#their little rink looks full so clearly its not for lack of interest more so just resources?

[tiger-balm]

I need a coyotes jersey so bad

[tetsustation]

[ BREAKING THE ICE — PART I ]

pairing :: eren yeager x f!reader

synopsis :: eren’s partner is out on injury, or so you’ve heard from across the ice. it’s a shame, considering the fact that they were an award winning pair. for that reason alone, you’re not entirely sure how to react when you’re recruited as her replacement. eren does, however—and the emotion is anything but positive.

word count :: 3.4k

genre :: modern!au, figure skating!au, kind of e2l, kind of hurt/comfort

warnings :: swearing

notes :: i've been working on this for like two years now on and off so i'm posting the first half—there's more than this but I just want to gauge if this is something you guys are actually interested in. no better time than the present!

Where do you belong? That phrase has never been anything but foolish rhetoric to you, and at its core, easy to answer—no where, because no match is made in heaven, no shoe has ever been crafted for your foot, and your fate is nowhere near predetermined. That being said, the closest place you could rule as such is on the cool, shaved ice. 

Although right now, you wish to be anywhere but. Colliding with the sleet in a rather dramatic manner, you watch your useless limbs as you glide backwards—giving into gravity until your figure makes a full stop. Perhaps it’s time to throw in the towel after all, you flop onto your back and let the condensation soak your sweater.

“What do you think you're doing?” The exhaustion drips from his tongue, and yet he refuses to drop.

“Napping,” You remark sarcastically—clearly conscious. From a distance, you can hear the scratch of his skates as he glides over.

When coming to a stop, he makes a point of pivoting his feet to send loose snow directly into your face. Sputtering, you sit up—albeit, struggling slightly due to the lack of grip. He’s staring down at you, gloved hand on his hip, he strangely resembles your mother whenever she scolds you for something utterly ridiculous. 

Frankly, you have no interest in speaking first, and he catches onto that fact. He releases a sigh that holds the weight of a day's work, before looking around the empty rink, and back down to you. 

“Is this your way of telling me you're giving up?” 

You scoff, “The rink closes in forty minutes, Eren.” Gesturing to the red, ten foot clock behind him, masked as a scoreboard, “I think this matter might be beyond us.” 

And he rolls his eyes at you, the same way that makes your jaw crick uncomfortably. The green looks dull under the fluorescents, but piercing, nonetheless. Sinking to the floor with a steady knee, he leans into you, and as a result you lean back half-heartedly, “As soon the rink opens tomorrow, we’re trying again.”

You go to speak, retort that overworking yourselves would do no good, but as he skates away, he turns around and consequently halts your hesitant tongue, “No excuses!” With that, he’s gone. Hopping off the ice and into the locker rooms.

Flopping back down, you letting the chill soothe your aching calves, you wonder how persistent he’s going to be. Mentally, you curse Jean for convincing you to do this, but then again—if anyone’s going to push you to do your best it's him (and as reluctant as you are to admit it, so is Eren). 

A weak groan slips your lips as you use the energy you have left to curve your spine into an upwards position. In front of you, your legs are spread apart as you stretch—but it only sends the shooting pain back up to your hamstrings. These bruises might not ever go away, but a bath might make them feel better—or so you hope.

Mikasa Ackerman broke her ankle a week and a half ago, two weeks from tomorrow. When you heard the news while tying the laces on your skates, you scoffed, “Poor Eren—there goes their qualifier.” It was a little apathetic, you can admit that much now, yet the world loves to play its cruel hand with you because soon enough your own partner had offered you up as bait in her place.

“—She’s great, really! Adaptable and flexible.” Jean argued, pushing you forward by the shoulders to a miffed Eren, “The two of us aren’t going to make it this year, not with our fiasco of a choreographer—but you two, together? I can see the headlines already, man. Trust me.” A piece of meat up for auction, was the only way you could describe how you felt.

“Jean, quit it.” You turned your head to the side, and whispered through gritted teeth (as if Eren wasn’t right there, and couldn’t clearly hear the words as they left your mouth). 

“No. If you win with him it’ll be good coverage for the both of us.” Meanwhile, the man staring you down looked more disinterested by the second, most likely not interested in taking a fresh Senior skater in to replace his partner, two months before qualifiers. Honestly, you weren’t too sure why Jean tried so hard in the first place, it was a matter for your managers and sponsors. 

