate, no one believes him. They don’t go as far as to embarrass him in your presence, but Derek certainly tries on numerous occasions. It’s Aaron’s steely resolve and deadpan expressions that normally save him from public ridicule, but when the guys aren’t looking he sneaks you a small smile to signal he isn’t upset with anything you’ve done. What he doesn’t know is that you’re developing the same sort of fascination with him. You find yourself turning on every Flyers game you can fit into your schedule, watching him intently, and keeping an eye on his stats. The official NHL app now sits on your homescreen, nestled between various social media platforms.

“That boy sure has a lot of interest in you,” Brenda muses one day while you’re talking strategy on how to increase the points total on your short program.

“It’s really nothing, Hotch is just curious about the sport and I’m the most available one for him to latch onto,” you sigh, hoping she doesn’t question you further. “So I was thinking, if I raise my arms during the triple lutz it should give me at least three more points.”

She looks at you like you’ve gained two extra heads. “Are you insane? You’ve never raised your arms during a triple.”

Your smile turns into a wicked smirk. “It can’t be that hard.”

It’s a lot harder than you thought it would be. Though you’ve added the extra step to jumps in the past, it’s been on singles and doubles to rack up points and GOE scores. Jumping has never been your strong suit, and trying to navigate the change in your centre of gravity is difficult. You spend the rest of your ice time popping, under-rotating, or slamming into the ground. A couple of juniors snicker at your failed attempts, but when you remind them they’re stuck on a double loop they stop laughing. It was a little mean, and you remember how hard it was to prove yourself when climbing up the ranks, but you can’t find it in you to care. There’s no need to laugh at someone trying to improve their performance. After a few more failed attempts you cut your losses and head off the ice, more than exhausted.

Bruises start to form on your sides from falling the exact same way so many times, and you trace them lightly through the thin material of your compression top. They’re going to look nasty in a few hours if you don’t ice them soon. A knock on the locker room door stops your actions, and you invite the person on the other side in. To your surprise it’s Aaron, and he’s holding an ice pack.

“I thought you might need one of these,” he says, extending it to you.

You thank him and hiss slightly when the cold hits your skin. There’s a beat of awkward silence before he speaks again. “Can I ask why you’re trying to change that jump?”

“You noticed that?” you know it isn’t a response to his question, but you’re shocked. “Didn’t realize a hot shot like you would actually pay attention to what I do.”

Aaron smirks and shrugs with a nonchalance that seems a little too forced. You explain how changing the position of your arms increases the difficulty of the jump and therefore raises the amount of points it can receive. “So you’re doing it to get more points?”

“Pretty much. It’s a gamble this close to competition, but I’m confident it’ll work out.”

“You’re afraid your program won’t gain enough points to put you in a good position for the free skate,” he notes, “Or you wouldn’t be doing this.”

Once again, you’re floored by his understanding of your sport. “Maybe I am, maybe I’m not,” you say as confidently as you can. “But maybe I just want the challenge.” If Aaron notices the shake in your voice and the worried look in your eye he doesn’t say anything.

You go through your cool-down routine but are surprised Aaron doesn’t leave. In fact, he stays at the rink until you’re finished and follows you to the parking lot. His car is parked a few spots over from you, so you have to raise your voice a little to get him to hear you. “Hey Aaron,” you call, “Do you not have practice?”

“Day off,” he yells back. He’s grinning like an idiot, which prompts you to ask him why. “That’s the first time you’ve said my name.” The smile on his face doesn’t go away, and you try to settle the butterflies in your stomach as you drive home.

⭑

Something shifts between you after that day. It’s subtle, but you’re well on your way to becoming friends. Phone numbers are exchanged, with him insisting his contact name be ‘Hotch’ and nothing else, and the two of you chat regularly outside of the rink. He still watches as many training sessions as he can, and you start making appearances at his practices. It’s far more awkward for you but you push through it for no other reason than wanting to be a good sport. You’re sure there have been times where he wanted to go home but stayed seated on the cold concrete bleachers to offer his support on a hard day. Once Aaron’s teammates catch wind of your budding friendship, they’re pestering you to go to a game. You politely decline each time, explaining that your training schedule is rather rigid and you can’t change it so close to nationals. The competition is just over a week out, and you’re catching a flight to Utah in three days.

Aaron doesn’t let you know he’s a little upset you won’t shift your schedule for him. He understands, he really does, but sometimes he worries you don’t care enough about him to actually put work into the friendship. Instead, he brings you lunch on days where you’re at the rink for eight hours and does his individual workouts alongside yours. The two of you fall into the easy routine of enjoying each other’s company and everyone else is beginning to take notice.

“So,” you say with a mouth full of the pita Aaron brought you, “What are your plans for the All-Star break?”

He’s been toying with an idea for a few weeks now, but Aaron’s keeping it a secret. “I’m just gonna spend it at home with my family,” he shrugs.

“You’re fucking joking. Aaron, you could be somewhere warm and enjoying the beach!”

“I don’t want to go to the beach,” Aaron snorts.

You open your mouth to argue with him, because you’re of the opinion that everyone should love the beach, but you’re cut off by Brenda calling you to return to the ice. “This conversation isn’t over Hotchner,” you say sternly, poking him in the chest to prove your point. He rolls his eyes.

“I’ve gotta be at Wells Fargo in an hour for a team meeting, so I can’t watch this session,” he tells you. You’re a little deflated but understand he can’t play hookie from his job to watch you do your own. Brenda is banging a skate guard on the boards to get your attention, so you wave goodbye and jog over to her. “Y/N,” Aaron yells loud enough that you’ll hear him over the chatter on the ice, “Keep your core tight!”

Your coaching team is perplexed at the comment because it’s second nature to you at this point, but you think it’s sweet. Some of the other girls poke fun at your ‘boyfriend’ and it makes you irritable. Brenda tells them off and suggests they get back to work which makes you feel better. You keep Aaron’s advice in the back of your mind for the rest of your practice, and land every jump almost flawlessly.

The day before you board your flight you have a terrible practice. Brenda chalks it up to nerves, but you know that’s not it. You feel good about the competition and are confident it will go well. Something is off — you just can’t put a finger on it. Frustration eventually boils over and practice is called early. Everyone stays out of your way, letting you cool off, and you huff out a goodbye after promising to meet Brenda at the airport in the morning. Before you’re even out the door you’ve got your phone pressed to your ear, waiting for Aaron to pick up. The Flyers got to start their break a day early due to a scheduling conflict and you hope he doesn’t fly home tonight.

“What’s up?” Aaron’s tone is relaxed and casual, the complete opposite of how you currently feel. Judging by the background noise he’s playing video games, no doubt some dumb first-person shooter game he seems to play constantly. The sound of his voice is enough to send you into tears and make a reply impossible to choke out. His tone changes instantly when he realizes your distress and all activity on the other line halts — the game paused and forgotten about. “Hey,” he soothes, “What’s wrong?”

“Practice was bad,” you choke out, “Like really bad. I don’t think I can do this. Why did I ever think I could do this?” Now across the parking lot and faced with the task of driving home, you throw your bag in the trunk and crumble into the driver’s seat.

“Of course you can, you’re the only person I know that could do it,” he reassures, “I’ll meet you at your place,” The light jangle of keys lets you know Aaron isn’t going to take no for an answer. You don’t fight him, not having the energy to defend your normal pre-competition ritual of radio silence with the rest of the world, and hang up only after insisting you’re okay to drive the twenty minutes to your apartment.

Aaron must have drove well above the speed limit because he pulls into the parking lot at the same time as you. His engine is turned off jarringly fast, and he’s popping your trunk to grab your bag before your gears have settled in park. Though you put up some rather weak protests about carrying your own stuff, Aaron ignores them and hikes your bag higher on his shoulder. When you insist on holding something he tosses you the bag of food he brought with him. Opening it up, you realize he stopped at your favourite sushi restaurant even though he doesn’t like the food. A smile creeps onto your face, possibly the first one all day, and you lean into Aaron slightly when he wraps an arm around your shoulder.

After unlocking your door and settling, both of you flop onto the couch, chopsticks in hand. There’s a blanket of silence over the room as you eat, but it’s far from awkward. Countless hours have been spent just like this, both of you caught up in your own heads and thinking about your futures in sport for there to be discomfort at the lack of conversation. Aaron’s waiting for you to open up, knows you will eventually, and you’re trying to find the words. However, they’re yet to appear, so you let him pull you into his side and turn the television on to some basketball game.

“Thanks for coming over,” you say as the commercials switch on at the end of the first half.

Aaron sends a smile your way, which you do your best to reciprocate. “It’s what friends are for.”

Slowly you open up about practice, venting about how you skated sloppily and couldn’t nail any element no matter how simple it was. You tell him about how tense your muscles are and how scared you are that your fifteen minutes of fame are over, that you’ll never get another chance to represent America on the world stage. Aaron listens attentively, letting you speak for as long as you need. At some point you start crying again and he holds you tighter, making sure you’re comfortable and providing a space to let it all out . Your tears soak through his sweatshirt but he could care less. When you’ve laid all your emotions out on the table he speaks gently, dispelling your doubts and letting you know that you can do it and he believes in you. Aaron’s words make it easier to believe in yourself.

The two of you spend the night on the couch, end up falling asleep, and you’re disheartened when your alarm goes off in the morning. You can’t stay in the little bubble Aaron created for the two of you — the world and its responsibilities taking precedence over the fantasy you wish never had to dissipate. He drives you to the airport, rationalizing it by telling you it’ll be safer to keep your car at home. Realistically there isn’t a difference, but you thank him anyways. Parking was the least of your worries, but the gesture is sweet and you aren’t quite ready to say goodbye yet. When you reach the airport entrance, Aaron pulls into the idling lane and steps out of the car. You follow him, dragging your feet a bit because though you’re excited for nationals you don’t want to leave. This will be the longest time the two of you have been apart since the meteoric rise to friendship

“Make sure you don’t forget about me when you win and get all famous,” Aaron jokes, handing you your suitcase.

You swat his shoulder playfully. “Like you’d let that happen.”

“Of course I wouldn’t. Come here.”

He takes you in his arms. You’ve hugged Aaron a couple of times before, but they didn’t feel as serious as this. This time he’s holding you for a purpose and you’re gripping the back of his jacket tightly because you don’t want him to let go. It’s longer than people who are just friends are meant to hug for, so you begrudgingly pull away. Besides, Brenda and some of your teammates are waiting.

“Have a good time at home,” you mumble.

He wraps a single arm around you for one more squeeze. “You have a good time,” he says seriously, with only the gleam in his eyes letting you know you aren’t getting scolded. “Remember to enjoy the moment. I’ll be watching on T.V.”

With your goodbyes said you wander into the airport, suitcase trailing behind you. Aaron stays parked in his spot until he sees you embrace Brenda before driving off. The boarding process is painless, and once on the plane you take your seat beside a junior and put your headphones on. Downloaded to your Spotify is one of Aaron’s classic rock playlists, and though it’s the farthest thing from the music you enjoy you listen to it the whole way.

⭑

Utah’s nice, but you can’t help feeling like something’s missing — Aaron’s missing. You’ve become so accustomed to him watching you train, clapping like an idiot every time you land a jump, that the silence is unnerving. Everyone notices the shift in your performance, and eventually Brenda crumbles and uses your phone to facetime him while you practice. It’s a decent enough substitute — he watches your pixelated figure zip around the ice and though he doesn’t always make comments, just knowing Aaron’s with you in some capacity is enough to let your mind focus on the task at hand. You do the best you can at pushing away the butterflies that appear every time you think about how he’s giving up his freedom to make sure you succeed.

When you aren’t training or doing press you’re talking to Aaron. You call him constantly, narrating what you see on walks around town to settle your nerves and eating at the same time to make it feel like you’re together. The only person to support you in Salt Lake City is Brenda, so talking to him frequently makes you feel far less alone. You wish he could be here with you, but understand he needs time to recharge and can’t just follow you around the country no matter how much you’d like him to.

“What time do you skate tomorrow?” Aaron asks, mouth full of the pizza he’s enjoying. The features behind are different, so you assume he’s settled into his childhood home.

“Um, I think 11:35? I’m not entirely sure,” you respond. Due to the way the event is seeded you’re skating second last, which both settles your nerves and makes you more anxious. There isn’t the pressure of closing out the event, but there’s hope that you’ll score high enough to win the short program and skate last in the free skate.

Aaron hums pensively. “I’ll check the website.” He confirms you do in fact skate after 11:30, and conversation shifts away from skating, which you’re grateful for. It’s the last thing you currently want to think about. You listen with interest as Aaron recounts stories of the pond hockey matches he’s played since getting home. The two of you are on the phone until nearly ten, when you have to say goodnight and head to bed. Tomorrow marks the start of the biggest week of your year.

You follow your pre-competition routine to the letter. At other events this season you’ve been more relaxed, but your professional skating career depends on your performance at nationals so you aren’t taking chances. Five-thirty comes faster than you thought it would, but you’re out of bed and eating your first breakfast quickly. A quick two mile run follows, and then you’re having a shower and grabbing a second breakfast to eat at the rink. You meet Brenda in the hotel lobby before catching a taxi to the rink in an effort to not be late. A solid practice follows, and you manage to keep your imposter syndrome on a leash in the presence of the other skaters.

The time between practice and your warmup is spent pacing the halls of the dressing and equipment rooms, doing your best to keep your mind off the anxiety bubbling in your stomach. Some of the other girls send you odd looks as you pass, hair wild and running shoes untied, but you know you’re doing what you have to. After what feels like decades you finish getting ready and go to find Brenda and go over any last minute tweaks. You find her walking down the hall towards you, holding your phone that’s already lit up with an answered call.

“It’s Hotchner,” Brenda says as she tosses you the device.

“Hey,” you say, squeezing the device between your ear and shoulder. “I don’t have much time to talk. My warm up call is soon.”

Aaron laughs and you find yourself cracking a smile at the sound. “I know, I just wanted to check in and see how you’re feeling.”

“Honestly? I can’t remember the last time I was this nervous for a competition.”

His response is cut off by a loud noise. “Where are you?” you ask, slightly started.

“Just at home,” he says quickly. “My sister has some friends over and they’re being loud.”

The line is compelling enough that you don’t question how hastily it was delivered. Aaron stays on the phone until you have to go, keeping your mind off the jittery feeling that’s taken root in your bones. The television cameras catch you talking but you give them a cheery wave and continue telling Aaron about how good the soap at your hotel smells. You hang up when they call your flight to take to the ice for warmup and give your phone back to Brenda for safe keeping.

⭑

Aaron tries hard not to feel too out of place while he takes his seat. For someone who practically lives in arenas he feels like it’s his first time within fifty yards of one. Everyone around him is dressed nicely, and he’s acutely aware of the fact there is a neon orange pom-pom attached to the top of his hat.

As much as he feels like a baby deer trying to stand, Aaron is beyond excited to be in Salt Lake City. It’s been a while since he’s gone somewhere that wasn’t hockey related and getting to support you while he does it is the best scenario ever. There are some potential looks of recognition from those around him, but thankfully no one approaches.

Skaters begin to take the ice and he scans vigilantly for you. You’re doing the best you can to stay warm, jacket zipped all the way up and thick gloves on your hands. Aaron notices you seem to be the loosest of the girls below him but isn’t sure if that’s a good thing. You skate a few quick laps before warming up some jumps. Everything goes well, though he can tell you under-rotated a few of them and didn’t attempt the one quad in your program. The warm up is over as quickly as it began and you’re herded off the ice. Aaron sinks a little further in his seat as gets ready to watch your competitors, doing poorly to hide the nerves he has on your behalf.

⭑

There’s just over five minutes until you take to the ice. You keep your body moving, walking up and down the corridor, and blast your pre-competition playlist so loud you’ll probably have hearing damage when you’re older. No one is in the hall with you but it feels too small, as if the walls are in danger of closing in. Brenda comes to grab you and the pair of you walk to the side of the boards. You don’t watch who’s currently skating, choosing instead to focus on adjusting your feet slightly in your skates.

“Go out there and put on a show,” Brenda says, wrapping an arm around your shoulder. “Fuck the judges.”

You laugh at her remark. “Okay Bren, when I lose points for flipping them off I’m blaming you.”

“Fine by me. I have a bone to pick with Mark Johnson anyways.”

The scores for the previous girl are being announced, so you peel your jacket from your frame and do a couple more laps. Right before your name is announced you press your forehead to Brenda’s. It’s a ritual you started back when you were barely as tall as the boards and you’ve done it every single competition since. You feel grounded looking in her eyes, and you break with a fist bump. It’s show time.

Every inch of your skin feels like it’s on fire. You didn’t come to play, and leave everything on the ice. The skate isn’t completely clean, you stumbled on the landing of a triple axel, but you’re happy with it. Despite your fears, both the triple lutz and quad salchow go smoothly. Audience engagement was at an all time high and you finished to deafening applause. Brenda wraps you in a tight hug when you step off the ice before leading you over to the kiss and cry. You chat idly with her and your choreographer, trying to catch your breath, while you wait for your score.

The announcer’s booming voice crackles over the PA as he reads the judges’ decision. “The scores for Y/N Y/L/N please.” You don’t pay attention to the individual numbers, which won’t do you any favours with analytics people, just the final total. “For a total score of 74.83.”

It’s lower than you had anticipated. Not by much, just two or three points, but it could mean all the difference in tomorrow’s skate. Brenda pats your leg sympathetically and whispers in your, “It’s alright. You skated well.” She means well, but you aren’t convinced.

You head back to the dressing room to watch the final skater on the small screen of your phone while you get undressed, too upset to continue being rinkside like some of the other competitors. She’s phenomenal, and you end the day falling to third place. The playlist Aaron made you blasts through your headphones as you do your cool down routine. The average tempo is upbeat and helps to take your mind off the fact you’re not where you want to be, and it’s working as a substitute for the fact he isn’t here with you. Just as you’re about to exit the room and find Brenda to talk strategy, there's a knock on the door.

“Yeah?” you say dejectedly, the word coming out as more of a sigh than you had intended.

The door cracks open slightly, and the head of your best friend peeks out from around it. “Fancy seeing you here,” Aaron says softly, stepping further into the room. Once you comprehend that he’s really here you’re sprinting in his direction, jumping into his open arms. Aaron’s laugh reverberates in his chest, and you feel it as you settle further into him.

“Why are you here?” you whisper. Though you’re elated to see him, you’re confused as to why he would want to spend his break in Utah and not with the family and friends he doesn’t get to see during the season.

He lets you down gently and shrugs. “I had to see if you’d land the quad.” There’s a gleam in his eye that hints at something more but you’re just so happy to see him you don’t care about his intentions. Aaron’s smile matches yours as you shake your head.

“You’re fucking insane,” you quip, but there’s no malice in your voice.

Before you can pester Aaron into answering all your questions about how he got here you’re whisked away to a press conference. Talking to the media is something you don’t particularly enjoy, and it’s even more difficult to stay present when you know you could be spending time with your best friend. Most of the questions are directed towards the girls who placed higher than you, which you’re thankful for. It’s easier for you to zone out, and you root through your mind of places around the city to take Aaron.