Still, he didn’t let up, “If you win this with her, you and Mikasa can take the win to the finals,” you wondered if he fact-checked that, most likely not. “A couple did it in the ‘80s, if you have a viable reason there's a loophole to switch partners between the competitions, so long as the male partner remains consistent.” He explained, rather adamantly. 

Eren nodded, not entirely convinced—yet, he didn’t not turn it down completely. Candidly, you weren’t sure which outcome you preferred. Yes, it would be a great opportunity, but then again, you weren’t entirely sure you could reach the bar set high by the skating enigma of Mikasa Ackerman. Eren’s death glare told you, you couldn’t—but Jean’s shook your shoulders so vigorously your vision got cloudy. 

“I’ll think about it,” Is all Eren said, and he did. 

The next day, Eren took you on as his partner, for the sole reason that he hates losing, especially after putting so much work into this program. Still, he vaguely insults your talent in comparison to his usual partner, which erupts a fire underneath your skating skirt. 

As the days pass, Eren only expects more of you, and you can’t blame him. It’s going well, but not as well as it would’ve gone with Mikasa. His coach notices, and so does the choreographer—still you don’t let up, not that he lets you, anyways. 

The connection that Eren and Mikasa have is almost telepathic. In all the times that you’ve watched them practice in your shared rink, not once have you heard them speak to each other on the ice. They communicate through eye contact, the occasional nod of a pointed chin—any verbal communication they do is reserved for behind closed doors.

Suspicion is what it arouses in you, but their scores are near perfect in the eyes of all the judges in the province, so there is no grounds to protrude on their methods. Yet, you never expect to take her place, to be forced to cooperate with the King of angry glances, meant to speak a thousand words. 

That’s why this is so difficult for you, or at least, that’s the conclusion you’ve come to. Mikasa has come to watch you practice, made notes on your technique and passed a sheet of crumpled note-paper to you after your daily practice, but not enough to make a dent in the supposedly flawless instruction of his—now your—coach. 

It’s difficult, and frankly, you miss the days where people just said what they meant. Jean was never like this, you can’t help but think. However, this isn’t Jean, and in a way you're happy it isn’t. An irritating challenge is a challenge nonetheless, and you’ll be damned if Eren Yeager blames his lost ticket to finals on you.

Especially after the number of bruises you’ve acquired, from all the times he’s dropped you.

Deep down, you believe there is a reason why Jean put you up for this program (aside from Mikasa’s obvious injury). Despite Eren’s reserved nature of fending for himself in the rink, the set was for the most part, separated. A collection moves that we're paralleled, adjacent to one another, instead of moves that lie in the hands of both.

That is, except for three instances within the seven minutes in which the classical hymn plays. These are virtually unavoidable. While you can perfect your own moves alone, and mirror Eren’s stature down to a ‘T,’ there’s only so much you can do for yourself when he’s lifting you up with a single hand, palm nearly shaking against his own. 

It’s not that you don’t trust Eren—although, it's kind of a stretch to say that you do—the problem at hand is that he doesn’t trust you, because you're not Mikasa and you can’t hold your own against the stiffness of his locked elbows. Or at least, you’ve explained that much to Jean and Sasha on the benches outside of the rink, while adjusting your shoes with vigor. 

“It’s gonna be a process to adjust to each other.” Your former partner reasons, stretching out the blades of his shoulders, “The jumps are going to take a while, I don’t suggest pushing it—or you’ll seriously get hurt.” 

His vague allude to Mikasa doesn’t slip your mind, but you give Eren the benefit of the doubt, there’s no way he actually would wish malice upon his partner of over a decade. You, however, are unfamiliar to him, he’s not used to your agility, and you're not used to his rigidity. There’s a frozen sea separating your techniques, but Jean is right, adjustment is everything.

“You should talk to him,” Sasha suggests, standing against the glass and watching Niccolo practice his triple axel for the umph time, “If he’s too stiff, of course you’re going to fall.” A hiss slips from her lips as the blonde in the rink misses his landing, wiping out not-so-gracefully. 

A yank of the wrist and the sound of strained laces is music to your ears, “I feel like everything I tell him goes in one ear and out the other.” You adjust, “He’s convinced his way is the only way, he’ll listen to me but the second it seems unnatural to him he shifts back to what he’s used to.” 

Standing up, you grunt, “When is he going to learn I’m not Mikasa?” It’s a bitter fallacy on your lips, but aggressive nonetheless. It could even pass as a growl, if you listen closely. However, when you hear the door open and close, and watch Eren walk past the bench you're standing in front of with a stoic expression—you hope it’s meek and unintelligible through the glass doors. 