“Y/N, how tough will it be for you to better your scores in tomorrow’s free skate?”

The question is one that you expected, luckily, and you’re able to recite the response you worked out with Brenda without really engaging with the reporter. “I mean I obviously didn’t aim to be in third place heading into tomorrow,” you joke, “But I’m fairly happy with where I ended up. The other girls had fantastic skates and deserve to be above me. My plan for tomorrow is to leave everything on the ice, skate cleanly, and be proud of myself regardless of what happens.”

Pens scribble furiously by those that don’t have recording devices to get your words down on paper. There’s some chatter, questions for the other girls, before a young reporter fresh out of journalism school is allowed to speak. He identifies himself as Theo Rateliff before jumping in. “Y/N,” he says, “How excited are you to get back to training on home ice when you get back to Jersey?”

“Um, I didn’t know the renovations were finished,” you stammer. “As far as I know, I’ll be at Flyers SkateZone until the end of the season.”

Theo shakes his head. “My partner was informed this morning that the rink will be good to go by the time you get back.”

You turn to the side to look at Brenda, who just shrugs. “Well, to be quite honest I’ll miss being in Voorhees. I had fun skating there and feel like the rink prepared me well for this competition.”

“Obviously not well enough,” Theo retorts, not missing a beat. “Your odds of winning dropped by seventy-seven percent.”

“Thank you for the reminder Theo,” you snap. “Are we done here?”

The press-coordinator shakes their head in confirmation, and you rip the microphone off your jacket before stomping off. People clear a path for you, not wanting to get caught in your storm. You run right to Aaron, who lets you direct him out of the arena, leaving a gawking crowd behind, and into the cab he called while you were wrapping up.

It’s a silent ride, as Aaron knows you aren’t in the mood for light conversation. There’s no pressing you to talk during the elevator or as you struggle to unlock the door with the temperamental room key you were given. He lets you take a ridiculously long shower and orders take out that arrives just as you step out of the bathroom.

“Where are you staying?” you ask as you detangle your hair.

“Nowhere yet,” Aaron says, looking up from the article on his phone. “I got in early this morning and went straight to the rink.”

You think carefully about your next words before you speak. Your competition routines can be excessive and annoying, and you don’t want to inconvenience him. “You could just stay here. The room is massive and there’s more than enough space for both of us in the bed.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, voice taking a soft lilt. “I’d really like it if you stayed.”

Aaron smiles wider than you’ve ever seen him do before. The two of you sit comfortably in bed, eating the burritos he bought and going down a conspiracy theory wormhole on YouTube. He asks how you feel about him coming to watch your evening training session you have to leave for in twenty minutes. You earnestly tell him you’d be angry if he didn’t stand beside your coach and clap like an idiot every time you landed a jump.

It’s chilly but the sun is shining bright, so you decide to bundle up and walk to the rink. Aaron pokes fun at your beanie and thick scarf, and you swat him in the chest, shutting him up for the time being after his giggles subside. The view is gorgeous, mountains framing the setting sun. You squeeze Aaron’s bicep to get his attention and relish the feeling of his muscle in your grip.

“Look! An owl!”

Sure enough, a barn owl is flying over top of you, in the middle of downtown Salt Lake City. “That’s my good luck charm. Means I’ll skate well tomorrow.”

Aaron pokes your cheek lightly. “I thought I was your good luck charm,” he gasps in a playful manner that has a smile creep onto your face before you could help it.

You roll your eyes. “I guess you can be my secondary one.” Aaron doesn’t seem to mind the fact your arms are still wrapped around his, so you stay that way until for the rest of the journey.

⭑

The night goes according to plan. You skate well in practice and feel as comfortable as possible for tomorrow given the circumstances. Aaron executes his role perfectly, cheering when you do things well and squirting water at you to make you squeal in laughter when things get a little too serious. Once back at the hotel, you collapse into bed almost immediately. You’re so exhausted you can’t even be bothered to climb under the covers, and wait until Aaron pulls them back for himself to crawl in. There’s no awkwardness at sharing a bed, and you sigh contently as he pulls you into his side. Sleep comes easily for the both of you.

You wake before both your alarm and Aaron. It takes you a second to get your bearings and realize you’re pinned against his body, though it’s pleasant and you truly don’t mind. There’s worse places to be stuck. You lay curled into Aaron for as long as you can, but eventually you have to shake him awake.

“Hotch,” you whisper, ruffling his hair, “You’ve gotta let me out.”

He groans something unintelligible but instead of heeding your words pulls you closer. “Aaron, come on,” you try again, “I’ve really gotta get up. Need to shower before I get to the rink.”

He listens this time, but only lets you go after squeezing you tight for a second. You go about your routine with Aaron still passed out in bed and giggle at the way his hair curls around his ears when you pass by. As you’re leaving to get to your practice ice slot he wakes up, lumbering into the bathroom. He reappears a minute or two later to say goodbye.

“Will I see you after practice?” Aaron asks, voice still gruff with sleep.

“Probably not,” you reply, leaning down to tie your shoes. “I won’t be coming back here until after everything is done.”

Aaron nods and wraps you in a warm hug. “You’re going to do great,” he says as he pulls away. “I’ll be there, cheering so fucking loud.”

“I expect you to throw a teddy bear on the ice after I finish.”

The walk to the arena is lonely without Aaron to keep you company, but you do the best you can to push the thoughts of him out of your mind. You need to stay focused on putting on the skate of your life in a few hours and not on how lately you’ve been having more-than-friendly thoughts about your best friend. Brenda is there when you arrive, asking polite questions about what the two of you got up to last night before explaining how you’re going to run your practice.

Your hour of semi-private ice passes in the blink of an eye. The other girls in your flight are just as tense as you, popping jumps and doing a lot of skating to loosen up. A lot is riding on today’s event and you’d be lying if you weren’t feeling the pressure. When you get back to the dressing room and check your phone, you notice there’s a text from Aaron.

Don’t want to disrupt your incredibly rigid pre-comp routine (I’m mostly joking), but I thought I’d share a playlist. It’s songs that remind me of you.

Included is a link to a Spotify playlist entitled ‘my golden girl’. You open it with a smile, noticing that it starts with some of your favourite songs even though they aren’t the kind of thing he regularly listens to before turning into things you’ve never heard before.

Thanks <3, you respond, going to listen to it during my off-ice.

That’s exactly what you do. It filters through your headphones for hours as you stretch, do a quick interview for those watching on television, and get dressed. Though it’s a break from your typical routine, it’s welcome. Knowing Aaron thought about you enough to make you a playlist and send it to you helps calm your nerves.

“Hey kiddo,” Brenda says as she walks to where you’ve taken up root on the floor. Your left hamstring is tight, and you’re trying desperately to fix it before you have to go on the ice. “Go out there and absolutely kill it. This is your best program, and I haven’t seen anyone skate better than what you can do today.”

“Gee thanks for the confidence booster Bren,” you chuckle before hoisting yourself onto the bench to tie your skates.

She doesn’t laugh. “I mean it Y/N. You can still win this thing.”

You’re left alone to finish getting ready and then join the other girls in the tunnel. No one talks, which you’re grateful for. When you were younger and coming up through the ranks the other competitors liked to gossip while they waited, and it was your least favourite part of an entire competition. A camera man waits at the end of the walkway, filming your arrival to the ice pad, and you wave cheerily as you pass by. It can never hurt to endear yourself to those watching at home – maybe they’ll be nicer to you on the internet if things go poorly.

Aaron is standing at the edge of the boards open to spectators during your warmup, watching and cheering intently. In a moment of insane confidence you blow him a kiss as you skate past, and giggle hysterically when he catches it and holds it close to his chest. You’re called off the ice then and spend the time in between your skate really getting into the zone. So much hinges on the four minutes of ice time you have left.

It’s considered bad luck to watch the performances before your own, so you face the wall as you jog lightly in place to keep your body temperature up and the adrenaline flowing. Much sooner than you’d like it’s your turn to take your guards and jacket off. Brenda holds your shaking hands as she whispers last minute words of encouragement, and you stumble through the traditional handshake before presenting yourself to the crowd.

Once the music starts your brain checks out and instinct takes over. You learned when you were younger that your best skates happened when you just allowed yourself to feel every beat of the music, and you desperately need the skate of a lifetime. Going into the first jumping pass you can feel yourself tense up so you think about Aaron’s smile while you guys sat by the lake last night. It works to loosen you up, and you spend the rest of the program thinking of your favourite moments with him. The music fades from your consciousness slightly, but you’re still transporting the crowd to the fantasy world you created. As you strike your final pose the music fades out completely and the roars of applause cascade in. You know you had a flawless performance, beaming as you fist pump the air in the same dramatic manner you chirp Aaron for doing when he celebrates goals.

You bow to the crowd in all directions, waving and laughing as flowers and teddy bears fall onto the ice in front of you. An orange blob of fur catches your eye, and you skate to pick it up before one of the volunteers could put it in the bag that will join your gear in the dressing room. You know Aaron is the one who threw the Gritty toy — no one else really knows of your affiliations with the team outside of the training facility. As you sit in the kiss and cry awaiting your results, you examine the stuffed animal. Instead of the regular Gritty jersey, Aaron replaced it with his own, the number flashing vividly at you and pulling a smile from your nervous features.

Brenda keeps her hand clasped tightly in yours as the PA system crackles to life. “And the scores for Y/N Y/L/N are,” the announcer begins, and your knee begins bouncing rapidly, heartbeat so pronounced in your ears you have to strain to hear. “The free skate score is 155.79, for a total score of 230.62.”

You jump up in amazement. Despite your slow start to the competition you managed to get a season’s best. You’re also five points ahead of the second place skater, guaranteeing you a place on the podium and depending on the final results, a spot at worlds. A volunteer ushers you out of the kiss and cry and you skip all the way down the tunnel. To get out some of the adrenaline you jog the corridor a few times before returning to Brenda.

“Come on,” she laughs, “Aaron’s waiting at the edge of the public area. We can watch the final skate together.”

At the mention of his name you’re jogging again, wanting to see him as fast as possible. “Hotch!” you shriek as you approach, launching into the elaborate handshake the two of you have perfected at this point.

“Hey, golden girl,” he chuckles, returning your actions with just as much enthusiasm. “You looked great out there. I see you got my gift.”

The Gritty doll is still in your hands but there’s no shame. Instead, you tuck it under your arm and rest your head against Aaron’s shoulder to watch the final skater. The girl after you had fallen a number of times, dropping her total significantly and landing her in fifth place. Victory is so close you can almost taste it.

It’s the longest six minutes of your life. Watching the final skater increases your anxiety tenfold — she’s good, has almost as great a skate as you, but she under-rotated a jump and rushed through her program so there was extra music at the end. The clock above your head rings throughout the silent corridor as everyone awaits the scores with baited breath. In under a minute you’ll know whether you’re returning to New Jersey with a gold or silver medal in your suitcase.

You don’t hear anything as they announce her score – just see the numbers flash on the small screen and calculate that it’s not enough for her to beat you. After years of blood, sweat, and an immeasurable amount of tears you’ve crossed another goal off your list. Those around you are jumping and screaming, Brenda evenletting a few tears escape. All you can think about is Aaron, who’s celebrating like he just scored the game winning goal in the Stanley Cup finals, and how much you love him.

Without thinking, you smash your lips against Aaron’s. It’s adrenaline filled and mostly teeth until he wraps one hand around your waist and places the other along your jaw. Then it becomes purposeful, both of you moving in tandem and never wanting it to stop. When Aaron finally pulls away and rests his forehead against yours you can’t stop smiling. The kiss might have happened in the heat of the moment, but you know it’s the culmination of feelings building inside of you for months.

“You’re a national champion,” Aaron mumbles, pulling you flush against his chest in the biggest hug you’ve ever received.

“I’m your national champion,” you whisper back, so much love in your voice it’s threatening to spill over.

He pulls back and grins, kissing you again. “You’re my national champion. My golden girl.”

The rest of your stay in Salt Lake City is a blur. You’re swept up in the numerous press events, galas, and enjoying your blossoming relationship with Aaron. When you finally got back to the hotel after what seemed like hours of people complimenting your comeback, the two of you sat down and talked about the kiss and what you wanted to happen next. It was scary, being so vulnerable, but it needed to happen — you’re both adults and communication is important. So, you’re returning home with a gold medal and boyfriend, two things you’re ecstatic about.

⭑

“A, it’s not straight,” you giggle. Aaron’s trying, and failing miserably, to hang the shadow box with your nationals medal in it above your couch. It’s been almost a month since you returned home, but you’ve been so busy that decorating the apartment you barely spend time in has been at the bottom of your to-do list.

He grunts out a response. “Fuck. Do I have to go left or right?”

“Left.” The picture shifts in the opposite direction. “The other left, Aaron!”

A few minutes later the decoration is sitting perfectly in place. Your child of a boyfriend insists on getting rewarded for his achievement, so the two of you bundle up and get dinner. It’s nothing fancy — just sandwiches from the deli down the street from your apartment, but spending time with him is nice. Aaron’s been on a string of short road trips and you’ve been training anxiously, waiting for US Figure Skating to announce who they’re sending to the world championship.

“How’s practice been lately?” Aaron asks, mouth full with a bite of his BLT. “I miss being able to watch you skate whenever I want.”

After returning from Utah you were immediately shuttled into the freshly renovated rink of your skating club. It’s a little farther into Jersey and certainly not as convenient for him to get to, especially now that the NHL season is picking up and the Flyers are clinging desperately to the final playoff spot. “It’s been interesting,” you shrug, “I’m skating well, and physically I feel great. There’s a mental block or something though because everything feels a little bit off.”

The smile that graces Aaron’s face can only be described as shit-eating. “Duh, I’m not there.”

“Fuck off.” Though you try to make the words come out in a serious tone, there’s no malice in them.

Conversation flips to some ridiculous story Derek told at practice that morning, and you giggle as it gets recounted with flailing arms. You tell a few stories of your own, that leave him in stitches, and as you walk home hand in hand he asks you again to come to a game. With your schedule a little more flexible as you wait for a decision about the upcoming competition stint it will be much easier to see Aaron play. You say yes with a shy smile and don’t miss the way the boy beside you blushes under the streetlights.

Aaron stays over, and the next two nights after that. It’s nice, falling into a relationship with your best friend, because there’s no awkwardness. You know what kind of cereal to keep in your pantry and he knows you don’t eat meat on Mondays. Everything is easy. There are a few bumps in the road, as can be expected with any budding relationship, but for the most part your lives fit seamlessly together.

After some meticulous planning, you found a home game on the Flyers schedule that will coincide with yours. It’s a Friday night near the end of February, and it’s actually the last day US Figure Skating can announce their assignments for worlds. You figure watching your boyfriend is the perfect way to distract yourself from the decision, whatever it may be. Aaron’s ecstatic about your attendance, wanting you to be immersed in as many aspects of his life as possible. The entire day he’s bouncing around your apartment, beyond ready for puck drop.

“It’s literally three in the afternoon,” you grumble as Aaron corrals you into the hall to put your shoes on. “You never leave this early! Why do we have to do it today?” In an attempt to save gas and lower your carbon footprint you’re carpooling with him into downtown.

“Because being in this house is making you more anxious,” he points out. “I’ve caught you staring into the distance one too many times today. Besides, this way you can meet up with some of the other girls and relax before the game.”

Aaron’s right, as he so often is. Your agent hasn’t called to let you know if you made the team or not, nor have any announcements been made on social media. In response to the radio silence you’ve spent the entire day pacing back and forth around your living room and fretting that perhaps the best performance of your season wasn’t good enough. He twirls his car keys around his index finger in an attempt to speed you along and you roll your eyes at his impatience and necessity to be early to imaginary deadlines he set himself..

After ensuring your home is safely secured you hit the road. The drive into Philadelphia is easy, with little traffic, and you spend it laughing at Aaron’s ridiculous Axl Rose impression. It doesn’t surprise you that the staff lot at the Wells Fargo Centre is sparsely populated — most of the guys don’t show up until around five, Aaron included. However, a group of women are standing near the entrance. While this isn’t the first time you’ve met significant others of your boyfriend’s teammates, it’s the first time he won’t be around.

“It’ll be alright,” he whispers as the car settles into park. You offer a small smile that mustn't have been convincing because Aaron lifts the hand that’s intertwined with his to his lips, pressing a delicate kiss to the knuckles. The smile becomes genuine and you tease him the entire walk to the door about his proclivity for cheesy gestures.

Aaron greets the other girls before setting his bag down on the concrete and wrapping you in a hug. “Have fun,” you say softly against his lips, landing a short kiss. He winks and opens the door, disappearing inside and leaving you in a fit of giggles that the onlooking girls understand all too well.

There was no reason for you to be nervous — everyone is incredibly kind without their significant others around, just as Aaron promised. You seem to be the youngest in the group, but the other girls pay no mind and treat you as one of their own. There’s a small amount of confusion when your phone chimes with a notification, a few glances of possible distaste, but as soon as you explain you’re waiting on a very important call they understand. Dinner is wonderful, filled with sincere questions about your skating career and how you and Aaron got together. By the time you get back to the arena for the game it feels as though you’ve been a part of the group for years.

You spend the game in the family and friends box, sipping a glass of wine and training your eyes to follow Aaron around the ice. Practice is early in the morning and you want to be productive, so you’re relaxed in your alcohol consumption compared to some of the others. One of the older girls, though you can’t remember what player is her significant other, recently got engaged and is celebrating with as many drinks as those around her will allow. It’s fun to experience a hockey game in this way, but you’re a little on edge. You haven’t heard anything about assignments all day and the organization doesn’t typically leave the announcement until this late in the evening. There’s seven minutes left in the game when your phone rings. You quickly excuse yourself from the group and step into the hall.

“Hello?”

“Y/N,” the chipper voice of your agent Megan says, “How are you?”

A nervous laughter tumbles from your lips. “I think that depends on what you’re about to tell me.”

“I imagined you’d say something along those lines,” she responds. “You’ve always been quite witty.” Before you ask her to just get to the point of the phone call, Megan speaks. “I have some good news and some bad news for you. You’re going to the World Championships, but you aren’t leading the team like we hoped.”

It’s not as bad as she made it sound. A breath you didn’t know you were holding escapes, and you try your best to remain professional in the hallway of the arena. “Honestly,” you sigh, “I think that’s better. There’s going to be a lot less pressure for me to bring home three Olympic spots. Thanks for letting me know Meg.” She hangs up then, no doubt having to tell another girl she didn’t make the cut.

When you slip back through the door, you find all eyes on you. “What was that about?”

“I made the roster for worlds.”

Earth-shattering applause erupts from everyone in the room, and no one pays attention to what happens on the ice for the remainder of the game. The congratulations continue until you’re waiting outside the dressing room for Aaron to exit. He had a good game, featuring two assists and a blocked shot, and smiles lazily when he sees you leaning against the brick wall.

“This is something I could get used to,” he chuckles, pulling you into him by the belt loops of your jeans. The two of you kiss for a moment, keeping it relatively chaste in fear of getting chirped by his teammates.