Behind him is Eren’s coach—your coach—you stand a little straighter. Levi Ackerman is small, and not very menacing from afar, but he has the bite of a bark and the skills of a lion. In your core, you fear him, but out of respect more than anything else. The coach you and Jean shared was much nicer, but then again, you and him weren’t up for finals, now were you? 

“Stretch out, and on the ice in twenty.” He snaps a pointer finger to the rink where Niccolo is currently stepping out defeatedly, “We’re doing the lifts again today.” 

The bruise on your hip from yesterday aches at the mention, but alas, your work is cut out for you. Jeans sends a half hearted condolence your way, already marking up how much ice you’ll need for your bath tonight to soothe the pain. Stepping onto the ice is anything but unfamiliar, but today it feels distant—somehow, the momentary skate to Eren feels grueling as he waits for you with crossed arms.

“Play the track!” Levi yells elsewhere, where someone is waiting from the booth above the rink, “I want to see how much ground you covered without me.” 

The melody is crisp, and echoes through the rink with a boom. Sometimes you can’t help but like a bat in a cave, this climate isn’t welcoming to the typical person—but you’ve become adept at it after so many years that you can navigate it like the back of your hand. The ice is where you live and breathe, fly to the best of your capability against the push of gravity. It’s freedom, but at what cost? 

Eren nods you off, to which you follow him in a series of turns, he glides and you mimic, the two of you look as if you're attached by an invisible string that strains each time the direction of your skates change. The ice comes up in flakes of snow, and they sting your nasal cavity as you take a deep breath in, readying yourself for the upcoming lift.  

Levi is standing against the rink, his skates perpendicular to sustain balance, and his arms crossed in premeditated judgment. You’re painfully aware of the fact that he doesn’t expect much from either of you, the condescension of your ‘adjustment phase’ still at the forefront of your mind. Still, he’s there to guide you, you keep going.

“Start crouching! Give him room for the lift!” 

A good eye is what Levi has, he can tell you’re milliseconds out of sync, and that's all it takes to send you belly up to the unforgiving ice. Crouching, you make a straight line to Eren—his eyes don’t give you the confidence you need to latch onto his palms and lift yourself, but it’s too late to stop. 

Grasping his palm flat in yours, fingers outstretched and face one another, your grip and jump—to which Eren lifts you over his shoulder. The only thing holding you up is the grip on his hand, and he’s barely paying any attention to it, already attempting to move away from the spot in which you hopped from.

It becomes increasingly difficult to keep your legs still, as he moves quickly across the ice—you can feel your forearms shake slightly, and that's all it takes to come tumbling down. 

Eren barely has enough time to recapture your hand, before you slip behind him and onto the ice with what might as well be a splat. The blades of your skates clang, and you can feel a multitude of eyes stare down your splayed figure. Only taking a moment to take back your stolen breath, you sit up and brush off. 

Never is Eren entirely apathetic, as he skates over and leans down to your eye level, where you're just barely holding yourself up by the frozen heel of your hands, “Are you alright?” His eyes flick downward, falling on your hip, “Same spot as yesterday,” he looks up again, “Does it hurt?”

No shit, you think, ‘Course it hurts.

The nature of his question is polite, but you can tell by the way his hand is twitching that it wasn’t an invitation to rest—instead, he’s eager for you to get back up, refusing to be stopped by something as measly as a fall. Nodding, you grab his hand and hoist yourself back up. 

“My bad,” Is all you shout to the room. 

“Good.” Levi affirms, “Let’s keep moving.” 

The empathy that Eren shows you the first couple of times you fall dissipates as the day goes on. With each flop on ice, he becomes more irritated—clearly frustrated with evident roadblock you’ve seem to have placed in his otherwise ‘perfect program.’ When stepping off the rink, he doesn’t give you a goodbye. 

It’s grueling on you, honestly it is. To come in everyday and take his attitude along with Levi’s insistence on perfection. Perfection goes both ways, you believe, and Eren is hardly upholding his end of that promise. The only comfort you find on the rink is Levi, though he can only do so much for you, and you’re not sure if his mild surges of pity are endearing or degrading. 

Frankly, you can’t remember the last time you had this many bruises, up down the sides of your legs and alone the cranes of your pelvic bone. The locker room is the last place you want to be, although for the first time in a while you find yourself smiling upon entering,

“Long time no see.” 