“Well,” you sigh dramatically, drawing out the suspense of what you’re about to say, “You’re going to have to wait a bit longer for it to become a regular occurrence. My training schedule just increased exponentially.”

Aaron sits on your words for a moment before it registers. “No fucking way!” he shouts, picking you up by the waist as if the two of you are a pairs team. “You got the spot?”

Having Aaron be so excited about the accomplishment makes it seem that much more real. Tears well in your eyes and you shake your head up and down to signal he’s correct. Aaron presses his lips to yours once again, this time not caring about any insults his friends could throw at him. The kiss makes you feel loved, fully and completely, and you hope you’re conveying the same amount of emotion he is.

“That’s my girl.”

⭑

“Oh my fucking god,” you grumble, picking yourself off the ice for what feels like the hundredth time in the past five minutes. There’s two weeks until you leave for Milan and it looks like you’ve never skated before. Jumps are being under-rotated, spins aren’t being entered properly, and your footwork sequence is abysmal. Nothing about the way you’re performing would let a newcomer to the rink know you’re a world class athlete.

Brenda gives you a sympathetic smile. “Just try again, kiddo.”

You do try again — fifteen more times to be exact. Each attempt at a triple axel is getting farther and farther from what it should be. Before you get even more frustrated you abandon the element altogether, hoping to avoid a complete meltdown. No one questions it when you shift disciplines completely and move about the ice completing a simple foxtrot pattern. Ice dance has always been a great de-stresser for you, and after a few passes you feel your heart rate return to normal. At some point during your break Aaron had entered the rink and is now standing beside your coach, making pleasant conversation. You smile as you skate towards them, ecstatic that the two most important parts of your life blend seamlessly.

“Hotchner!” you shout when you get close enough for him to hear you. At the sound of your voice Aaron smiles, turning to pick up your water bottle and toss it in your general direction.

“I’m wounded, babe,” he feigns pain as you take a drink, “I really thought that we were on at least a first name basis.”

You roll your eyes at his dramatics and playfully squirt water at him. “I’ll call you whatever I want. What brings you this far into Jersey?”

“Thought I’d see if you wanted to grab lunch after you were done. We’ve got a late practice today,” he explains. “Whatever you want, eh? Does that mean I can call you whatever I want?” You don’t miss the suggestive tone to his voice, but choose to ignore it because investigating him never leads to anything good.

Aaron watches the rest of your practice from his spot at the boards and lays himself across the dressing room bench as you complete a quick cool down routine. You have a meeting with your massage therapist in the afternoon, so you follow Aaron to the restaurant he chose. It’s a small vegan place that you sometimes stop at on your way home from the rink. They have the best burrito bowls you’ve ever tasted, and since you’ve gotten together Aaron has become rather fond of them as well.

The two of you sit outside on the curb. New Jersey is uncharacteristically warm for March, and you want to enjoy the sunshine as much as possible. The rest of the day will be spent in dark rooms receiving physical therapy and trying to ease your tired muscles. There isn’t much conversation, but you’re more than content just to be with Aaron. Life moves incredibly fast and your schedules don’t always line up nicely. It’s difficult to spend time with him, especially when you’re weeks out from a major competition, but small moments like this keep you from missing your boyfriend too much.

“Have I asked you to take me to the airport yet? I can’t remember,” you admit as you finish the last bite of your meal.

Aaron laughs at your lapse in memory, knowing he gets the same way when high stakes games roll around. “No, but you would like me to?”

“Do you mind?” you ask, “That way I don’t have to leave my car at the airport for a week and a half. But if you can't, don't worry about it, I’ll grab an uber.”

“Babe, the uber will be like fifty bucks. I’ll take you. What time do you have to be there?”

You give him a much too detailed itinerary of your departure plans and listen to him talk about the drills they’re going to run at practice. Time passes much quicker than you would have liked, and soon you’re kissing him goodbye and watching him wave from your rearview mirror.

It’s almost a week later when you see him again, showing up at a Flyers practice for the first time since training moved back to your home rink. You’ve been instructed to have a rest day, the team not wanting to push you too hard before taking off for Europe. The arena attendants know you well at this point, and chat with you as you sit on a bench away from the media. You know better than you alert them of your presence — some of them no doubt want a comment from you about worlds and how you expect the competition to go. Aaron has no idea you’re even there until long after practice ends, when he sees you leaning casually against the driver’s side door of your car, conveniently parked next to his.

“Hey there, all-star,” you say as casually as possible, twirling your keys around your index finger.

He leans down to kiss you sweetly, and though you probably shouldn’t in a parking lot, you push your body closer to his in an attempt to deepen the kiss. Aaron obliges you, tongue gently slipping into your mouth, staying there until you both hear the shouts of his teammates.

“Fuck off,” he yells at Morgan and Reid, the two of them hollering so loud people can probably hear them all the way back in Philadelphia. “What are you doing here?”

“I have a day off,” you smile, “and I thought I’d come see if I could hitch a ride to your place.” You had originally planned to attend the game in person, but a rough day of training yesterday had you too sore to do much other than lay on the couch.

“The chariot awaits, m’lady,” he says in a terrible British accent, bowing for good measure as he opens the door. Your car will be fine in the parking lot overnight, so you slip in and enjoy the journey into the city.

Aaron’s pre-game routine changes only slightly with you in his apartment — instead of napping alone, you curl into his chest and snore softly, lulling him into one of the most peaceful sleeps he’s ever had. You tie his tie for him and riffle his hair before kissing him good luck. Being alone in Aaron’s apartment isn’t as strange as you thought it would be, and you familiarize yourself with his kitchen while you make dinner. The pre-game show plays quietly in the background, and when they mention how well Aaron is playing you can’t help but smile.

It’s much more comfortable to watch the game in your boyfriend’s hoodie and pyjama pants on the couch than it would be to sit in the stiff arena seats. Time passes at a pretty leisurely pace, with nothing too exciting going on within the game, and sometime in the third period you fall asleep. The rest of the game and all the media appearances pass you by. Aaron figures you must be sleeping when he doesn’t get a congratulatory text when he pulls off a buzzer beater to win. His suspensions are confirmed when he slips through his front door to see you drooling slightly on the throw pillow his mom bought him as a housewarming gift.

You don’t remember climbing into bed, but you wake up with Aaron’s socked feet pressed against your calves. He stirs behind you and mummers something unintelligible.

“What was that, sleepyhead?” you giggle, turning around to run a hand through his hair. It’s rather unruly at the moment and you find it adorable.

“Good morning,” he repeats.

“That’s what that was?”

“Leave me alone.”

The two of you lay in bed for a few more minutes before starting the day. You navigate around Aaron flawlessly — like you’re there every morning. Breakfast is quick and you’re out the door before you have a chance to cherish the domesticity of it all. You have a pretty intense day of training and Aaron has to be at the airport in two hours for a trip to Toronto. He drops you off in Voorhees, kissing you gently before making his way back into the city. You hate to see him go, wishing you could spend more time together before you head to worlds, but you know you’re both adults with real-world responsibilities.

For the first time in this final push you have a practice that is up to standard. Things click into place and you feel good. Really good. Each time you skate a program it’s clean, and the elements don’t feel weak when completed individually. Maybe you’ll actually be able to pull this off.

⭑

Italy is beautiful, but you don’t get much time to enjoy it. A scheduling mishap has team USA leaving two days later than you were supposed to and now you’re all scrambling to find a groove. Every moment is being spent preparing for the competition — off ice training, multiple practices a day, and press conferences. When you get a moment to spare you call Aaron, but oftentimes he’s at practice or fulfilling other obligations. The time difference is brutal and souring your mood. You feel alone, and just wish Aaron could be by your side like he was at nationals.

The morning air is brisk as you exit the rental car US Figure Skating provided and head for the arena doors. It’s quiet while you get ready for the first of the day’s three practice sessions, but as soon as you step on the ice something feels wrong. You run through a mental checklist and assure that nothing is — your skates feel the way they should and you didn’t forget any gear at the hotel. It has to be nerves. The competition officially starts tomorrow and you’re eager to cheer on the pairs teams America has brought. You do your best to skate it out, and by the time you’re allowed to have the ice to yourself you’ve almost convinced yourself everything will be fine.

The music starts and you snap into character. Your short program music is punchy and so are you — all sass and sharp angles as you navigate the opening step sequence. A lump forms in your throat as you set up the first first jumping pass, but you push it down. You’ve done a thousand triple lutz-triple toe-loop combinations and could execute it flawlessly in your sleep.

Everything happens so fast. One second you’re rotating through the air and the next you’re sprawled across the ice. Nothing feels off from a regular fall until you try to pick yourself up. When you can’t move your left leg you look to see what the issue is and find your kneecap where it most certainly should not be. It’s rotated nearly one hundred and eighty degrees, now residing in the back instead of the front.

“Help me!” you scream, mostly out of shock. There’s no pain, which surprises you, but you know it definitely should hurt. Everyone around the ice surface is frozen in place, not knowing what happened or what to do, and you continue to sob helplessly.

Someone sprints to get the onsite emergency responders and Brenda runs to you as fast as her dress shoes will allow. “Don’t look at it honey,” she soothes. “It’s just going to make things worse.”

“It should hurt,” you croak out through the tears, “Why doesn’t it hurt?”

“You’ve got so much adrenaline pumping through your veins you can’t feel anything,” the EMT explains in flawless English. “Can we take your skates off?”

You nod, and the right skate comes off breezily. Brenda unlaces your left skate and the medical team works to pry the boot from your foot. A sharp pain shoots up your leg and you wail in agony. “Shh, it’s okay,” your coach coos, “The skate is going to stay on until we get to the hospital.”

The ride to the hospital feels like time is moving through sludge. The paramedics keep an eye on your blood pressure and do their best to keep you calm. Brenda is typing furiously on her phone, and you ask what she’s doing as the vehicle pulls into the ambulance bay.

“The ISU rep told me to keep him updated,” she explains. “And I’m trying to vote on which alternate is going to take your place.”

You knew that was going to happen, you couldn’t possibly skate, but it makes you unbelievably sad. All your hard work is going to amount to nothing. No one cares about national champions who don’t place at worlds, and the injury is going to sideline you in next year’s olympic race. A string of tears fall from your eyes as the stretcher you occupy is wheeled into the building, mostly for lost opportunities but also because your nerve receptors are beginning to recognize pain again. The emergency room has a bed ready for you, and the doctor arrives as you’re being transferred into it.

“Miss Y/L/N, I’m Dr. Morelli. We’re going to put your patella back into place. It’s going to be incredibly painful, so we’re to sedate you. Is that okay?”

“Yes,” you say as strongly as you can, though it comes out feeble and hoarse. A nurse inserts an IV into your arm and smiles at you. They have you count backwards from ten, and by the time you get to eight you’re asleep.

There’s a brief moment of panic when you wake up as you forgot where you are. “You’re awake,” Brenda speaks softly from the bedside. “How are you feeling?”

“Like shit,” you admit. “It hurts so fucking bad.”

She gives you a sympathetic smile. “I know. They’re going to come get you for x-rays in a few minutes and then we’ll go back to the hotel once you’ve been cleared.”

“Oh my god,” you gasp. “I’ve gotta call Aaron. Bren, give me your phone.”

Laughter comes from the device’s speakers, and you realize she’s one step ahead of you.

“There’s my girl,” Aaron whispers, eyes landing on yours as the phone lands in your hands. “Are you okay?”

The question makes you laugh. “You’re quite the comedian Mr. Hotchner. Of course I’m not okay. My leg is currently being held together by a brace and my dreams are ruined.” You soften when you realize how upset he looks. “I’ll be fine A, I promise.”

“I’m so sorry I wasn’t there.”

“There’s nothing you could have done, Aaron. It was a freak accident. You can pick me up from the airport.”

He agrees in a heartbeat and tells you about his day to distract you from the pain. You’ll have to ask the nurses for some medication before you leave. A nurse comes to take you to the radiology department, and you hang up after reassuring Aaron for the hundredth time that he doesn’t need to fly to Italy to bring you home himself.

Brenda holds you that night as the adrenaline wears off and your legs twitches rapidly as a trauma response. She helps you navigate around the small room and makes sure you’re able to use the bathroom. Luckily none of her other skaters are competing, and she’s able to travel back to Philadelphia with you once the doctor clears you. It’s a rough flight – there’s a fair amount of turbulence and each bump makes your leg throb. You don’t get a wink of sleep and are grumpy by the time you touch down in Philly. People steer clear of an angry-looking girl in a wheelchair, and the two of you get through customs incredibly fast. Aaron’s waiting at arrivals with a giant sign and a sweet smile. You wheel yourself over to him as quickly as possible, wanting nothing more than to collapse into his arms.

“Welcome home, baby,” he whispers, leaning down to catch your lips in an airport appropriate kiss. The reason you’re home so early isn’t brought up which you're incredibly grateful for. Your untimely withdrawal is still a very sore spot, and most likely will be for a while.

“I wasn’t gone long,” you laugh, trying to poke fun at the situation before reality gets you too down.

“Long enough for me to miss you a tremendous amount.”

The three of you exit the airport, and Aaron drops Brenda off at her house before taking you back to his place. Flyers management is allowing him to miss a few games until you become more mobile and can exist on your own for a few hours. Aaron’s bed is calling out to you, but he insists you’ll feel better after a shower, and you know he’s right. Showering isn’t something you can do yourself, so he keeps your leg straight and elevated as you sit on the stool he bought while waiting for you to return. The grime of travelling is washed away and you feel lighter when you swing into bed, stubbornly refusing Aaron’s help.

You convince him to let you watch the broadcast of the event you were supposed to be skating in. It’s probably not the best thing for your mental health, but you want to see how everyone does. Aaron sits besides you, arm wrapped around your shoulder, and listens to you explain the rationale behind every element’s score. When your replacement takes the ice you go silent. It’s too much to see her skating in your place so you bury your face into Aaron’s neck. There’s no jealousy like you thought there would be, just an infinite amount of sadness that you’re not able to be there.

“You’ll be able to get back there,” Aaron reassures you when he feels a tear soak through his sweater.

“That’s not guaranteed,” you sniffle. “I might not ever skate again, let alone compete at any level.”

He shakes his head in disagreement, leading you to quirk a brow. “I know you. You’re going to do it. It won’t be easy, but you’re the most determined person I’ve ever met. People bounce back after major injuries all the time. I’ll be by your side the entire time, helping you through.”

“I love you,” you blurt out. The gravity of your words sinks in and you gasp. You haven’t said those words to each other yet, but they feel right.

“I love you too,” Aaron smiles, kissing the tip of your nose. “Now pay attention, that girl you beat at Skate Canada is up next.”

⭑

Recovery hasn’t been easy. There have been so many days where all you want to do is throw in the towel and cry, but Aaron keeps you going. He insists you do your physical therapy exercises with him so you aren’t alone, and he comes to as many doctor’s appointments as he possibly can. After the Flyers get eliminated from the playoffs he doesn’t return home for the summer, choosing to stay in the Philly area with you. Having him there is a massive help, and you power through the pain.

The Flyers are hosting a family skate before training camp, and it will be your first time on skates in nearly six months. Your doctors have cleared it as long as you take it slow and basically let Aaron pull you around the rink but you don’t care. It gives you hope that one day you’ll be back to full strength.

“Ready to do this thing?” Aaron asks, grabbing your hand and intertwining your fingers.

You nod enthusiastically and let him lead you from the bench to the tunnel and down to the boards. Aaron steps on the ice first, keeping his hands up in case you need them for support. A few of the significant others notice what’s happening and they erupt in applause once both your feet are planted on the surface. Aaron joins them, his eyes watering when he sees how happy you are to be skating again.

“I do believe you promised me a few laps, lover boy,” you wink.

“Yes ma’am,” Aaron giggles as he mock salutes. He places his hands in yours and guides you gently, careful not to go too fast or get too close to other groups. The two of you giggle and stop to kiss frequently but no one says anything. You’ve worked incredibly hard to get here and they’re perfectly content letting you have your moment. Standing at centre ice you feel complete, and you know it’s all thanks to Aaron.

⭒⭑⭒

consider reblogging and giving feedback if you enjoyed! it helps a lot x

[captainelliecomb]

WIP Wishlist Round Eight

WIP Wishlist time again! Round One, Round Two, Round Three, Round Four, Round Five, Round Six, Round Seven

How have I been doing this for eight months now? I’ll have to do another updated WIPs list soon.

The Blessings of the Old Gods and the New by libkat (14,832 words, last updated 08 Aug 2018)

Summary: Danaerys wants Jaime dead. Bran works some magic.

Things I love: Little Jaime and Brienne with their itty bitty direwolves stole my heart, Bran and his powers (“Do not think to threaten me in my own godswood” I love him), Sansa absolutely besotted with the children, Davos acting as the voice of reason as he does so well (Dany: I’m killing Jaime Lannister child or not. Sansa: You’d have to kill me first. Arya: I’d kill you first. Davos, poor man: No one is killing anyone. The “you murderous children” was left unspoken), the entire environment of Winterfell for these two adorable children.

Brave New World by suffolkgirl (114,962 words, last updated 29 Nov 2021, one chapter to go)

Am I cheating with this one? Yes, yes I am, unrepentantly. It’s almost finished, it will be finished, sometimes I just want a win. This story is an absolute win.

Summary: When his relationship with both his siblings implodes, Jaime Lannister decides to start a new life in a place where no-one knows him. But it may not be as easy to escape his past as he thinks...

Things I love: Sam, Jon, and Jaime’s friendship, this iteration of the Quiet Isle, the gaming gang, the slow burn between Jaime and Brienne, the Lannister nastiness and cruelty, a believable look at what it’s like to get sucked back into a toxic environment, the softness in Jaime he’s had to bury for so long, Jaime and Sansa’s friendship and bonding over surviving abuse.

Break the Shape We Take by classeyspanks (7,185 words, last updated 18 Nov 2021)

Summary: R'hllor gazed upon her Love, her pale fingers tracing the brow of the babe he held in his arms.“When the veil between the realms thins, she will be needed.”Her husband shifted the child’s weight, his lips whitening as he pressed them tightly together. “She didn’t ask for this. I… I just want her safe.”“She will have help.”Far away, in the depths of the Citadel, a single glass candle flickered to life for the first time in millennia.

Things I love: Intriguing worldbuilding, particularly around the Evenstar prophecy, Jaime needling at Brienne because he loves to see her eyes and her blush and to argue with her, something dangerous lurking in the trees and impaling deer on branches, Brienne brave and fearless when she’s doing what she’s been born to do and awkward and withdrawn otherwise, Jaime and Brienne teaming up.

This Broken Jaw of Our Lost Kingdoms by Vera (vera_dragonmuse) (8,257 words, last updated 22 Nov 2021)

Summary: Eight years ago, a fragile peace was forged in the heat of a bloody war. Now shifter tradition orders that all will come together to discuss law, treaties, and to try to accept what the world has become. Brienne just wants to see Sansa, the Wolf Queen of the North, there and back again safely. Fate has other plans.

Things I love: Interesting, engaging worldbuilding, how Sansa and Brienne work together, Brienne and Pod’s friendship across lines, shapeshifting, the sharp-edged history between Brienne and Jaime.

The Blue Knight vs The Kingslayer by seethemflying (104,654 words, last updated 20 Sep 2021)

Summary: "Brienne, 23.Office worker by day, superhero by night. Loves cats. No smokers please." By day, Brienne Tarth is a twenty-three year old cat lover who is slowly exploring the possibility of finding a nice boyfriend through online dating. By night, she is a superhero known as The Blue Knight, who is dedicated to bringing down her archnemesis, The Kingslayer...... who she definitely does NOT have a thing for.

Things I love: Brienne and Pod’s friendship and teamwork, the sheer silliness and threat of the Kingslayer, Imp, and Evil Queen, the Honor League, the sweetness and softness between Brienne and Jaime while their alteregos wage war on each other, how over-the-top and joyful and perfect this is as a comic book story.

[hawnks]

coincide pt. ii

previous

hawks (takami keigo) x reader

pg13 (this chapter)

word count: 5,500

Guess only love could hurt this bad.

[soulmate au, avian keigo, slow burn, good and bad coping mechanisms, pining & pining, slight scent kink…., oh oof ouch]

Warnings: alcohol mention, slight stalking, allusions to sexual activity

beta’d by the marvelous @keilemlucent

............................................................................

You don’t see each other for twenty eight days. It’s another iteration of The Incident, but this one leaves your chest feeling all caved in, all empty. It makes you want to cry.

You don’t, of course. You’re so far beyond crying over crushes. At peace with your place in the world. Kind of. 

Part of you is mad. Furious, even. You were not the initiator. You just let how nice he felt between your thighs cloud your judgment for a few minutes. And now this. The radio silence. 

You both should have known better. 

But the anger and blame is secondary. The ache is what overwhelms you. 

Back in highschool when you went through your desperate google binge, searching for a miracle cure for marklessness, you came across the concept of Soulmate Withdrawal. Being apart for too long is like suffocating, losing a piece of yourself. It hurts, physically as well as mentally. At its peak viciousness it can put a soulmate in the hospital, nearly comatose. Mostly it just feels like a bloodless limb. Pins and needles. Unscratched itch. 

Even that you craved. Wanted it so bad, to be able to be hurt in this special, sacred way. And you know you can’t, that pain is forever foreign to you, but—

You think this might be close. You can’t help it, what he does to you, how you miss him like a rib, like a lung. Something so intrinsic snuffed out of your life so simply. You wish you could take it back. It all felt so good, seemed so right. But if it meant having Keigo here, eating greasy breakfast food with you on the floor, chatting about stupid things, laughing so hard you cry… you’d do anything. Maybe. Probably. 

You start the text several times.

I’m sorry

Can we just 

I saw a pretty bird today and it reminded me of you

I saw a couple kissing and it reminded me of you

I’m not

I wish

Please

Fuck

It’s all meaningless, anyway. There aren’t any words that will fix it, that can suture the two of you back together, to that tender thing you were. There aren’t any that will make you feel better.

And what if...he doesn’t want that, anyway. What if he realized this thing you have—had—was unsustainable? When he meets his soulmate are they going to be okay with him winding up at yours five nights out of the week? Would they be okay with it if they knew what happened in his bed that afternoon?

Things were bound to change. You keep telling yourself that. 

Surface level, everything is average. You go to work, shoot shit with your coworkers, sneak snickerdoodles from the jar beside the register. You laugh, a few times even. You keep your hands clasped at your waist as you take orders at the counter, pretending you aren’t substituting his warmth for your own, like you don’t miss the sheer benevolence and goodness of someone simply holding onto you. 

More unsent texts. 

I got take out from that place you wanted to try 

Every fucking thing reminds me of you

Are you okay

Please tell me you’re okay

You feel like an animal softened and rounded out for the cold, on the verge of sleeping for six months straight. Part of you wishes you could. The other part wishes you could just call him up:

Rough day? 

Yeah. 

Everything? Rough. Maybe you’ll just go to bed for the rest of winter, wake up when the sun comes back. 

…

He knows it’s fucked up. He’s fucked up. But he can’t help it, needs—

You. 

It felt like he’s been dragging his body through day after day. He’s exhausted all the time. His handlers have quietly suggested that maybe he should report to medical, and he quietly snapped that maybe they should mind their own business, he’s fine.

He’s trying to be. Everyday he wakes and tells himself that he’ll ask you, that you’ll have an open discussion about all of it. Clearly you want something from him— time, friendship, orgasms. Whatever it is, however much of him you’ll accept, he’ll give it to you, gladly and gratefully. He just needs to know. Why won’t you tell him? 

Why can’t he just pick up the fucking phone and call you?

There’s an idea brewing in the back of his mind, so mean and painful he can’t even touch it directly. It just lingers at the edge of everything, looming. 

And if that’s it— if this big cruel thing is the truth and not just something his stress-addled brain made up… 

He can’t think about it. He won’t. 

Instead he gives into his baser instincts. 

He perches on the rooftop of some complex, watching as you trudge through a foot of snow toward the coffee shop. You’re all bundled up but he can tell from your gait, the pace of your steps. He can feel it’s you, as cliche as it sounds. 

And just being this close is enough to soothe the anxiousness in his gut, like coming up for air finally, like letting go after holding on too long. 

Like something necessary. 

He follows you all the way to work, the snow muffling the beating of his wings. He feels heavy as he glides. Almost like he’s being dragged down toward you. He has to correct his trajectory more than once, the gravity of your bond making him dip and swerve. 

Twice he falls into your line of sight. He holds his breath, clenches his fists as he waits for you to call out to him. He’s almost thirsty for it, for you to look up at him, all pretty and wide and raging, for you to yell at him for being such a creep. 

At least he would get to hear your voice. 

But you don’t look up and you don’t notice him. You make it to the coffee shop and are unlocking the door when his comm chimes in his ear. A robbery, two blocks East. Just ahead. 

He tucks his wings and picks up speed, knowing that you won’t be able to miss him as he passes, that you’ll see him. 

He tells himself not to, but—

He glances back. Just for a second. Just to sate the hungry clawing in his chest. 

And you’re standing there in the cool light of dawn, gloved hands linked against your stomach. You’re looking back at him. 

…

You need a change of pace. All of this? Unhealthy. Killing you a little. 

You redecorate your apartment, pick up some throw blankets from the Goodwill, buy some stools from a woman off craigslist. 

You toss out your old, ratty sneakers. You buy better fitting bras. 

And, drunk on fruit wine at two am, you make the choice to be something other than a barista. 

Not that you hate your job. Quite the opposite actually. You can come in everyday in your jeans and oversized sweater, bask in long-lived running jokes. You know your fellow opener's favorite song and where she buys her books. It all feels a little too like a home. 

You don’t want a job that’s diametrically cruel. Just something that will look at you and your sleepless eyes and twice-worn sweater and say do better. 

You send out several resumes with your paltry skill stack on them, the locations and job titles vast and indiscriminate. To your surprise, one of them sticks. 

You have no real affection for the hero game. When you applied for the job it had been a bit of a personal joke. “Would be something interesting to talk about at parties,” you tell your friends. 

You never expect to actually get it. 

But you do, and you’re honestly a little dazed as your new manager gives you the tour on your first day. It’s not that you’re unqualified—it’s entry level data entry—but these positions usually get snatched up by starry eyed fans, people with some stake in this. Your cover letter could best be described as a docile shrug.

It all happens so fast. 

Red Riot’s agency is small and tight knit. It’s a single floor of a high rise, with big windows and a hundred comfy places to sit, couches and bean bags, lawn chairs and floor cushions. There are several TVs around, each of them on hero news outlets, creating a quiet, constant buzz. 

Everyone smiles at you, especially the man giving you the tour. It ends in an office, the largest one here. Red Riot is waiting for you. 

He’s just as big and bright as you imagined him. He greets you with unabashed enthusiasm, shaking your hand for just a little too long. 

“It’s good to meet you. Real nice to have some fresh meat around here, yeah?”

He tells you the MO of the organization, about what your position would entail. The agency is in its infancy and they’re still learning what kind of staff they need, so you’ll be making most of the decisions about what your job entails. 

“I thought I was supposed to be working in the intelligence department,” you say, eyeing the empty desk on the other side of the office. 

He rubs the back of his neck. “It is a kind of intelligence, right? Just slightly to the left of stats analysis.”

You chat for the rest of the day. And Red Riot (“Call me Kirishima. No, for real.”) is… fun. Goofy in a way that puts you at ease, drags your personality out without censure or judgement. You missed that. Being yourself. 

At the end of your shift he insists on walking you out. He’s stopped by a staff member and as they chat you loiter next to one of the TVs. A breaking news story makes your breath catch. 

On the big screen you watch Keigo— Hawks, as he swoops and darts, quick as a blink. In two strikes he has the villain incapacated, ready to be taken in for processing. Then he’s airborne again. 

In the light his wings seem to glow, shining like struck flint as they expand and send a flurry of feathers after trapped civilians.

“Twenty two lives saved in less than a minute,” the reporter is saying. Her voice is slightly breathless, a little awestruck. You don’t blame her. “This is what a hero looks like, folks. Sheer competency; the man is cool and collected as he navigates the battlefield and the aftermath. Unrivaled talent—and just look at that smile.”

Hawks had caught sight of the camera and flashed a crowd pleasing grin. Just long enough for his PR to grab a shot for his socials, then he’s touching off again, leaving the scene. He’s so quick he hardly looks like anything as he flies. Just an arc of bright red, gone so fast you might think he was never there to begin with. 

“Yeah, he’s something,” Kirishima comes up behind you, hands on hips, smile dashing and bright. “That’s a real man right there.” 

Your heart is thrumming in your chest. You’re already thinking up excuses for why you might be crying in front of your new boss. But when you turn to pay him an answering nod you find that your throat doesn’t burn, your eyes don’t water. You’re just numb. That’s relieving and not. 

“Yeah,” you say. “He’s really great.”

...

He’s at the end of his rope. Assignments are piling up, missed press briefings and interviews. His assistants revamp his schedule on the daily. 

He’s always two seconds from lashing out, and no one on his staff deserves that, or any of his other bizarre mood swings. He’s only around people when it’s absolutely necessary, and even then he tries to keep interactions short. He hasn’t been eating well. Or sleeping. That little niggling of doubt and dread, the looming nastiness pokes at him like a caged animal. 

No one asks him what’s wrong. He wouldn’t tell them, anyway. 

And now they’re sending him away. A covert mission that will take a few weeks, at least. There’s been a rash of attacks on heroes, mainly targeting families and significant others; his job is to gather intel. He tries not to think of it as a punishment, but somewhere in the back of his mind he knows there’s a cause and effect. 

He leaves in sixteen hours. 

He can’t sleep. 

This isn’t new. At night he lays awake for hours at a time, vaguely uncomfortable in a hundred different ways. If the sleeplessness doesn’t kill him, the dreams might. 

They’re all about you. Of course. 

Sometimes they’re wet. He wakes shaking and misted with sweat, rutting against the mattress until he cums with a cry of your name, your face tearing through his memory

He’s familiar with the aftermath of those. He’d had enough of them during his younger years in the barracks, before he’d understood his sexuality, what he liked, what to do about it. Some faceless person, beautiful and kind. A precursor, a suggestion of you. The clean up is a bizarre ritual, but it’s nothing new.

Not like the other dreams are.

In them, you arrive home, or he does. It’s a space you share, live in equally. You’re both exhausted, too tired to say anything. He bundles you up in his arms, wings wrapped around you both. He carries you to bed. He tucks you both in. He kisses you on the forehead. 

Then he wakes up.

It’s one of those mornings, rolling around in the sheets, trying to get back to sleep. But without something to hold on to, every position feels wrong, uncomfy. He keeps turning instinctively, trying to find another source of heat. But there is none. 

He gives up on sleeping. 

He wanders his apartment, pacing, pausing every few steps to rearrange something, adjust angles, order. 

His penthouse is fairly minimal. Comfortable, but sparse. His time with the Commission had rid him of sentimentality. He likes things for their practical application; a good meal, a plush couch, a pair of warm, serviceable gloves. He enjoys his home, but has no real attachment to it. If it all went up in flames tomorrow, he might briefly mourn the leftovers in the fridge, the time he would have to spend replacing things. He wouldn’t be devastated, though. He could live anywhere. 

But you— you hold onto things. You love them not for what they can give you, just for what they are. Birthday cards and sweaters with tears in them, potted plants and miss-matched silverware. Visiting your apartment tapped into some previously untouched part of Keigo’s brain. Where the avian and soul-bonded meet. 

It’s instinctual—people with soulmates will always want to insinuate the other into their space. Genre-mixing, the psychologists call it. The compulsion to combine lives. 

For Keigo there’s another piece. 

The urge to nest was unstoppable. He didn’t even try. Ever since he met you he’s been collecting things. Soft blankets and a second toothbrush. Little nicknacks that reminded him of you. Under his bed he has a box of trinkets, little shiny things, gum ball machine keychains and diamond rings, silver gold and painted plastic. All of it is for you. Everything is. 

He managed to tuck most of it away when you were coming over regularly, just to avoid overwhelming you. Now there’s nothing holding him back. The penthouse is cozier, these days. A home rather than a stopping place. He loves it and he hates it. 

Deep down he has the craving to show you he can be a good mate, a provider. He can take care of you better than anyone. 

It breaks him. 

He shouldn’t. It’s crossing a line. But the sun has started to rise and he knows you’ll be on your way to work, and without much thought at all he takes to the air. 

It’s a quick thing to get inside your apartment. You leave the balcony unlocked, a habit you’d formed when his visits started getting frequent.

He cracks the door, careful to be absolutely silent, though he knows you’re not here. The lights aren’t even on. He feels disgusting as he slips in, such a slave to his own impulses. Then his knees buckle. 

The smell of you overwhelms him, so wholesome and good, so perfect. He wants to roll in it like a dog, bottle it up and take it with him so he never has to go without again. 

He lets himself have a minute. Two. Just closes his eyes and breathes. Then he rises, stretches and ruffles his feathers. He continues on with his mission.

He knows exactly the spot, had it pictured in his mind the whole way over. It’s something you wouldn’t notice, a little shiny earring, part of a set he’d bought months ago. He leaves in behind one of your big houseplants. 

He feels infinitesimally better. It will probably be enough to prop him up until he gets back.

That’s supposed to be the end of this foray into insanity. Satisfy his primordial mind, then hit the road. 

But his eyes find the sweater draped over your armchair. It’s your favorite, the one you crawl into almost every evening after work. Your scent must be so strong on it. 

He doesn’t realize he’s grabbed it until he’s already back at his place, shoving his face into the worn fabric, letting out a shuddering groan. So good. So good. 

He lets himself have a minute. Two. 

He shoves the thing into his small duffle bag, zips it closed so he can’t see it anymore. His heart is pounding as he calls his handler and confirms the logistics of his departure. 

...

Weeks go by. 

You’ve settled in at the agency, found your rhythm. Kirishima insists on walking you home now. The attacks have gotten more brazen, and while they’re mainly centered around the significant others of heroes, your boss isn’t taking chances. 

Secretly you’re glad. You’ve been more out of it lately, just coasting through it all. Having Kirishima beside you, loud and large is grounding in some ways. Not getting murdered is a plus. 

You haven’t seen Hawks in two months. You don’t expect to see him waiting outside your door. 

He looks absolutely ragged. 

He must have come directly from work because his clothes are skewed and his hair is mussed. As you draw nearer you catch the smell of a fight in him, sweat and concrete. 

His wings twitch the longer you stare, puffing up and retracting, but the gaze isn’t returned. He’s looking at Kirishima. He looks — dazed. Slightly stupified. Like he doesn’t recognize either one of you. 

“Ke—Hawks,” you murmur. “Are you okay?”

His voice is barely there, all from the throat, all whisper. “Yeah. Just peachy.” 

You glance at Kirishima, who shrugs. 

You want me to stay? his expression asks. He’s familiar with that worn down hero stupor. If the No. 2 hero is showing up at your door looking like that, he probably doesn’t want an audience. 

You shake your head, just the tiniest bit. Kirishima catches it. 

“Well, I best be hitting the road,” he says. And with another meaningful look, call me if there’s trouble, he’s wandering back the way you came.  

And you’re alone with Hawks. 

“You’re not at the coffee shop anymore,” he says. “I went there. First. They said you…”

“I’m working for Red Riots agency now,” you finish for him. “A whole real person job.”

It’s the kind of statement that should elicit a polite congrats, but you’re not expecting one, and he doesn’t give it. 

“Is he looking after you now?” he asks. 

If you were in your right mind, you might have heard the vulnerability, the insecurity behind the words. But all you hear is an accusation. 

It’s a mean little stereotype, that markless people tend to sleep around. You heard it enough, growing up. Of course, Hawks would never say something like that to you, or to anyone. But then again, there’s a lot of things you thought he’d never do. 

The hurt must show on your face because he’s instantly reaching for you, then pulling away when you gasp. 

“It’s not like that,” he says, trying to backtrack, to keep you from flinching again. 

“Like what?” you demand.

But there’s no answer. They were just words thrown out to slow you down. Meaningless. 

You start toward the building again. 

“Wait,” he chokes out. 

You turn to him, one hand already on the door. 

His animal brain is spitting and snapping. You found someone else. Someone capable of providing better. Someone capable of protecting you better. 

“No,” he says. 

“Excuse me?” 

His chest is heaving with each breath, gloved hands clenched at his sides. “You can’t—“

It’s not like him to stutter, to be so incapable of finding the words. But there’s so many emotions clogging his throat, his analytical mind is all gummed up with them. 

And what the fuck does he want, just showing up after so long? What are you supposed to do?

His eyes are begging.

You come away from the door, stand directly before him. You grab the side of his coat, tugging. It ends up a strange sort of half-hug, precarious and one armed, so tight your knuckles are white where they dig into the fabric at his back. 

Keigo lets out a breath that’s more of a wheeze, stilted and shuddering, all the air inside him rushing out. He’s empty. He’s healed. 

And he feels like a rabbit in the trap, cornered from every angle by relief. How could he have survived so long without your presence? Without your hands and your eyes and your soft, rapid pants against his throat? 

What happens if he has to go without again?

He lets himself have one second. Two. Then he’s pulling out of your embrace, his face pale, steeped in sweat. He looks rabid in this moment, a heartbeat from grabbing you and pulling you back in, from bolting. 

The second instinct wins out. His eyes pinned to you as he spreads his wings for flight. They’re so large, so intimidating. Weapons made from soft, red quills—they could kill you in an instant. 

But as he lifts off the ground, he looks so incredibly lost that it makes your throat squeeze. 

“Sorry,” he says. 

Then he’s gone. 

...

Those eyes, glowing with tears haunt your night. You think about them as you cook dinner and as you take your bath. As you tuck yourself in for bed and as you lay awake. 