Jean is propped against the lockers, Niccolo is next to him motioning about this and that while holding up a blunt skate. “You’re one to talk!” 

 You watch him stand up straight, striding towards you, but is cut off by Sasha who is closer by just a couple feet—having been seated on the bench untying skates of her own. She’s quick to come hug you, nearly knocking you off your feet, but it’s the last tumble you're worried about taking today and quickly reciprocate her affections. 

Once your autonomy was returned to you, you walked over the bench and threw a leg over the other end so that you were straddled—a stretch that always made you feel comfortable enough to sit for long periods of time. It all felt too familiar—the red plastic beneath you, and the friendship you seem to have neglected over the past couple of weeks—while training with Eren, he became your life, and the rest faded to fuzz and scratched ice. 

They smiled down at you like you were the face of the hour, an enigma, it wasn’t praise but from the people who established you at this rink—you couldn't help but feel some sense of gratitude as they spared you their silent approval.

“So,” Jean started, “How is training with Yeager?” 

The smile you wore dissipated to crumbs of false pride when you recalled just how awful you truly felt—how demeaned you felt beside Eren who stood tall despite his own shortcomings. And you hated how noticeable it all was, how your momentary joy fleeted and the exhaustion in your shoulders hit you like the initial fall, your shoulders slouching as you looked anywhere other than directly into their eyes. 

“Awful,” was all you said, “It’s awful.” 

Ever distasteful towards the awkwardness of competition Niccolo cleared the air with a clap, “That’s Yeager for you, he’s a real stiff one.” 

“You're telling me, he’s got a real stick up his ass. Just—shoup—right up there.” To which Jean had accompanied with a rather lewd hand gesture. 

This was news to you—yes, you had heard tales of Eren being a diva to some extent, but he was practically a god amongst others at this rink and in all the competition magazines. Him and Mikasa owned the region’s senior competition stats, it was impossible that sleazy locker room talk was enough to dethrone him of that.

Sasha, always blunt in her sentiments, places a hand on your own, “He’s nothing but a name without Mikasa, don’t take it to heart—do your best.”

Jean picks it up, “We recommended you for a reason, you’re the best of us without all the unnecessary press.” 

“Plus you challenge Yeager,” Niccolo chimes, “No one challenge’s Yeager.” 

“No one challenges him because he’s a fucking prick,” Jean couldn’t seem to help but blurt. 

His eyes swell like saucers when the locker room door hits the opposite wall with a slam, and none other than the subject-of-conversation himself briskly walks past you and Sasha, only to open his own locker with another slam. The room falls painfully silent, and Jean opens his mouth to speak only to subsequently close it—as rectifying the situation is really beyond him at this point.

Eren manhandles his duffle bag, slinging it over his shoulder. When he closes the locker he looks around the room, scanning for the eye contact that no one will make with him. He huffs, and mumbles something that vaguely resembles a bitter affirmation that you were indeed discussing him. Knowing the walls and the echo of the place better than anyone, it was unlikely he missed the comment that brought the conversation to a halt. He stormed out in the same fashion in which he came, and you were all left to your devices. 

Niccolo kicked Jean for his ignorance, to which he took with nothing more than a grimace. Sasha turned to you again, the color had faded from your face, and she didn’t quite have the words to console you, so she only said, “At least it wasn’t you.”

Though, it might have well been. Jean was your partner before you were Eren’s, just like he was bonded to Mikasa in such an all consuming way, something similar could be said about you and Jean. Thus, his sentiments were yours and vice versa. 

Yes, you missed your friends dearly, and for a moment it did feel nice to joke with them. Although, you knew that the consequences of such were only going to make practice that much more difficult for you tomorrow. Grabbing your belongings half heartedly, you said your salutations. The smile that sat on your face didn’t quite come back for the rest of the night.

[ TO BE CONTINUED ]

✿ TETSUSTATION — 2023; do not repost, translate, share without permission, or recycle my writing & layouts. this blog does not hesitate to hardblock in that instance!

[allandoflimbo]

I C E     P R I N C E S S  ∙ 4

Pairings: Popular Girl!Reader x Outkast!Bucky

Explicit Content - Smut - NO MINORS

Summary:

Bucky Barnes is the quiet boy who gets picked on.

The Reader and her friends run with the popular crowd at Stark High.