It’s with no real purpose. Your thoughts aren’t investigative, not even curious. It’s just the image hovering over you and all around. Whatever is inside you reflected back. 

Please don’t be sorry (Read 3:34)

Ok (Sent 5:46)

...

Ok

Can we talk?

Are you alright?

sent: Just saw a bird carrying a whole bagel

received: is that a hint?

sent: No, what?

sent: You Did Not have to send a bagel to the agency for me. 

sent: But thanks 

…

sent: Heroes need to stop destroying entire buildings. The infrastructure of this city must be the consistency of a Pocky stick at this point

received: ok but consider this

received: I look really cool emerging from the rubble 

...

received: link

received: It’s that cat you like 

sent: !!!

...

sent: link 

sent: Song I think you’ll appreciate ^^

received: listening to it on repeat 💫👊

...

You’re drunk when you call him. It’s late, you had to stay after hours at the agency. You’ve just finished off a bottle of red. You don’t really think about it, he’s just the first person that comes to mind, the one you want the most. 

Your best friend just met her soulmate. The two of you were so close, bonded by your perpetual singleness. It was kind of a running joke between the two of you. “Maybe I’ll never meet them,” she’d said so many times. “Then it will just be us forever. That’s all we need.” She’s been your lodestar the past few weeks. 

You shouldn’t feel so terrible about something so wonderful. She’s happy, overjoyed. You tried to be too. But your loneliness outweighs everything else. You want Keigo.

“Angel?” He was asleep, it sounds like. But he still answered.

The softness in his voice, the carefulness, is what breaks you. You don’t say anything for a minute or two, crying softly into the receiver. Keigo flies into a panic, asking where you are, if you’re hurt, if you’re alone.

You assure him, in stilted, hiccupping sentences, that you’re fine, everything is fine, you’re just having a bad day. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have called you. No, really, it’s okay. You don’t have to come.”

He’s there in three minutes.

Upon opening the door, he bundles you up in his arms, tucks his face into your neck. His hold is fierce, almost painful, but it’s so good and warm and you let yourself fall against him, let him take your weight. 

You can feel his breath, hot and humid, coming in rapid pants against your skin. You can feel his delicate trembling.

Or maybe that’s you. 

You don’t know how long you stand there, clinging to each other. Keigo is the first to pull away, but just barely. 

“Hi,” he says. 

And you smile, despite yourself. 

He doesn’t ask you if you want to talk about it, not yet. He leads you to the bathroom, sitting you on the toilet as he turns on the shower, checking the temperature every few moments. Occasionally he turns and runs a hand down your knotted hair, or gives your hand a squeeze. 

He stands before you, grasps your hands in his. “Poor dove,” he says. “It’s alright, everything’s okay.” His eyes are molten and bright, as if they’re lit from within. 

He urges you to take a long shower, assuring you he’d be here when you get out. And he is. Leaned against the wall next to the bathroom door, arms and legs crossed. He looks surprised when you open the door and step out into the cool air. Like you might have disappeared again in those few minutes you were out of sight. 

He’s laid out your comfiest pjs, made a cup of tea for you, and brought several blankets into the living room, promptly wrapping you up after you take a seat. You feel infinitely better. You’re glad he’s here. 

Kneeling before you, he takes your hands. “Tell me what’s the matter?”

So you do. You tell him about how sad you are that your bestie has someone new, more important in her life. How you feel bad about feeling bad. 

And your best kept secret: how scared of being alone you are.

You don’t expect his reaction. He stands abruptly, pacing away from you, then back. He runs a hand through his hair. He looks slightly unhinged. “There’s something more, right? You’re not doing this just to fuck with me. You’re not cruel.”

Your mind is addled by the wine, the stress of the day, the emotional dumping you just did. You can’t figure out what he wants. You just tell him the truth.

“I don’t have a soulmate.”

His face-- it’s all shock, confusion. You almost laugh. Better than pity.

“It’s rare, but it happens,” you grouse. “Lucky me, I guess.”

He’s back beside you, sitting so close your legs are pressed up against each other, his chest against the side of your breast. “Are you sure? You checked everywhere?” His tone is frantic, clipped. 

His hands are raised as if he’s about to strip you and search you himself. You push them back into his lap. “Doctor confirmed.” You sigh. “No quirk. No mark. I’m the product of a failed evolutionary line. Me and the fucking dodo, brothers in arms.”

The silence drags on for too long. Then—

“Ah,” he says. It’s a long, drawn out syllable. He somehow pulls you even closer. You’re almost in his lap at this point. “Ok. Alright. I get it.”

Both his arms come around you, his hold firm. You’d think his wings would be cumbersome in a moment like this, but the closer one wraps around your shoulders, so warm, amazingly warm. You burrow further into him, out of energy to resist the feeling simmering in your chest. It’s so good to be like this with him, like homecoming, like right and right and right.

He nuzzles into your hairline, lips gentle in the filaments. You feel moisture against your skin, smell something like brine in the air. Your fuzzy mind tells you: tears. Someone is crying. 

“I’m sorry,” you murmur. “Missed you.”

 “Don’t be sorry, Angel,” he returns. His voice is so soft. Barely there. “Go to sleep. I’ve got you.”

…

He wakes curled around you. He’d moved the two of you to the bed last night, when he could finally move his lead-heavy limbs. Then he lay there with you, arms around your middle, your head tucked into his neck.

It was the kind of intimacy he’d dreamt of all his life. Simply being in another’s presence, no artifice or guile, no shields up. He stayed up as long as he could, wanting to hold onto this sensation for as long as he could, wanting it to fill him up, overrun everything bad he’d been storing up inside him. He wanted to drown himself in you.

He’s trying to let you sleep in, especially after last night. He eases you off him as carefully as possible. He places a butterfly kiss on your forehead. Pauses in the doorway for a long minute to just watch you. Then he makes breakfast.

He recalls the way you like your eggs, how you take your hashbrowns slightly burnt. He makes a lot. Good hangover food. The smell wakes you, and you creep into the kitchen, scrubbing at your tired eyes, fixing him with a wary stare.

For a moment the two of you stand in the kitchen, not moving, barely breathing. 

He breaks first. “Morning, beautiful.”

The look on your face -- pure relief. So grateful, and why? He’d do anything for you, don’t you know that? But of course not, you don’t know any of it. You don’t know about him.

He lays out the food and his hands are trembling. You’re not looking at them, anyway. Just at his face, the serene mask he wears. His training takes over, sends him into autopilot as he sits across from you and picks up his fork.

“Did you sleep okay?” he asks. His cadence has that signature insouciance to it, careless and dry.

You perk up at it, smiling. Your expression is so open. Tired but glowing. “The best,” you say.

You could have it all the time, he thinks. Always.

But you don’t know. You don’t know.

“That’s good. Great,” he says. His hands are shaking so hard his fork rattles against the plate. He pulls back, only to let it slip from his grip. 

Guilt grips him, closes in on him from all directions. He’s swallowed up in it. Devoured by it. He’s panting, can’t get enough air. His wings curl and retract, twitching, sharpening.

You don’t know you don’t know you don’t know.

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until you insinuate yourself into the dangerous arc of his body, careful of his wings, careful not to startle him. You ease his head against your chest and he feels the moisture soak your shirt. 

He’s slow to return the embrace, his mind foggy with fear, hurt. He wraps his arms around your middle and squeezes and squeezes, aware of the soft wheeze you let out but not able to let you go. You don’t care. 

All you can think about is running your hands through his hair, over the tense muscles of his neck, the hardened planes of his wings. Slowly, under your touch, they soften again, until you can finger the fine bristles of them, until his breathing evens out against your collar bone. 

You’re cooing at him, gentle nonsense words. Things that don’t mean anything. Got you. You’re okay. We’re gonna be alright. Nothing’s gonna hurt you.

And as he calms down, relaxing in your arms, the mantra in his mind is Liar. I love you. I missed you. You’re such a liar.

Because he’s yours.

And you’re not his.

an: my bad ʕ·ᴥ·˵　ʔ

[anobscurename]

ocean eyes – chris evans

PART I | PART II

concept: a collection of happenings, the little moments with him. there will be many more parts. this is the first non-date of many.

pairing: chris evans x reader

word count: 1,8k

warnings: none.

author's note: welcome to the third part of like... twenty. i already have a bunch of them written, so now i'm just going through and reading and editing. hope you enjoy :)

He hadn't noticed you yet, and it was becoming almost laughable.

You weren't hidden away, by any means. You were there, in the café, as arranged. Your very first premeditated and arranged meeting with Chris.

You'd be lying if you said that you hadn't rethought your outfit at least twelve times. You had started in simple jeans and a tee, upgraded to a skirt and tank, fucked it all with a summer dress, and now – after several iterations of similar outfits – you were sporting something in between. A tank top with the same jeans and a slouchy cardigan.

Honestly, you didn't know why you were so in your head about it.

Maybe it was because he'd seen you at your best, and then again in your work ensemble which was as close to your best as possible. Looking good meant more tips at the club, and VIPs tipped quite well if you didn't care too much about the degradation of having to flaunt yourself for it.

You knew it wasn't because he was famous – you didn't care much with that sort of thing, given your work leading to so many interactions with these perceived "betters" that the "starstruckness" of it all had long since worn down from a galaxy to merely a scatter of glitter. So what was it then?

Another five minutes passed, and he still hadn't seen you.

You glanced down at the sketchbook propped against your knee. You were seated in one of the unforgivably comfortable armchairs towards the front of the café, surrounded by college students buried in their notes or typing furiously away on laptops. You fit in quite seamlessly with them, you realised, managing to unintentionally chameleon yourself into their aesthetic. You had one leg tucked underneath you, the other curled to your chest, sketchbook close to you so no one could see what you were drawing. It was a very personal thing for you, your art.

Also mildly embarrassing, considering you had been drawing him.

You had no intention of finishing the sketch – you had started it the moment he entered the café and sat down, and continued in hopes that he would see and acknowledge you – effectively halting the process and leaving it alongside the so many other unfinished projects you'd accumulated over the years – so the meeting could begin.

You called it a meeting, because if it wasn't a meeting, it was a date. And you weren't going to be presumptuous enough to assume the latter, so you decidedly chose to believe the former. You were there to discuss the terms of your new and exciting job of looking after Dodger after all. If it was a date, however, it would explain the sudden apprehension you felt, and the numerous outfit changes, and the goddamn butterflies that sought to tear your stomach apart.

You'd met him before, this wasn't some new occurence. Hell, he'd even asked you to move in after just happening to run into eachother twice... Why the sudden nerves?

The longer time drew on in the café, the more it became a little game to you. How long would it be before he saw you? And how far into the sketch would you be when he finally did?

You had already finished most of his face, and were now working on his lips.

His eyes had been the hardest to capture at the time, because you'd spent so long staring into them in the past – during long conversations and across packed and busy bars – and it was as if you knew them too well to put on paper.

With his lips, the situation was almost entirely reversed. You hadn't paid them much attention at all and it was almost as if you'd forgotten what lips looked like in general. You glanced up from your work to see him talking to a waiter, ordering a cup of coffee – and you decided to watch his lips.

His lips were practically highlighted by the shadow of scruff on his strong jaw. How you'd never noticed them as prominently as you did now, you didn't know.

One thing about them, was that they looked soft. They looked soft, like they could kiss the breath out of you, leave you dizzy. And they stretched so easily into a thankful smile when the waiter returned with his order that it was impossible not to smile too.

The pencil moved easily on the parchment paper as you began to get to work, the gentle curve of the cupid's bow, to the small little upturn at the corners of his mouth, even in their natural position. You almost wished you'd brought colours with you, but you knew that no shade of pink would be a perfect match.

Another ten minutes passed, ten minutes of him checking his watch, his phone, sipping his coffee, tapping on the table... Ten minutes of you realizing what a total creep you were being.

But there was something so beautiful about him. Even in the small movements, it was entrancing to watch. You were outright staring, sketch pushed aside and finished, as good as it was going to get. It was one of your best, you admitted reluctantly. The attention to detail was bordering on mirror like, and you didn't know if that made you a stalker or if it made you a romantic. Not that you were considering romance with your future roommate, but you'd be a liar if you didn't admit the thought had briefly crossed your mind. Specifically in the "meeting or date" debate – one which you'd shut down with the agreement to yourself that it was a meeting, nothing more.

You decided then that this had gone on long enough, and if he hadn't noticed you by now, he never was going to. The last thing you wanted him to think was that you'd stood him up. Considering how you'd both met, and the message you'd sent to the person guilty of that particular crime, it wouldn't be the best look for you. Not to mention it was a fucking dick thing to do, in any case.

You unfurled yourself from the position you'd held on the couch, your muscles screaming at you in discomfort.

The foot you'd sat on was dead asleep, and wiggling it brought the onset of pins and needles. Groaning in annoyance, you rose unsteadily, sketchbook in hand.

The idea that struck you just then was a stupid one, but given the fact that all rationality of yours had been poisoned since you'd met Chris – you were still struggling to comprehend how he'd managed to convince you to move in with him so easily – you resolved yourself. It'll be funny, you told yourself.

Pulling your pencil out from where it was tucked behind your ear, you scribbled a quick note on the bottom corner, before tearing the sketch free from the pad. You moved around the café, making sure to keep out of Chris' eyeline. Not a difficult feat by any means, his focus shifted between his coffee and the door at almost perfectly timed intervals. You could feel his impatience growing – his brow furrowed, muscle in his jaw ticking. But also a familiar look you recognized from the other night: concern.

You reached the table at which he sat, but he didn't pay you any mind. His attention was elsewhere. You slid the sketch onto the table – as close to him as you dared – before disappearing to the counter to place an order, perfectly hidden behind a wall of strangers, but able to see his every reaction.

Your order was being made by the time he noticed the paper on his table.

He stared at it for the longest time – the sketch of him sitting at that exact table, wearing what he was wearing, frozen in graphite in his most revisited position of being utterly engrossed with all the newcomers slipping into the café, searching for the one face he was expecting. His shoulders stiffened – and then he saw the note hurriedly written at the bottom corner, and all tension dissipated.

The face he gets when he's looking for another cab to steal from some unsuspecting girl

You stifled a laugh when his brow furrowed – that adorable crease forming immediately – and realization the dawned on him that you were there, and had been for a while if you'd managed to get that sketch done and as perfected as it was. Your coffee was handed to you, and as you watched him swivel his head in confusion, you decided to put him out of his misery.

You walked deliberately and confidently into his eyeline, gently blowing on the hot liquid you clutched before giving him a charming – if not teasing – smile.

"Mr Evans, cab thief extraordinaire," you joked, sliding onto the seat in front of him. You placed the sketchpad you had tucked under your arm onto the table, sliding the pencil back out from behind your ear to place it on top in case it fell. You set your coffee down, lacing your fingers together before resting them on the table.

"Miss {your last name}, stalker sketch artist," he retorted, his mouth already forming a lopsided grin. Your attention was immediately drawn to his lips...

Stop it.

"Hey, it's not my fault you didn't see me. I needed something to pass the time while you were sat there being utterly oblivious."

He opened his mouth to respond, but words seemed to fail him. Chuckling, he looked down at the drawing again. When he spoke, his voice had taken on a sincere gentleness, one that stirred something in the pit of your belly. "It's really good."

"I had a lot of time," you shrugged the compliment off, like you did many you received before. You were accused of being too humble at times – if that were even a thing – and it annoyed some of the people around you.

"But you know," he leaned closer to you, almost conspiratorially. "A normal person would've just told me they were here."

There was a joking glint in his eye, and although he had tried to fight it, he found himself grinning again. There was something about being around you – it rendered him practically incapable of doing anything other than smile.

"Mr Evans," you paused to sip your coffee. "I am anything but normal."

"What exactly are you, then?" You tried not to falter at the sight of his tongue darting out to wet those perfect lips as he awaited your response.

"I, Captain, am fun. Something which you look like you need a lot more of."

He laughed, the sound warm and welcoming. "Is that so?"

You shrugged non-chalantly. "It is."

"I can hardly wait."

[dustedmagazine]

Groundhogs — Road Hogs: Live from Richmond to Pocono (Fire Records)

Road Hogs: Live From Richmond To Pocono by The Groundhogs

The phrase “white-boy blues” can induce twinges of distaste, for reasons both political and aesthetic. For all the good (Peter Green’s Fleetwood Mac, Taste, Paul Butterfield’s records with Mike Bloomfield) there’s an alarming amount of bad (Savoy Brown, Joe Bonamassa’s cartoonish preening, anything involving George Thorogood…). While Cream and Led Zep still figure strongly in the public imagination of the British blues boom, the bombast of both bands amplifies the worst tendencies of the music — all those endless solos that buried the songs under layer upon bloated layer of cock-rocking excess (not to mention Jimmy Page’s tendency to take credit for other folks’ music, or Clapton’s grotesque descent from garden variety conservatism to reactionary paranoia). The Groundhogs don’t have the same residue of prestige attached to their records and songs, likely because they never achieved the same heights of celebrity, or of Hammer of the Gods-style rock-star mythos. Like the humble critter from which the band took its name, the Groundhogs worked close to the dirt. They stayed tuned in to the grime and misery that gave the blues shape, even when their impulse to rawk long and loud moved toward more expansive moods and musical spaces.

And they could get expansive. Road Hogs: Live from Richmond to Pocono collects a couple Groundhogs live sets from the band’s peak period, and two of its tracks near the twenty-minute mark. Both sets feature the band’s best, most stable line-up: guitarist and frontman Tony McPhee, bass player Peter Cruickshank and drummer Ken Pustelnik. Road Hogs captures the band in action at London’s Richmond Athletic Ground in 1969, and in 1972 at the Pocono Raceway in Pennsylvania, a show purported to be the trio’s last gig together until a reunion in the early 21st century. The 1969 set is both looser and dirtier; the 1972 show has sharper, fuller sound quality, and features some of the record’s finest playing. Road Hogs will remind anyone who needs it that the Groundhogs were a potent band, purveyors of bluesy boogie and seriously heavy vibes. 

The 1969 recording has a rough-and-ready quality, blown out (a phrase this reviewer uses with some trepidation — these ain’t indie kids driving the needle into the red to be edgy) but sort of charmingly so. The recording is infused with the atmosphere of festival and the attendant pleasures of a big but crappy PA blasting at top volume. The set draws principally on songs from Blues Obituary (1969), which is by far the least loved of the records the trio released between 1968 and 1972. The tunes fare much better in these live iterations. “B.D.D.” is a half-beat faster than the studio version and feels lively, rather than stilted and soulless. “Mistreated” is also nearly revelatory, snarling, chugging and regularly reaching for big, emotionally charged tones. But it’s the songs from the Groundhogs’ earlier LP Scratching the Surface (1968) that explode with the most energy, bluesy in a truculent, nasty fashion that feels dangerously dissolute. The band’s rendition of Muddy Waters’ “Still a Fool” swaggers with palpable ill intent. McPhee imbues his playing with bravado and bluster — but in the mode of a bad man, looking to do bad things. 

There’s another version of “Still a Fool” in the set from the Pocono Raceway, and the cleaner sound quality renders the band’s dynamics crisper. It’s also four minutes longer, and a good bit spacier in its long closing section. McPhee’s playing is forceful, but the song sounds more practiced in its excesses. The undertone of wickedness crackling through the 1969 version is lost. The most exciting performance in the 1972 set is the bracing, bruising version of “Cherry Red/Split,” songs the band had recently recorded on Split (1971). McPhee’s engagement with the recent material is energetic, and the band locates a tight pocket. There aren’t any audible signs of whatever stresses would soon sunder the trio, sending Pustelnik packing and resulting in a revolving door in the rhythm section that would turn through the next couple decades. On the days documented in Road Hogs, the Groundhogs were just three English white boys, playing the blues.  

Jonathan Shaw

[laurasauras]

ultdirkrose fight idk?

I think I've got Rosebot flustered. No, not like that. How many times do I have to—You know what? Not important. I'm setting a scene here, dropping you in in media res, breaking the fourth wall because I know you and I know what you want. You're welcome. I'm here, I'm obnoxious and I'm sweating. No. Not like that. 

Rosebot faces me, twenty feet away and bent slightly forward, needles level with her knees, poised, in short, to wreck my shit. And Rose Lalonde in any iteration is not an unformidable sight. She has my slightly long face, my strong chin, anime-large robot-eyes that are perma-set on kill-mode red (and ain't that a triumph of hyphenation). But she's flustered, I can tell. And not only because I can read her mind. The tip of one of her needles lies broken on the ground next to me, my trophy from her last advance. She's flustered because she's so much more than she was and she'll still never land a blow on me.

[nazaninlankarani]

The Intersection of Haute Couture and Watchmaking

The rarefied fashion category is the result of painstaking handwork and flights of design fancy. Sound familiar?

In 2019, Patek Philippe unveiled its Twenty-4 Automatic on models in gowns by Alexis Mabille, a Parisian designer. © via Patek Philippe

PARIS — Bella Hadid in an ethereal pink Dior confection, posing at the Cannes Film Festival. Her sister Gigi in a tweed midriff number, slithering down a reproduction of the mirrored staircase at Coco Chanel’s shop in Paris.

At first glance, neither of these supermodels posing in custom-made styles could be further from the world of a watchmaker hunched over a work bench, peering at miniature parts.

But the grand spectacle of high fashion seems to have turned a few heads at watch brands of late. Some are looking past the décor, lights and models, and discovering that the watch industry does, in fact, have something in common with the world of haute couture and its made-to-measure, exquisitely handcrafted garments. “Our two worlds are not that far apart,” Laurent Perves, chief marketing officer for Vacheron Constantin, said in an interview. “Haute couture and haute horlogerie share the same values of excellence, precision and beauty.” This year, for the first time in its 265-year history, the Swiss watch house produced a women’s collection inspired by couture. Called Égérie, French for muse, it is an iteration of a women’s line (with the same name) introduced in 2003. But the five new models, which arrived in brand boutiques March 1, have textured dials that resemble the couture effect of plissé, or pleating. To create the look, Vacheron’s métiers d’art workshop adapted the guillochage, or engraving, techniques that it uses for tapestry patterns on watch dials.

The Vacheron Constantin Égérie, part of a women’s collection inspired by couture. The house’s métiers d’art workshop adapted its guillochage, or engraving, technique to produce the plissé effect on the dial.

“We looked closely at techniques of pleating, lacing, embroidery and sewing used in couture to produce this effect,” Mr. Perves said. “The numerals were specially designed to evoke fine embroidery, and the hour and minute hands are shaped like needles used in a couture workshop.” High fashion may well be an answer to the age-old question of what (style-conscious) women really want in a timepiece beyond the usual diamond-studded, smaller version of a watch designed for a man. “We have always made models for women, but this is the first time we have dedicated a collection of this scale to women,” Mr. Perves said. “Our clients asked for it and we listened.” Watchmakers focusing on female preferences are no doubt encouraged that sales of women’s watches priced at more than $5,000 saw growth of 8 percent in 2019, surpassing for the first time in recent years sales of the sub-$500 segment, according to the NPD Group, a luxury industry analyst and data provider.

The Patek Philippe Twenty-4

Last year Patek Philippe updated its 20-year-old women’s model, the Twenty-4, which it reshaped with a round dial and reintroduced with an automatic movement. When the Twenty-4 Automatic was unveiled during the Couture shows in late January in Paris, it was shown on the wrists of models wearing couture styles by Alexis Mabille, a Parisian designer. “The world and the place of women in it have evolved,” said Thierry Stern, president of Patek Philippe. “The new Twenty-4 is audacious in the image of the modern woman who knows her own taste.” Sandrine Stern, head of design at the family-owned company, said: “Haute couture and a beautiful watch coexist well in a woman’s world. This watch has the style and technicality that we believe women want today.” At Chanel, the watchmaking division has regularly collaborated with Maison Lesage, the embroidery specialist that in 2002 became part of its Paraffection heritage craft subsidiary. Over the years, Lesage has produced the fashion house’s signature tweeds in fabulously intricate and colorful weaves of mousseline, wool, pearls and ribbon. And it has created delicate embroideries on the dials of Chanel’s métiers d’art watches, including the camellia on the Mademoiselle Privé. The house’s jewelry group took notice. “I joined Chanel about a decade ago, and have ever since been fascinated by the work that goes into making couture tweeds,” said Patrice Leguéreau, director of the Creation Studio for Chanel jewelry. “I always wondered if tweed-weaving techniques could be used to produce the same extraordinary effect in jewelry.”

In December 2019, Gigi Hadid in Chanel métiers d’art tweed… © Pascal Le Segretain/Getty Images

….and the Contrasté watch, part of the Tweed de Chanel high jewelry collection. The design mimics the fabric.

In January, during the Couture, Chanel unveiled Tweed de Chanel, a 45-piece high jewelry collection that included three timepieces — named Cordage, Contrasté and Frangé. “The challenge was to take inherently hard materials like metals and precious stones, and weave them like fabric to produce a result that both looked and felt like tweed,” Mr. Leguéreau said. The bangle-style bracelet of the Contrasté watch, for example, has pearls, onyx and diamonds set in a grid pattern on a white gold and platinum base, interlaced with gold chain in what seems to be a nod to the chain-weighted hem of Chanel’s couture jackets. A secret watch style, it has a diamond-studded and gold chain-edged disc that swings across to cover the timepiece’s dial. Couture, particularly the sweeping full skirts of classic ball gowns created by Christian Dior, has been the inspiration for Dior’s annual Grand Bal watch collections, first introduced in 2011.

Bows are a Dior signature, like on this gown from the spring 2019 couture collection….. © Gio Staiano/Nowfashion

… and in this new Dior Grand Bal Ruban Rose watch.

“A ball gown is your dream,” a recent news release quoted Mr. Dior as saying, “and it must make you a dream.” The timepieces have an inverted movement — named the Dior Calibre Inversé 11 ½ — with an oscillating weight that swings from side to side as the wearer moves. The effect is like the sway of a ball gown moving across a dance floor, and the house has used it for such motifs as flowers and feathers. This year, the Dior Grand Bal Ruban features an openwork bow carved on the oscillating weight, swinging atop a dial with either a blue sunburst or a bed of pink and gold feathers. Bows are a signature detail of Dior’s couture, created for the neckline, hip or toe of a shoe by the petites mains, or tiny hands, of the couture ateliers. So, as experts say, not much different from the work of the house’s watchmakers after all.

At Versace

Versace also turned to its fashion archives — although ready-to-wear looks — in designing its new Medusa Frame watch, scheduled for introduction in May. The bandeau-style bracelet is made with the same jungle print as Jennifer Lopez’s memorable open-to-the-navel Versace gown at the 2000 Grammy Awards — and the even-more-revealing spring 2020 style that the actress wore in September at the brand’s ready-to-wear show in Milan.

The jungle print that Jennifer Lopez wore at Versace’s spring 2020 show in Milan… © Alessandro Garofalo/Reuters

… will be used for the strap of Versace’s new Medusa Frame watch, to be introduced in May.

Versace watches are produced by the Timex Group Luxury Division. And its president, Paolo Marai, wrote in an email: “On the 20-year anniversary of an iconic fashion moment, the time was right to bring back the dress and a watch with a slip-through jungle print strap.” Bringing back a print that has aged well on the gravity-defying figure of a celebrity who seems to not age at all is a powerful way for Versace to reinforce its message. “‘Timeless appeal’ is something that we always wish to achieve,” Mr. Marai wrote, “and Versace constantly demonstrates that the brand is timeless in all its categories, including its watches.” Fashion milestones help, too. So this fall, it intends to introduce a watch inspired by the black safety-pin gown that Liz Hurley wore in 1994.

[Source]

[evelynraven]

NaNoWriMo book

Hello folks I know I’m very late but I would like to reveal to you all the novel I’m working on and a little preview of the rough first chapter. I’ve been calling it “renegades” although I doubt it’ll actually be called that. To put it simply It’s a fantasy series about a group of peeps going against the government to destroy evil on their own terms, without further ado I present you the prologue and chapter 1 very rough mind you but here nevertheless

Prologue

    The man slammed into the ground hard so hard he bounced and rolled to a stop as another man gently glided down a few paces in front of him. 

    “Give it up Azend, I don’t understand why you are doing this.” The standing man said through a dark black hood lined with gold. 

    Azend slowly got up, he wore the same outfit that the other man had but his hood was down revealing shoulder-length blond hair half matted with blood and a crazed expression in his green eyes. 

    “I’m doing what we are supposed to do.” Azend said as he folded one of his wings to his back. The other was twisted at an odd angle, almost certainly broken. He dug in his coat and pulled his weapon. It resembled a knitting needle and was called a syr 

“I found it, and with it we can be gods.” Azend said as he twirled the weapon around his fingers. The other man looked down to his hand then flicked the coin in it at the ground around Azend’s feet. It hit with a boom like a thunder clap. The ground shook so hard Azend was forced to his knees.

“All made gods are fake in the eyes of Riegh” the man said looking down at Azend. 

“Oh men and gods aren’t that different Boughend, we all bleed” Azend laughed. He then shifted to one knee and threw aside his coat revealing a pouch tied to his belt. He cut it free and it hit the ground with a light, clink. He smiled as he looked up to Boughend. 

Boughend took a step forward shouting “no” as he stuffed his hand into a coat pocket. At this Azend shoved his hand into the bag in front of him, the contents clinked softly as it moved. Azend’s shoulders hunched suddenly. Boughend removed his hand from it’s pocket and threw another coin this time aiming squarely at Azend. 

As if his hand moved on it’s own accord it shot out of the bag and grabbed the coin seconds before it was going to hit Azend in the head. It now had a dark silver gauntlet on, tiny cracks marred it’s ornate surface.  Azend slowly raised his head smiling, his eyes had changed instead of green they were a light purple and his pupils were a milky white.

“Let’s see what your god chose for you.” Azend said slyly as he opened his gauntleted hand to reveal the tails side up. The common insignia of a pair of wings with a rose in the middle. Azend started to laugh hysterically, so deranged it didn't sound real. 

The coin was a game of chance one side carrying enough damage to obliterate even the strongest of men the other doing nothing at all. It had hit his hand heads side up, meaning he should have been hit with a force akin to a bundle of explosives detonating in his hand but he absorbed it all.

He tossed it back at Boughend and it hit his chest. Boughend looked down, tails side, nothing happened. He could barely process that, being completely dumbfounded by what he saw. 

“Now care for a demonstration?” Azend said as he ran over and punched Boughend with the gauntlet. 

It was almost like the sound lagged behind what Azend saw. He hit Boughend and for a split second everything was calm then a cracking explosion tore through the night sky, wind whipped his hair as he tried to stay on his feet. He couldn’t see Boughend any more, like he had vanished into the dark.

Azend was silent until the wind calmed and the equilibrium was reached then he cackled, piercingly high screams of joy left him as he looked at his prize. Then he abruptly stopped. He noticed the cracks on the gauntlet had grown slightly, one dangerously close to separating the thumb from the rest. This was a setback but not one so hard that a god couldn’t handle it. 

Chapter 1 

A hooded man walked through the gates of Lisz. As he walked into the busy semi circle that was Lisz’s entry courtyard he removed his hood revealing his bruised face, his pale skin blossomed with purplish blemishes. 

He looked around the courtyard. It was quiet at this point but still had Angae meandering about, their white feathered wings and flowing white attire reflecting the sunlight. The first five stories of the twenty story walls were open air gambling areas. Set up so two men could wager at each table whether it be cards or dice. There were at least twenty people there at any given time as per custom for their luck based society. 

The man found what he was looking for, another man slumped in a chair on the ground level looking extremely bored as he scanned the crowd. He was so far down on his seat he was practically falling off. 

The bruised man made his way through the crowd towards the other. As he made his way the sitting man locked eyes with him and sat up suddenly pulling his flowy clothes back in order. 

“Baldrin’s spear Ren! What happened to you?” The sitting man exclaimed as Ren sat next to him. 

“My last hit was powerful.” Ren sighed as he lightly brushed the bruise on his jaw and winced slightly. His partner leaned forward his face growing slightly darker.

“Lae sent me here to see how that went” he said seriously.

“Yeah i guessed that.” ren replied with a sigh.

“So?” the man pushed.

“How do you think Dalis?” Ren said gesturing to his face.

“So did he escape?” Dalis said his face darkening even more.

“No he’s dead but it didn’t go as planned and I don’t think I was quite unnoticed.” Ren replied.

“Well dead is all Lae cares about.” Dalis said as he sat back in his chair. Ren nodded and looked down. Lae cared about the killing but she wouldn’t like the fact that he had to go off protocol. He would get an earful for sure. 

“Well” Dalis said as he got up. “I guess I’ll report back to her, you can go play a round. You deserve it.”

Dalis walked away and Ren rested his head on the table. He was not in the mood to deal with Lae. he had his ass beat the night before and a tongue lashing was not the best thing to come home to after that. He was supposed to check in at the embassy after a hit was complete but he decided he would just skip it today, he had a decent reason right? 

As he lifted his head and stretched he suddenly locked eyes with someone else. He didn’t know how long she had been staring at him but she didn’t break eye contact with him. She was on the second floor right where the circle curved so they were almost in front of each other.

Her eyes caused a little spark of panic in Ren. they were a strange sickly purple with a completely white pupil. Was this some sort of cosmetic illusion magic? Ren thought, but why would someone choose such an unsettling look? 

Ren tried waving at her to no avail. She just sat there staring at him. Ren got up and started walking in the opposite direction, to the actual city and subsequently his house. Before he fully left the courtyard he looked back to see if the girl was still there. When he did, he saw an empty seat where she had been. That made him even more nervous.

Ren reached his home with little problem. He sighed as he stared at the front door. Here again, he thought as he turned the knob, things were starting to feel samey. He would go out and kill some no name for Lae then brush his hands off and sleep until he was needed again. 

As Ren stepped inside he threw his card holster on a small table in the hallway. The cards inside clattered with small metallic clinks as the sharpened edges shifted. Those cards were the only reason Ren was allowed the position he had. Each card was made of a thin metal plate carved with faces depicting what they could do. Everytime he went out for a mission they were randomly shuffled to preserve the random chance his peoples patron goddess, Reigh, demanded. Once they were thrown and hit some sort of surface their ability was released, in Ren’s case an iteration of the natural illusion magic inside him.

Ren slowly walked upstairs dragging his feet over each step and lightly poking at all his bruises, he was certain once he took off his clothes he would be a colorful mosaic of purples greens and yellows. He hurt everywhere

When Ren opened the door to his room he froze. His bedroom window had been smashed, pieces of glass sparkling on the wood floor. His dresser drawers and desk had all been rummaged through, papers littered the ground along with shirts and pants.

A hundred thoughts whirled through Ren’s head but one stuck out. The person who had come in through the window was still in the house, the window didn’t show any signs of tampering after the initial breaking and none of the windows in the house were broken, even the door had been locked when he came in but the detail that sealed it for Ren was his closet. It was shut and as a rule he never shut the sliding closet door.

Still in shock Ren slowly closed the door then sprang into action. He ran down the stairs made a hard right and flew into the hallway. He grabbed his cards and dashed back up the stairs

When he opened the door this time there was a woman standing right in the middle of the room, staring piercingly at Ren. she was the same woman he had seen at the courtyard. She had the same eyes that made Ren shiver. He slid the first card out of its case with a metallic swish and threw it into the room. It stuck in the wood in front of the woman's feet. She looked down, then back at Ren before an explosion of grey smoke filled the room and poured out into the entryway where Ren stood. He breathed in and dashed into the smoke. As he ran he pulled out his syr.

 Ren ran in a straight line to where she was and slammed full body into her sending both of them sprawling to the ground. As the smoke cleared Ren was on top of the woman one hand pinning her hand to the ground the other holding his Syr to her neck. 

“What in Skalith are you doing here?” Ren asked roughly. The woman began to chuckle softly 

“Who sent you? What do you want with me?” Ren said louder. In response the woman burst into laughter. Wild unhinged peals of laughter racked her body sounding more like screams to Ren. he sat dumbfounded for a moment before the woman quickly kneed him in the gut. The blow was strong enough to knock the wind out of Ren and stun him momentarily, long enough for the woman to grab the hand he had his syr in and push her thumb deep into the pressure point on his wrist. Her grip was like iron and made Ren yip in pain, dropping the Syr and instinctively bringing his other hand to his wrist. The hand he just released shot to the opposite side and grabbed the syr. She then pressed all her weight into the already off balance Ren causing him to fall to the side and her to roll on top of him. 

She continued to laugh as she looked down at Ren. he was struggling trying to get out but his legs were pinned. She grabbed Ren’s head and forced it to face hers. They stared into each other's eyes as she slowly raised the syr to her throat and pierced her carotid artery. She ripped the syr back out causing her blood to spray down on Ren’s face and clothes. 

She collapsed into Ren in a matter of seconds. He pushed her off of him and laid on the ground absolutely dumbfounded. His mind couldn’t process what just happened, it felt like some strange dream. 

Soon he noticed the large red stain on the side of his white coat. When he saw it only one thought popped up, Oh Lae is gonna kill me for this.  

Ren layed on the floor for a little while longer, mind rolling with questions. Who was the girl now dead on his floor? Why had she done any of this? 

He soon sighed, got up and left the room trying not to look at the pale face of the woman. He walked to the bathroom and cleaned the now tacky blood off his face then proceeded to the doorway, putting on a black jacket to cover the blood stain and left his apartment. His shoes clicked against the cobblestones as he speed walked toward his work building. 

“Hey! Ren, what’s up man?” a man said as he stopped in front of Ren. 

“Can’t talk now Yesish, got a dead girl in my bedroom.” Ren responded rushing around Yesish. As Ren walked away Yesish turned confusedly staring at his back. Ren paid him no mind as he set his eyes on the upcoming building.