As the Winter Ball approaches, she is partnered with Bucky Barnes for a class project. They grow close in an inadvertently secret friendship, which later turns into love.

Only catch is…she’s Steve Roger’s ex girlfriend, and before she was partnered up with Bucky, her friends had planned to use and turn Bucky into Stark High’s new it boy to try and get back at Steve; a disgusting bet.

Another catch: She’s a figure skater at the town’s arena every Tuesday and Thursday nights. Bucky works part time at the rink resurfacing the ice. The other doesn’t know.

Modern AU High School fic - later goes into adulthood.

M A S T E R P A G E - FULL SERIES

Warnings: This story will have a lot of angst, a lot of fluff, a lot of cursing, and a lot of sex. Oral, praise kink, body worship, overstimulation, etc. you know me. There will also be loss of virginity in this.

Please support your content creators and writers and leave a review.

P R E V I O U S     C H A P T E R

"Hi, honey. How was sleep?" Your dad's question as you walk into the kitchen that next morning catches you slightly off guard.

Just slightly.

He's always asked you that question almost every morning, but its been a good five months since the last time.

It was very rare that he started chats like this nowadays.

You look over to where he scrolls through his phone, a cup of orange juice in his other hand.

He seemed perkier than usual.

"It was fine." You say.

"How did studying go?" He asks. You simply shrug, "It's for your psych class, right?"

You frown. Him and your mom were clearly talking.

"Yeah. It's just this two month project thing. The studying was okay. Bucky seems just as keen as me on simply getting an A for this." You say tiredly.

You grab your banana from the little fruit basket on the counter.

He takes a sip of his juice.

"He's a nice kid?" He asks, eyeing you over his glass.

You sigh, pealing the banana.

"Yes, he is."

"Well, that's good at least. We shouldn't have the graveyard shift for a few more weeks so if he needs to come over again, me and your mother should be around." He says.

You nod.

It's then that you notice the lack of her presence. You look around once more to be sure.

"Mom already left? It's only six."

"Yeah, she needed to do some paperwork." You listen as he puts his glass down and gets up from his seat. He walks up to you and places a kiss on the top of your head, "I have to get going, too. We'll see you tonight."

"See ya, dad."

"Drive safe."

You weren't in the mood to socialize today. The last thing you wanted to do the second you opened your locker was for Carol and Sharon to interrogate you.

"We called you twice." Carol adds, crossing her arms over her chest.

You let out a sigh, reaching down to grab your biology book.

"I was busy. Barely looked at my phone. Sorry, guys."

"That's so unlike you." Matt's voice sends a shiver down your spine. What was he doing here so early? You purposefully tried to get to school a little earlier than usual to avoid all this, "Not answering your phone."

You stand up once you have your book in your hand and you close your locker shut. You send Matt a glare so vicious he can only smile back at you.

"I was studying with Bucky." You say.

The looks on Carol and Sharon's faces are indifferent to your comment. If anything, they are barely affected by it.

Sharon even nods.

Matt's reaction is the opposite of both girls.

It almost perks your interest how fast his smile falls and how quickly it gets replaced by a scowl.

"Tell me you're joking." He says.

You squint your eyes at him.

"Why would I joke about studying with him? He's my study partner for my psych class. I need this grade," you hold your book tighter to your chest and tilt your head at Matt despite his still unamused glare, "So no, I'm not joking. Also, leave him alone."

He continues to look at you for a few extra seconds before he leans his shoulder on the locker next to yours and smirks.

You hated him. You wanted to punch that smirk off his face so bad that you could feel your fingers tingling.

"I get it." He says. He looks at Carol and Sharon, "She's down for the bet."

Your stomach goes cold.

"What?" You ask.

"I knew you'd come around, Bunny." His tone was nauseatingly condescending, "Ain't that right, guys?" He asks the girls.

They clear their throats, shrinking under Matt's gaze.

This was unbelievable.

"No, not right." You say. Matt's smile drops again, "I have to get to class. I don't have time for this." You add, walking past them and to your first period.

"You're still thinking about that bet that nobody wants to partake in?" Carol asks, turning to face Matt once you're gone. He can only grunt out a response, eyes casted downward, "All to take me out on a date." Matt chuckles and spins around to walk away from her and Sharon, but before he can get far, Carol continues, "When in reality we all know the one you really want to take out." Matt stops and slowly turns to face her. His face is as cold as stone as he glares, "It's been years. I know you're hoping for something ever since Steve left her, but come on."