It was a large imposing building, made of white marble it had intricate carvings inlaid with gold. Eyes of imposing Angae warriors flashed as you passed, their wings spread wide in poses of victory. This was the building of peacekeepers, a specialized sect of the Angae military meant to keep things in and around the capital Lisz. They were no secret even using tell tale hoods and long white cloaks inlaid with their vows written in gold cursive as trim. Ren was a glorified hitman for the organization taking out targets deemed too troublesome by the church or the people at large.     

Ren pressed through the double doors and made his way inside. There was a small room inside with a small box labeled “tips” meant for citizens to put in requests and potential whereabouts for targets. On the opposite side of the entrance there was another set of doors and in front of them was a bored looking man leaning on a spear. His head perked up as Ren entered and he smiled. 

“Ren you don’t look all too good, target give you a rough go?” he asked his smile growing bigger.

“That and then some, let’s just say I haven’t had the best few days.” Ren replied walking towards the set of doors. 

“Well let’s hope the next days flip the coin huh?” he said laughing as he stepped aside to let Ren through. 

“Riegh willing.” Ren sighed pushing through the doors. He heard the man chuckling as he walked into the empty hallway. Ren walked past the assignment room and the little makeshift kitchen turning right and stopping at the end of the hallway. He stood in front of a plain door with a plaque that read simply, Lae. He breathed in and turned the handle.

“Knock knock Lae.” Ren said as he stepped into the doorway. Lae looked up from her desk and stared at him brow furrowed. 

“Ah Ren come in, nice of you to join us.” Lae said expresion unmoving, voice monotone. 

“Yeah, about that, uh something happen-” Ren tried to say before lae interrupted him

“Hope the target didn’t give you too much trouble.” she said tapping a quill on the desk. 

“Well he did, but that’s not what I want to talk to you about.” Ren said quickly.

“Oh? Is that why you decided to not check in with us like your supposed to?” Lae asked brow furrowing deeper. 

“Uh well, I mean I wanted to rest but something urgent happened ma’am.” Ren squirmed feeling his face grow hot.

“Go on then.” Lae said relaxing.

“Well” Ren said breathing out his anxiety, he opened his coat revealing the bloody stain on his clothing. Lae’s eyes widened and she glanced up to him her eyes filled with confusion and worry.

“Ren, what the hell happened to you?” she asked slightly awed.

“Well I came back from my mission, which was successful by the way, and there was this creepy girl just staring at me, like I tried to interact but no nothing. Then when I came home she was hiding in my closet! So I tackle her and try to figure out what the hells going on when she gets on top of me she well, she killed herself giving me no information.”

Lae’s look of concern deepened as Ren continued talking. 

“This isn’t good, It’s way beyond your station here, even ours for the world’s sake. We’ll have to talk to our higher ups about this.” Her face hardened as she said that “Ren was there anything else you remember, details that stuck out to you?”

“Well” ren started before pausing and uncomfortably saying “her eyes they were an unnatural shade of purple and the pupil was white.” he fidgeted as he remembered them looking at him as she pressed the Syr into her flesh. “But I don’t understand” He said shrugging off the image “what did she want? If she wanted me or information she wouldn’t have done- that, she didn't even say a word to me.”

Lae stood up from her desk studying Ren’s face seriously “that’s just the thing ren she didn’t want anything” she said darkly, “This was a warning.”

[littleruffian]

[theemptyquarto]

#55

A John Watson’s Groundhog Days AU ficlet, this time from a prompt by @marcceh.  No ships, rated M but really only for bad language.  And of course, Major Character Death, though in this AU it really never sticks.

John really, really had thought he’d got it all to work this time.  

He’d taken Jefferson Hope out (it turned out you couldn’t not, Sherlock was absolutely up his own arse at that point in his life and was 100% going to take that pill.)

He’d kept her brother from murdering Soo Lin Yao (that had always bothered him so much, and it bothered him even more after Mary, another woman running from her past who John couldn’t save.)

He had not retrieved the Bruce-Partington plans without Sherlock’s help (at least two occasions of being shanked by Joe Allen had turned him off of that route.). But he had phoned in an anonymous tip that had saved the lives of that poor blind woman and eleven of her neighbors.

In all, quite a successful go-round so far, John thought smugly on the way to Sarah’s, before turning a corner and getting a needle stuck in his neck.

Now this wasn’t fair.  He’d personally returned the missile plans to Mycroft, and the pool bit was supposed to happen two full days ago!  John mumbled, “You know Sherlock’s bluffing too, right?” but he wasn’t sure if it’d been comprehensible.

In the event, here he was, groggy, Semtex-clad, coming to on the filthy floor of a community swimming pool changing room, staring down the barrel of Seb’s gun.

Again.

Colonel Sebastian Moran was what Sherlock had described as a dissolute and dangerous son of a very notable family, a master marksman, with no fear and no conscience.  John, not that anyone ever asked him, would have described him as the sort of upper-class toerag who probably took ears back in the ‘Stan.  

He glared up at the older man.  Fucking Morans.  At least three of the family he’d met were shitheads, murderers or terrorists, and every iteration of Sebastian in particular was an absolute wanker.

“You’ll go out there when you’re told,” Moran said in his posh colonial-imperialist drawl, “You’ll say what you’re told.  And if you do that maybe I won’t trim the wall with your brains and blow you and your buddy to kingdom come.”

“Yeah, yeah,” John said, climbing to his feet and brushing off his coat, “I know, I’ve got it, fuck off.”

Moran angled his head curiously, but said nothing more.  They waited, and he heard Sherlock’s voice echoing in the empty pool outside the door.  Moran gestured with the gun and John walked out.

Through the earpiece, Jim Moriarty, murmured, “Evening, Sherlock.  This is a turn-up, isn’t it?”

“Evening Sherlock this is a turn-up isn’t it,” John repeated dutifully.

“John,” Sherlock stammered, “What the hell-?”

“Bet you didn’t see this coming,” Moriarty whispered.

“Bet you didn’t see this coming,” John repeated.

“Now unzip your coat.  Let him see the bomb,” Moriarty chuckled. 

And John decided: Nah.

“Yes, it’s true.  All this time John Watson, your unassuming flatmate, was in fact... I, Moriarty, the Napoleon of crime,” taking his hands out of his pockets and holding them out as if to acknowledge the applause of an audience.

There was an extremely gratifying silence, in the pool and in the earpiece.  John grinned, and kept going.

“I get that it seems sort of weird... I mean, most multinational crime lords when faced with you interfering with their operations would realize that the point is to make money and then just kill your arse but no, not... Moriarty.  I climbed right out of my metaphorical spider’s web and just decided to spend all my time trying to fuck with you.  Because that’s how I roll.”

Sherlock stared at him, mouth slightly open, and said hesitantly, “John, I don’t... I don’t understand?”

“Really?  I thought what with me being the kind of guy who meticulously preserves the shoes of my murder victims as a happy memento of my teen years-”

“Wait, you would have been a young man, not a teenager at that poi-” Sherlock interrupted.

“SHUT UP SHERLOCK.  And you being the kinda guy who stores heads in the fridge and gets hard at crime scenes I really thought you’d, yanno, get me... but I just couldn’t quite work up the nerve to ask you out on a date.  So I had to threaten to kill a lot of people in my mincing little voice-”

At that point Jim kicked the door open and stalked onto the pool deck, glaring at John.  

“What the hell are you saying?”

“And who are you?” Sherlock asked.

“I’m Jim Moriarty,” Jim spat.

“Ignore this miserable prick, Sherlock,” John replied, “I’m Moriarty, he’s an actor called Rich Brook.  I hired him to seduce your girl.  But he was kind of shit and over the top about it, no BAFTA for you, sir!”

“Oh, fuck you, I was amazing, he had no idea,” Moriarty shouted.

“And he’s only got the one testicle.”

Moriarty stood stock still and took a gun from a holster at his back.

“Who told you that?” he asked, in a quiet, lethal voice.

“Molly.”

Moriarty sneered, and aimed the gun at John.

“She wouldn’t know.”

“Told you you sucked at your job.  She must find it out at your autopsy.  There’s nothing to be ashamed of, it’s a reasonably common birth defect.  Funny as balls, though.  Well.  Ball.”

In a cartoon there would have been steam coming out of Moriarty’s ears.  Sherlock was seeming to catch on to the fact that something was the matter and warned, quietly, gesturing to John’s chest, “John...”

John glanced down at the red laser mark and rolled his eyes.

“You know that isn’t how real snipers work, right, Sherlock?  Lasers go in straight lines, bullets go in curves.”

He walked past Sherlock and stared up into the dark void of the balcony that surrounded the pool.  More red pinpoints appeared on his chest.

“Oh, come on, they’re playing us, Sherlock?  You see this?  Right here?” John gestured at the swirl of laser points covering his body, “It’ll be the hot Christmas decoration of 2015, you mark my words.”

“Sebastian,” Moriarty pronounced, “Kill me this bastard.”

“And in fact,” John roared, not really paying attention anymore, just pointing up into the dark balcony, “Anybody who needs a laser scope to make this shot on a still target from twenty paces away, Moran, is no master marksman but in fact shoots like a pissy little bi-”

BLAM.

John awakened from dreams of the war, in sheets rank with his sweat, his leg in agony.  Psychosomatic or not, the pain always felt real when you were in it.

Scrubbing his hands over his face, John sat up and pulled his cane over towards himself, in preparation for the problem of standing.

“Really need to work on the temper,” he said, to nobody in particular.

[tendriltherapy]

Rose's brows arch again, and she tilts her head to one side, before nodding curtly.

"Very well, then. Remove your top, let's get to shrinking. I'll take it slow, so that if the dysphoria ever kicks in and you wish for me to stop before you reach flatness, we can taper it off. Alright, Egbert?"

She waits for the brunette to ditch the shirt, then channels her majykks through the point of her needle-wand, angled at the soft, heavy mounds her prior iteration had crated so carefully. There's an odd aching lightness as little by little the tissue begins to shrink and smooth out, dropping a cup size every twenty seconds or so. Massive mountains turn to midsize mounds, then modest cups, encroaching towards a girlish flatness first, then if she's not stopped, a masculine one with only pecs rather than breast tissue. Her expression has shifted to a neutral, unreadable one, focused only on the magic itself.

Dibs.

[burlybanner]

What's the most embarrassing thing that has happened to chubby Bruce?

I will preface this by saying what the latest most embarrassing thing is. He’s had several embarrassing moments - getting stuck being in the top five - but the following incident may very well be the topper…

**

Tony had been on actual pins and needles the whole day. Literally. He’d been working on modifications to some of his Iron Man suits, and some of the filaments he’d planned required thin, flexible needles and lightweight pin connectors. He was rather proud of himself, to be honest, and had gotten in the modification groove so much so, that he missed Bruce’s lab entrance.

He did a double-take when the man in question was staring down at him, arms folded, with a less-than-enthused expression across his cheeks.

Still cute, though. Bruce could try looking mad ‘til the cows ran home, but his chubbier cheeks deemed the anger look null and void.

Unless they turned green. Then all bets were off.

“What’s wrong, oh third of my life?” Tony scooted from beneath the torso of his latest suit and wiped his smudged hands on a nearby towel. “Why the sour puss pout?”

“It’s your fault,” Bruce rumbled. “I blame you for this entire day.”

Tony chuckled a little to himself and headed for the lab fridge, where he brought out two sodas - one of which he tossed to Bruce. “Gotta be more specific, loverboy. Lots of blame to go around. You’d better take a number.”

Which was, sadly, a little true. He’d been good for a while, but went off the rails Saturday night. Steve was still mad - but seriously. When he’d heard the venom spewing from that politician’s mouth, he figured the “accidental” punch had been justified. Pepper told the press he’d had too many cocktails and his fist stumbled into the man’s face. Or something like that. 

Even though he hadn’t had a drop all night.

Fuck it, next life iteration: Senator Stark.

Bruce drained his soda in a few gulps (Tony didn’t blame him; the sodas were those dumb mini ones Pepper liked, though they did make for fewer lab spills), and Tony tossed him another.

Tony hopped on a nearby desk. “You wanna share, or do I have to drag it out of you?”

The scientist grumbled quietly again, and plopped his portliness into the lab couch. The couch had retained the deep divot of Bruce’s wider backside over the months, and sometimes Tony found himself resting his head in the crevices, when Bruce wasn’t around.

Was that kinky? Maybe. Maybe not. Depended on his mood when he did it.

“Okay,” Tony said, nodding sharply. “Drag it is. You left your lunch at home, and had to borrow money from someone.”

“No.”

“You got lost.”

“No.”

Tony smirked. “Someone came on to you.”

“No.”

Despite how uncomfortable Bruce looked, Tony couldn’t help the slow grin creeping across his lips. He’d finally been successful at procuring a side job at NYU for Bruce, and the man took a few days out of his week returning to what he loved: teaching college students. It took a lot of string pulling, but Bruce’s “guest lecturer” gig was a win-win for all involved. The university didn’t have to worry about their insurance rates spiking, and they only had to pay Bruce a stipend. Plus, Bruce’s notoriety did bring a lot of new students to the department, which improved their numbers. The nervous Provosts had finally relaxed, realizing Bruce wasn’t fighting his alter at every turn.

Which–uh, oh.

“Uh, Brucie…did you Hulk out?”

Bruce glared at him over his glasses.

Tony held up his hands to placate him. “Just asking. Don’t shoot the questioner.”

“No, I did not ‘Hulk out,’ thank you very much,” he growled between his teeth. “I wouldn’t have taken the job if I thought I couldn’t control The Other Guy. But…” He sighed miserably. “I think I almost would’ve preferred that today.”

Tony’s eyebrow quirked, and he hopped off the counter to rummage in the snack drawer. He pulled out a family bag of M&M’s and brought it over to the couch, then sat next to Bruce.”

“Thanks,” Bruce said, glumly taking the bag from him. He systematically began cramming the candy in his mouth.

“So what did happen, Pooh Bear?” Tony ruffled Bruce’s curls, and Bruce sighed before leaning against Tony’s shoulder. “Kinda at a loss with the twenty-question thing.”

Bruce ate another handful before taking another deep, rumbling sigh. “We were supposed to go shopping yesterday.”

“For school clothes,” Tony said, grinning. “School clothes for adults. Yeah, I remember. But I had that thing.”

“The public apology to the Senator thing,” Bruce said, scolding him with his eyes. Tony rolled his own.

“Yeah, fine, we’ll go shopping tonight or tomorrow. No biggie.” He really did like clothes shopping with Bruce. He’d call that a definite kink, especially with the amount of material Bruce needed to cover his body these days.

“Except that it was. A biggie.”

Tony turned, got a good look at Bruce’s reddening cheeks, and groaned. “Oh, Bruce. No. You didn’t. I told you–”

“I know, I know,” Bruce held up his hands. “But I figured it’d be okay. At least one last time.”

Tony held his face in his hands, but he did it only to hide the laugh threatening to bubble over. “Your favorite slacks.”

“Yeah.”

“They’re two sizes too small, Bruce.”

“I know.”

“But you wore them anyway, didn’t you?”

“They’re my favorite slacks, Tony. Did I or did I not just say that?”

“And…”

“I was wearing purple boxers with Hulk faces on them.”

“Your favorite boxers.”

“No, your favorites. But I like them because you like them.” 

“How bad–?”

“I dropped the dry erase marker. I had to bend down to get it, and…”

“And exposure city.”

“Straight down the middle. Exposed the entire class.”

Tony was openly laughing while Bruce mournfully shook his head. 

Tony choked back tears, to try and get a few words in. “Tell me you at least saved face.”

“The boxers didn’t rip. But I still had the rest of the class to teach. I decided to make the most of it.”

“Oh, God, Bruce–”

“So I took off the pants. What was the point, they were torn anyway, and everyone knew it.”

“You taught. The rest of the class–”

“In my boxers, yes. Do you know how hard it is to explain the nuances of quantum theory in Hulk boxers, Tony? Do you?”

“I…I can only imagine.”

That was it. Tony had no words. For five minutes all he could do was laugh, while Bruce shifted uncomfortably on the couch and drowned his sorrows in the rapidly diminishing M&M bag.

Of course the good news was, everyone at the university now knew just how big a handle he had on the Other Guy. Because if an incident like that didn’t make him turn, nothing would.

[nerdy-bits]

Bloodroots Review

The game opens in pale white. The screen awash, wind howling, silent block text credits. It all feels like the opening of an art film. The introduction of Tarrytown, bathed in blood, smoldering, punctuating the pure white cold with warmth. The music swoons with an ominous mixture of Sergio Leone and Akira Kurasawa. A confrontation, a duel, blood in the snow. What is this title with such character in the opening moments? 

This is Bloodroots. A wicked action brawler by Paper Cult Games.

I went into Bloodroots having only watched the trailer once. Watching the trailer before release I thought I knew exactly what I was getting but then the game opened and I realized Bloodroots is an indie action game that has far more character than I assumed I was going to get. In style alone the opening piqued my interest. In execution, I found myself clinging to the rapidity. 

You take control of Mister Wolf, an outlaw with a proclivity for violence and mayhem. Betrayed by your old crew, you find yourself on a warpath seeking vengeance. As you progress, and as Bloodroot’s story starts to take form, you begin to question what you think you know. Each encounter with your former crew shining a sliver of light on the events that led to the game’s opening moments. 

Despite the story’s attempts to question your actions, Bloodroots never gives the player any agency over their actions, even in moments where one could conceive some kind of alternative solution. Where Katana Zero, for instance, puts a lot of weight on the player’s choices in conversation, Bloodroots merely feeds you dialogue and sets you loose. I didn’t have much of a problem with this however, finding a great deal of contentment murdering my way through room after room. 

Bloodroots is built on a simple gameplay loop. Hack, slash, die, repeat. A familiar formula with dozens of iterations, I was a big fan of games like Katana Zero, Hotline Miami, and Ape Out. One-hit-kills for everyone, including the player. The formula means you will die. A lot. To counteract this, these games are bleeding fast. Seconds after death you’re hacking away at enemies again. Bloodroots nails this core tenant. A fact that I was immensely thankful for. 

The first few passes of any given room come with your learning deaths. You have to learn where enemies are, carve out a path that makes the most sense, and then execute. Finding that path that fits your play-style can take some time. Bloodroots excels at giving you a multitude of options. Do you go left, right, down the middle? Your only job is to slay, the method is up to you. 

But when you get it? When you mesh with the weapon pickups and enemy placement, the end result is pure, unadulterated chaos. And boy is it fun! Bloodroots is at its best in these moments. The push and pull of learning weapon placement, finding a best route, and executing is enrapturing. Giving players the ability to go back to each level later, offers up the opportunity to further hone your craft, should you desire to. 

And trust me, you will have a desire to.

Bloodroots positively oozes style.From the music to the art direction, from the level layouts to the animations. Which reminds me, the final kill in every room is given a specific animation depending on what weapon you are using. The first time I encountered this felt like finding an easter egg, every time following I made sure I had a different weapon to see how they all play out. Vibe Avenue’s score also absolutely rips and quickly found its way into my music library.