"Not like it's any of your business what happens between me and her, why don't you stay out of it, Carol?"

"Not if you're going to use me as a jealously ploy. As fas as I'm concerned, that is my business."

Matt can only give her a small smirk before he spins back around, walking away.

He knew just what he needed to do.

Bucky could feel Murdock's eyes at the back of his head the moment he sat down, six chairs in front of him.

He hated that guy, and as far as Bucky knew, Matt ignored his existence unless it was to rip him apart in front of his friends.

So why was he acknowledging his presence here and now? In his consumer math class where Matt had no mutuals?

At first, Bucky was curious, but now he was getting more annoyed by the second. Did the creep know nothing about space and privacy? About how not to be a creep?

The class was still getting settled, and of course, that's when Murdock finally took his chance to take a seat next to Bucky.

Bucky could already feel himself hide away. He tried to hide his face from the guy as much as he could, focusing on opening his things for the class onto his desk instead.

But Matt was clearly insistent, because the second Bucky opened his notebook, a heavy hand slammed on it, shutting it closed.

Bucky could feel himself seething. He clenched his right hand into a fist and stared down at the hand in front of him.

Slowly, and very slowly, he lifted his head until he was looking one smiling Matt Murdock in the face.

Bucky knew that smile. He was up to something. That smile was all kinds of fake and cunning.

"Bucky, right?" Matt asks. Bucky doesn't verbally respond, even after a few long seconds, and Matt lets out a long and dramatic sigh, "I heard you and Y/N are study partners now." So that's what this was about , "She says you're pretty cool, so I was wondering if you'd like to meet us after school Friday at Jack's?"

Bucky doesn't know how to react to the random and cold invitation. He was also smart enough to know this was all bullshit.

"No thanks." He mumbles, going back to his notebook and opening it this time.

He can feel Matt still staring at him, and if he looked up he would see how hard he was grinding his teeth.

"Come on," Matt says. Bucky ignores him. Matt sighs, "Look, I get it. I was mean to you, but can we put it behind us? I'm trying to apologize, if you can't tell." Bucky's movement over his paper stops for just a moment as he hears the impossible words. Matt waits for a bit more and when Bucky doesn't respond again he decides to end it there, "Fine. But if you change your mind we'll be there around five thirty and we sit at the table by the wall, you won't miss us. I'm assuming you have a phone so you can google where Jack's is if you don't know where it is."

With that he gets up and leaves a confused and bewildered Bucky behind.

He's shocked when halfway through his class he finds himself actually considering it. Not because he wanted to forgive them or be their friend, but because...

Because?

Dammit. He doesn't even know.

Fridays at Jacks weren't what they used to be. Not at least since that night. Everything changed that day, including where you found your happiness.

You used to be carefree when you came here, but now, you felt isolated and sad.

You watched as your friends talked and laughed around you, and you tried your best to ignore Matt's eyes, looking at you as if he was waiting for you to say something.

When the waitress brings over a plate of chips and queso dip, everyone's mood perks up even more. Some cheesy alternative rock song is playing in the background and you feel yourself drown out again into the oblivion of your thoughts.

"Get some chips, Y/N." Sharon tells you with a nice smile.

"Nah, I'm okay. Thanks."

"I know who would love some." Matt says, a huge smirk popping up on his face. You narrow your eyes at his odd behavior, as he reaches over dramatically to dip in his own chips. His eyes are over Carol's shoulder. "You made it."

You quickly turn your head, along with everyone else, and you're surprised to see Bucky standing there.

Matt invited Bucky here? Your didn't have a problem with that at all but you also didn't trust Matt at all. What was he doing?

Matt asks everyone to scoot down and they do so, making room for Bucky. He sits down directly across from you and your eyes meet across the table. He looked nervous and shy, his eyes staying mostly glued to his lap.

He wasn't conformable here.

You narrowed your eyes once again at Matt.

What was he doing?

"So. Bucky. You like chips and queso?" Bucky's is caught off guard by the random question and he opens his mouth to respond but Matt cuts him off again, "If not we can get you something else. Mozzarella sticks? Fried zucchini? I won't judge you."

"Uhm. No, chips are fine." He says slowly and carefully.

"Go for it." Murdock motions to the dip in the middle of the table and Bucky hesitantly reaches forward for a chip and dips it. The chip cracks in the middle, leaving one half in his grip and the other in the dip, "Oof." Matt says.

"Matt, what the hell are you doing?" Your question has everyone looking at you including Bucky.

"What do you mean, Bunny?" His question is to patronize you and to jeopardize this. You know it the second he narrows his eyes at you right after he asks the question. He clears his throat and looks away, "Bucky, I think Y/N might have an issue with you being here."

Bucky's eyes meet yours. There's something in his gaze that you can't really pinpoint.

"What? No, that's not what I'm saying." You say, "I just know you're a turd, Matt."

"Why are you ganging up on me for? You're the one who said he's so cool so I invited him to hang out with us, and you're acting like I did something I shouldn't have. I just want to make you happy, Y/N."

"I think she's talking about your sarcastic niceness." Sharon mumbles under her breath to Matt, but everyone hears it.

Bucky is feeling more uncomfortable by the second. He knew this was a mistake. He doesn't know what he was thinking coming here.

"You guys are crazy." Matt says, "Come on, dweeb, get some food already. I mean, Bucky, sorry." Matt adds quickly with a shake of his head.

Bucky raises a brow at him and Matt laughs humorlessly.

"Habit." He says.

Bucky takes in a deep breath and places both hands on the table in front of him.

"I think I overstayed my welcome." Bucky says lowly, raising himself up onto his feet.

Shit.

"Already? So soon?" Matt asks, his tone tainted with malice and more sarcasm.

Bucky doesn't give anyone else a second glance, not even you. He can already feel his hand shaking as he finds the dignity to walk away from literally his worst nightmare.

"What the hell is wrong with you." You sneer at Matt. He looks offended at your words, as if he's shocked by it.

He barely has time to verbally respond, before you find yourself running after Bucky.

N E X T  C H A P T E R

Tag list: @dinoswierdmom @sebsgirl71479 @wintasssoldier @melimelbean @steadygoopangelhairdo @prettywhenicry4 @bonkybarnes106 @undeadhoneydew @midnightvitality @ene-rene @ccmarvelxx @hanahkatexo @gr33nleo​ @missaprilt23​ @lfaewrites @charmedbysarge @tilltheendofthelinepal9950  @buckybarnesandmarvel @ducks118 @lokisdrottning @kianamka  @toadstools119 @adoringsebstan @troubledhemmings @buckybarnesandmarvel @charmedbysarge @buckybarnesandmarvel​ @redbarn1995​

[mithrilwren]

3 Turn

Another installment in the Shadowgast Figure Skating AU, inspired by the incredible art of @fiovske! You don’t technically have to read the first piece in the series to understand this one - they more or less stand on their own - but if you’re going to read both, I’d recommend doing so in order. [Also on Ao3] [Find the whole series of one-shots in this AU here!]

---

3 turn: a figure skating element which involves a change in direction and edge. The direction of the turn follows the way the edge rotates and curves, either from an inside edge to an outside edge, or an outside edge to an inside edge.

---

1. Forward.

There’s a new skater on the ice tonight.

It’s a rare occurrence, to see an unfamiliar face in competition. Essek has grown accustomed to seeing the same lineup of competitors at every event. The particular selection of faces may change with the location, but the roster is generally static; there are only a select few whose skills are high enough to qualify at this level.

Still, the whirling blur of motion in Essek’s periphery wears a colour palette he’s not familiar with, and as his coach guides him through last-minute stretches at the sideboards, he watches the figure out of the corner of his eye. Not paying full attention, of course - his turn is next in the order, and there are many elements to review in his mind before he steps out onto the ice himself - but he does catch a few details: a grey and black suit, a flash of red hair, the sound of a skate coming down hard. 

Too hard, and the subsequent gasps of the crowd tell him a jump has been fumbled, if not outright failed. 

Essek smirks - not unkindly, necessarily, but with the satisfaction of renewed confidence. Whoever this new blood is, he’s clearly knocked himself out of the running. Not a challenger, then, and thus, not worthy of any more of Essek’s attention.

As the music fades to a close, he lets his breath go in one low beat. He’s ready. He’s relaxed. This will be a good performance.

Essek barely pays the new competitor any mind as they pass each other: him stepping into the rink, and the other man stepping out. There’s no delay between the two routines for flowers to be collected. Evidently, none were thrown. The man must truly be a newcomer - not many rise to this level of competition without accumulating at least a small base of supporters.  But again, Essek reminds himself, this is all unimportant to the task at hand. 