Each act of this game ends in a boss fight, as you would imagine, and those boss fights, while certainly tough, never angered me. Boss fights are generally tricky to thread the needle on, but again, Bloodroots leans on its extremely creative design elements to deliver interesting fights that challenge you to use the skills you have developed over the course of the game. As well as giving you a few bullet-hell inspired attack phases to deftly navigate through.

Except for that one, punishing, Flappy Bird segment with no checkpointing. That part can eat shit. 

Bloodroots is a devilishly smart, chaotically creative jaunt through fields of blood and mayhem well deserving of your twenty dollars. Snatch it on PS4, Switch, and the Epic Games Store now, and Steam soon!

Check out our review on YouTube! Grab Bloodroots now!

@LubWub ~Caleb

[perfectzablog]

How to Plan and Implement Continuous Improvement In Schools

In the classroom, good teachers constantly test small changes to class activities, routines, and workflow. They observe how students interact with the material, identify where they trip up and adjust as they go. This on-the-fly problem solving is so common in classrooms many teachers don’t realize they’re even doing it, and the expertise they are gathering is rarely taken into account when schools or districts try to solve larger, systematic problems.

In  education research, researchers come up with ideas they think will improve teaching and then set up laboratory experiments or classroom trials to test that idea. If the trial goes well enough that idea gets put on a list of research-approved practices. While research-informed practices are important, this process can often mean that the interventions are unrealistic or disconnected from the hectic reality of many classrooms, and are rarely used. But what if teachers themselves were the research engine — the spark of continued improvement?

‘You have to have a lot of humility to come to the realization that you don’t have the answers, and that you’re going to learn your way into this.’Manuelito Biag, Carnegie Foundation

The Carnegie Foundation is trying to bridge that gap in identifying techniques that work and “create a much more democratic process in which teachers are involved in identifying and solving problems of practice that matter to them,” said Manuelito Biag, an associate in network improvement science at the foundation. Biag previously worked on developing research-practitioner partnerships for Stanford’s Graduate School of Education.

For the past several years, under the leadership of Dr. Tony Bryk, Carnegie is trying to apply a structured inquiry process to problems in education, building the capacity of teachers, principals and district administrators to continuously improve. This type of improvement science started in manufacturing and has been used to successfully change human-based systems like healthcare.

The basic tenets of the process involve understanding the problem, defining a manageable goal, identifying the drivers that could help reach that goal, and then testing small ideas to change those drivers. When done in a network, this cycle of improvement is expedited as various participants test different change ideas and share their findings with the group. Through a constant interplay of these elements a few change ideas will rise to the top and can be scaled across a system.

UNDERSTANDING THE PROBLEM

Many of the biggest problems of practice have been around a long time and aren’t easy to solve. Too often when trying to improve something leaders jump to solutions before properly examining the problem. Understanding the problem requires valuing many types of knowledge. It means doing empathy interviews with participants in the system including teachers, staff, parents, and students. It involves bringing the best research literature to bear on the problem. And sometimes representing the processes involved in the problem can illuminate areas that are breaking down.

Biag said this stage is crucial and shouldn’t be rushed. He’s seen improvement projects that require up to a year of study to fully understand the problem, its root causes and the levers of change available to leaders. Often an improvement network will know it’s time to move on when participants feel saturated — they aren’t turning up any new perspectives or information.

“Sometimes it’s good to stop doing the research and try something,” Biag said. Implementing some change ideas often helps inform the problem and may even necessitate that the team revisit and revise the problem statement.

DEFINE THE GOALS AND FOCUS COLLECTIVE EFFORT

Once the group has a “good enough” understanding of the problem it’s crucial that they write a clear, succinct aim statement. It should be specific, measurable and focus on a challenging problem, but it should be doable.

The crucial question, Biag said, is “What’s within your span of control and what’s not? So when you act on this problem you aren’t wasting your time on the things that aren’t in your control.”

He often sees people define the problem too broadly. If the problem is an achievement gap between student populations, a group might say the root problem is inequality or poverty. Those things may contribute to the problem, but they aren’t within the control of teachers or principals or even districts to solve. A more manageable aim statement might be: “By June 2020 we’re going to increase from 45% to 90% the number of male students enrolling in credit bearing math courses at community colleges.”

“It has to be motivating enough for people to continue working on it for several months,” Biag said about the reach goal. But it must be specific and concrete enough that the group can see if change ideas are helping progress towards the goal.

“While an aim statement can look deceptively simple, you need to build trust and get on the same page with everyone in your network to even agree on where to focus your efforts,” Biag said. The network itself is important because it accelerates the pace of learning about potential solutions.

Once the aim is clear, the group brainstorms three to five primary drivers of the problem. These are the things the group believes provide the most leverage to meet the goal, and that are within the span of control. It’s crucial to only have a few of these, not twenty, because the network must work on all of them in tandem. Staying focused allows for more progress.

After identifying the most important drivers, network participants brainstorm change ideas that might affect those drivers. “The word change is very specific to improvement science,” Biag said. “It means an actual change in how you do work.” In other words, the focus is on the process and results in action. Change ideas are not things like “more money” or “more staff.” “It’s an actual change of a process or the introduction of a new process,” Biag said.

TEST AND BUILD EVIDENCE

Once the group has a good understanding of the problem, its root causes, what drives it and some ideas that will directly affect those drivers, it’s time to start testing them. Carnegie uses a “Plan, Do, Study, Act” (PDSA) cycle for testing ideas. The changes should be fairly small and the tester collects data along the way. It doesn’t have to be complicated data, just something to help analyze and track whether the change is moving the needle.

“Most schools and districts plan plan plan, then do, and then they never study,” Biag said. He advocates that planning include a prediction because participants are more likely to compare a new strategy with the expected effect. If the change idea didn’t function as expected there’s a lot to learn there.

Many of the best change ideas come from looking at what Carnegie calls “positive deviants” — the bright spots in a network. For example, if a network sets the aim of improving college readiness for English language learner students, when leaders are assembling their knowledge base they should talk to teachers who seem to be achieving better than average results with that population. Those teachers are “positive deviants” and networks should try to learn from the ways their practices differ from colleagues.

For example, High Tech High Charter Network leaders identified that they wanted to increase the number of African American and Latino males applying to four-year colleges. When they looked at drivers, they realized school attendance was lower for this group and hypothesized that the way teachers communicated with parents might be part of the issue. To try to eliminate variation in parent-teacher communication they tested a change theory that involved using a set of protocols for interacting with families.

They went through several iterations of the protocols, but when they hit on one that seemed to work they spread it throughout their network of schools. Now, when teachers meet with parents around achievement or discipline they all try to make it positive, share data about the student, and co-construct an action plan with the parent, among other things.

The key thing about working in a network is that different people can be trying different change ideas and sharing their data. “The idea is that you’re not all working on all the same things at the same time,” Biag said. “So you leverage the network, and the power of the network, to increase change ideas.”

Some ideas won’t work and will be abandoned. Others might seem promising, but more data is needed, so others in the network might try them too. Over time the change ideas that seem to really impact the drivers rise to the top.

“As you’re testing and building evidence you’re going to find ideas that work and then you can talk about spreading those ideas,” Biag said.

SPREAD AND SCALE

Even with the best ideas implementation can be hard. Biag said leaders need to weigh several factors when thinking about how to spread an idea that seems to work. How costly will it be to implement? What are the consequences of failure? How reluctant are the people involved? How confident is the leader in the change idea?

For example, if the change is a parent meeting protocol and the leader doesn’t think it’s a great idea and that the cost of failure will be high, perhaps she only tests it on her sister first. But, if teachers are ready for the change and there’s nothing to lose, then maybe the idea can scale up more quickly. This is where knowing one’s own system and culture becomes important.

It’s also worth thinking about who within the system needs to be on board for the plan to go well. Those folks can be powerful advocates if convinced that the change idea is a good one. “The best people are those who were pretty skeptical in the beginning and you were able to change them,” Biag said.

Another strategy is to roll out the idea with those eager to try it and then demonstrate success to those who are more fearful. It’s also necessary to be humble and willing to go back and test new ideas if the ones that seemed to work in the smaller group don’t work when scaled. Perhaps the aim statement needs to change, or maybe the drivers aren’t actually the most impactful.

“Our theory is possibly wrong and definitely incomplete; that’s kind of a Carnegie saying,” Biag said. He doesn’t want anyone to think this process is linear, rather it’s a cycle. And when people get comfortable with the cycle they build it into everything they do naturally. The biggest strength of continuous improvement is that it offers a path for systemic change, a way to build the capacity within the system, rather than building whole new systems.

“What we’re trying to do is implement these tools and ways of thinking to empower people to engage in this work,” Biag said. And that means having a bias towards action.

“You have to start before you feel ready. Your understanding of the problem will change over time and when you act on that problem the problem will change and so your understanding of that problem will change,” Biag said.

People learn how to think about continuous improvement through the process of doing it. They get better at narrowing in on motivating, but achievable aim statements. They learn to include more voices in the information gathering stage. The “Plan, Do, Study, Act” cycles become second nature, and analyzing data gets less scary.

Perhaps one of the best parts of continuous improvement is that it helps empower those within a system to see themselves as the drivers of change. The ideas come from practice as does the data. And while data is often associated with accountability requirements, this improvement process offers practitioners the opportunity to think about and evaluate data that are important to their practice.

In this process, the data is only worthwhile if it shines light on whether the change is working. And when data is used this way, it’s easier for educators to be transparent about what they’re seeing. Improvement is not about judgement, it’s a constant, normal aspect of professional life.

“You have to have a lot of humility to come to the realization that you don’t have the answers, and that you’re going to learn your way into this,” Biag said. “You’ve got to think about this as a learning journey. If you really had the answers to this problem we wouldn’t be talking about it.”

To see measurable progress on some of the most intransigent problems in education requires a systematic focus on improving in every aspect of the system. It’s not enough for one teacher to be amazing, or one school to outshine the others around it. All kids deserve an incredible education; and that can only happen by building on the strengths already found in the system.

How to Plan and Implement Continuous Improvement In Schools published first on https://greatpricecourse.tumblr.com/

[bisoroblog]

How to Plan and Implement Continuous Improvement In Schools

In the classroom, good teachers constantly test small changes to class activities, routines, and workflow. They observe how students interact with the material, identify where they trip up and adjust as they go. This on-the-fly problem solving is so common in classrooms many teachers don’t realize they’re even doing it, and the expertise they are gathering is rarely taken into account when schools or districts try to solve larger, systematic problems.

In  education research, researchers come up with ideas they think will improve teaching and then set up laboratory experiments or classroom trials to test that idea. If the trial goes well enough that idea gets put on a list of research-approved practices. While research-informed practices are important, this process can often mean that the interventions are unrealistic or disconnected from the hectic reality of many classrooms, and are rarely used. But what if teachers themselves were the research engine — the spark of continued improvement?

‘You have to have a lot of humility to come to the realization that you don’t have the answers, and that you’re going to learn your way into this.’Manuelito Biag, Carnegie Foundation

The Carnegie Foundation is trying to bridge that gap in identifying techniques that work and “create a much more democratic process in which teachers are involved in identifying and solving problems of practice that matter to them,” said Manuelito Biag, an associate in network improvement science at the foundation. Biag previously worked on developing research-practitioner partnerships for Stanford’s Graduate School of Education.

For the past several years, under the leadership of Dr. Tony Bryk, Carnegie is trying to apply a structured inquiry process to problems in education, building the capacity of teachers, principals and district administrators to continuously improve. This type of improvement science started in manufacturing and has been used to successfully change human-based systems like healthcare.

The basic tenets of the process involve understanding the problem, defining a manageable goal, identifying the drivers that could help reach that goal, and then testing small ideas to change those drivers. When done in a network, this cycle of improvement is expedited as various participants test different change ideas and share their findings with the group. Through a constant interplay of these elements a few change ideas will rise to the top and can be scaled across a system.

UNDERSTANDING THE PROBLEM

Many of the biggest problems of practice have been around a long time and aren’t easy to solve. Too often when trying to improve something leaders jump to solutions before properly examining the problem. Understanding the problem requires valuing many types of knowledge. It means doing empathy interviews with participants in the system including teachers, staff, parents, and students. It involves bringing the best research literature to bear on the problem. And sometimes representing the processes involved in the problem can illuminate areas that are breaking down.

Biag said this stage is crucial and shouldn’t be rushed. He’s seen improvement projects that require up to a year of study to fully understand the problem, its root causes and the levers of change available to leaders. Often an improvement network will know it’s time to move on when participants feel saturated — they aren’t turning up any new perspectives or information.

“Sometimes it’s good to stop doing the research and try something,” Biag said. Implementing some change ideas often helps inform the problem and may even necessitate that the team revisit and revise the problem statement.

DEFINE THE GOALS AND FOCUS COLLECTIVE EFFORT

Once the group has a “good enough” understanding of the problem it’s crucial that they write a clear, succinct aim statement. It should be specific, measurable and focus on a challenging problem, but it should be doable.

The crucial question, Biag said, is “What’s within your span of control and what’s not? So when you act on this problem you aren’t wasting your time on the things that aren’t in your control.”

He often sees people define the problem too broadly. If the problem is an achievement gap between student populations, a group might say the root problem is inequality or poverty. Those things may contribute to the problem, but they aren’t within the control of teachers or principals or even districts to solve. A more manageable aim statement might be: “By June 2020 we’re going to increase from 45% to 90% the number of male students enrolling in credit bearing math courses at community colleges.”

“It has to be motivating enough for people to continue working on it for several months,” Biag said about the reach goal. But it must be specific and concrete enough that the group can see if change ideas are helping progress towards the goal.

“While an aim statement can look deceptively simple, you need to build trust and get on the same page with everyone in your network to even agree on where to focus your efforts,” Biag said. The network itself is important because it accelerates the pace of learning about potential solutions.

Once the aim is clear, the group brainstorms three to five primary drivers of the problem. These are the things the group believes provide the most leverage to meet the goal, and that are within the span of control. It’s crucial to only have a few of these, not twenty, because the network must work on all of them in tandem. Staying focused allows for more progress.

After identifying the most important drivers, network participants brainstorm change ideas that might affect those drivers. “The word change is very specific to improvement science,” Biag said. “It means an actual change in how you do work.” In other words, the focus is on the process and results in action. Change ideas are not things like “more money” or “more staff.” “It’s an actual change of a process or the introduction of a new process,” Biag said.

TEST AND BUILD EVIDENCE

Once the group has a good understanding of the problem, its root causes, what drives it and some ideas that will directly affect those drivers, it’s time to start testing them. Carnegie uses a “Plan, Do, Study, Act” (PDSA) cycle for testing ideas. The changes should be fairly small and the tester collects data along the way. It doesn’t have to be complicated data, just something to help analyze and track whether the change is moving the needle.

“Most schools and districts plan plan plan, then do, and then they never study,” Biag said. He advocates that planning include a prediction because participants are more likely to compare a new strategy with the expected effect. If the change idea didn’t function as expected there’s a lot to learn there.

Many of the best change ideas come from looking at what Carnegie calls “positive deviants” — the bright spots in a network. For example, if a network sets the aim of improving college readiness for English language learner students, when leaders are assembling their knowledge base they should talk to teachers who seem to be achieving better than average results with that population. Those teachers are “positive deviants” and networks should try to learn from the ways their practices differ from colleagues.

For example, High Tech High Charter Network leaders identified that they wanted to increase the number of African American and Latino males applying to four-year colleges. When they looked at drivers, they realized school attendance was lower for this group and hypothesized that the way teachers communicated with parents might be part of the issue. To try to eliminate variation in parent-teacher communication they tested a change theory that involved using a set of protocols for interacting with families.

They went through several iterations of the protocols, but when they hit on one that seemed to work they spread it throughout their network of schools. Now, when teachers meet with parents around achievement or discipline they all try to make it positive, share data about the student, and co-construct an action plan with the parent, among other things.

The key thing about working in a network is that different people can be trying different change ideas and sharing their data. “The idea is that you’re not all working on all the same things at the same time,” Biag said. “So you leverage the network, and the power of the network, to increase change ideas.”

Some ideas won’t work and will be abandoned. Others might seem promising, but more data is needed, so others in the network might try them too. Over time the change ideas that seem to really impact the drivers rise to the top.

“As you’re testing and building evidence you’re going to find ideas that work and then you can talk about spreading those ideas,” Biag said.

SPREAD AND SCALE

Even with the best ideas implementation can be hard. Biag said leaders need to weigh several factors when thinking about how to spread an idea that seems to work. How costly will it be to implement? What are the consequences of failure? How reluctant are the people involved? How confident is the leader in the change idea?

For example, if the change is a parent meeting protocol and the leader doesn’t think it’s a great idea and that the cost of failure will be high, perhaps she only tests it on her sister first. But, if teachers are ready for the change and there’s nothing to lose, then maybe the idea can scale up more quickly. This is where knowing one’s own system and culture becomes important.

It’s also worth thinking about who within the system needs to be on board for the plan to go well. Those folks can be powerful advocates if convinced that the change idea is a good one. “The best people are those who were pretty skeptical in the beginning and you were able to change them,” Biag said.

Another strategy is to roll out the idea with those eager to try it and then demonstrate success to those who are more fearful. It’s also necessary to be humble and willing to go back and test new ideas if the ones that seemed to work in the smaller group don’t work when scaled. Perhaps the aim statement needs to change, or maybe the drivers aren’t actually the most impactful.

“Our theory is possibly wrong and definitely incomplete; that’s kind of a Carnegie saying,” Biag said. He doesn’t want anyone to think this process is linear, rather it’s a cycle. And when people get comfortable with the cycle they build it into everything they do naturally. The biggest strength of continuous improvement is that it offers a path for systemic change, a way to build the capacity within the system, rather than building whole new systems.

“What we’re trying to do is implement these tools and ways of thinking to empower people to engage in this work,” Biag said. And that means having a bias towards action.

“You have to start before you feel ready. Your understanding of the problem will change over time and when you act on that problem the problem will change and so your understanding of that problem will change,” Biag said.

People learn how to think about continuous improvement through the process of doing it. They get better at narrowing in on motivating, but achievable aim statements. They learn to include more voices in the information gathering stage. The “Plan, Do, Study, Act” cycles become second nature, and analyzing data gets less scary.

Perhaps one of the best parts of continuous improvement is that it helps empower those within a system to see themselves as the drivers of change. The ideas come from practice as does the data. And while data is often associated with accountability requirements, this improvement process offers practitioners the opportunity to think about and evaluate data that are important to their practice.

In this process, the data is only worthwhile if it shines light on whether the change is working. And when data is used this way, it’s easier for educators to be transparent about what they’re seeing. Improvement is not about judgement, it’s a constant, normal aspect of professional life.

“You have to have a lot of humility to come to the realization that you don’t have the answers, and that you’re going to learn your way into this,” Biag said. “You’ve got to think about this as a learning journey. If you really had the answers to this problem we wouldn’t be talking about it.”

To see measurable progress on some of the most intransigent problems in education requires a systematic focus on improving in every aspect of the system. It’s not enough for one teacher to be amazing, or one school to outshine the others around it. All kids deserve an incredible education; and that can only happen by building on the strengths already found in the system.

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