Essek floats out to the center of the ice and places one toe on its tip, hands curving up to frame his chin and cheek in an elegant tableau. The crowd is still, as breathless as his own body, as they wait for the first note.

Then the music starts, and Essek flies.

---

Once all the roses and little gifts are collected from the ice, Essek rejoins his coach in the kiss-and-cry. The red-headed competitor is already far from his mind as they wait together for his scores to be announced. 

(The cutesy name of the simple, black-clothed bench, surrounded by a chorus of video cameras and fake flowers, is something of a derisive joke between the two of them; neither he nor Mirimm would ever be caught dead doing either in public.)

The only expression Essek allows himself as the numbers are read out is a small smile: first place standing, as expected. Mirimm’s reaction is equally subdued. She doesn’t congratulate him, not on what was already a forgone conclusion. 

(And still, his heart eases as he hears the final tally, even though he knew that his performance tonight was without critique. There’s an unhelpful anxiety that accompanies every kiss-and-cry, so ingrained he can barely separate it from the brighter feeling of anticipation. He can’t seem to shake the lingering dread that one day the scores will be announced, and he will be found lacking, and the perilous peak on which he stands will crumble away.)

After returning to their seats, Essek watches the rest of the skaters from the audience with vague interest. He knows most of their routines by rote, along with their faces. The season is spent perfecting only two sets of choreography per person - one short program, one free skate - and he’s seen most of them performed already, whether televised or in competition. Still, the art of skating is beautiful in itself, and even familiar routines are a pleasant enough diversion as they all wait for the final scores, that will determine the skate order for the next day. 

Finally, after the last skater has received their marks, the ranking is read out to the audience. Essek’s name is the first announced, of course. As the top-placed competitor, he will go last. That, too, was never in question. 

The name ‘Caleb Widogast’, at a stalwart middle rank, crackles over the loudspeakers, and Essek starts. He cocks his head, trying to capture the remnants of the sound before the announcements continue. Something about that name… he’s sure he’s heard it before. Essek turns to Mirimm, leaning down to murmur in her ear.

“Why do I know the name ‘Widogast’?”

Mirimm - an elderly woman, with so many years of experience under her belt that not even her wizened face and hunched, almost goblinish appearance can diminish her reputation as one of the skating world’s premiere coaches - squints, her mouth set into a troubled frown. He’s not accustomed to seeing even that much emotion from her, and certainly not in public. Her answer takes far longer than it should for such a simple question. 

“I suppose that would have been before your time, wouldn’t it?” Essek carefully suppresses a wince. Having achieved so much by such a young age might be a badge of honour for some, but he often tires of being so continuously reminded of it. He would rather be set apart by his skill, not his circumstances. “He was a prominent competitor in the juniors circuit, many years ago. ” Her voice grows more craggly as it dips low, softer, as though she’s talking to herself and not to him. “I didn’t realize he’d started skating again.”

“A hiatus? Was there a reason?” There are few explanations that are conceivable to Essek, why someone would choose to give up the sport, even temporarily. You don’t leave a life like this up - not at this level, not after so much work and pain and investment. Even he, even after-

Well. It’s not something you just abandon.

Again, Mirimm pauses before answering. “I don’t know the whole story, but… I believe he was under a lot of pressure.” The inflection on the word pressure doesn’t quite sit right with Essek, and his own frown deepens. “The Empire is very... rigid, with its athletes, as you well know.”

Essek’s mouth parts slightly. Then Widogast is a Dwendalian skater. Now that’s interesting. Stranger still, that no one would have informed him of the man in advance, but if even Mirimm didn’t know he was competing...

“That’s all you can tell me?” 

“That’s all I’m telling you.” She fixes him with a hard look, and he sighs, knowing a final answer when he hears one. He’s learned not to question the hierarchy, over the years. As supportive as Mirimm is, and as high as he rises, there are still some things he’s not privileged enough to know. Being sponsored by the Dynasty itself comes with a laundry list of pros and cons, after all, and as much as he’s aware that his role in the conflict between nations is symbolic, it is not unimportant. The threads of political posturing between the Empire and the Dynasty are long-rooted and deeply meaningful, and appearances are more vital now than ever, in this time of perilous peace. He takes that responsibility as seriously as any aspect of his own career.

Still, his curiousity is peaked, and he barely hears the rest of the names in the order, too busy turning over one in particular in his mind. 

---

There are also pros and cons in being the last onto the ice, Essek muses the next day, as he waits for his turn to arrive. On one hand, he’s stuck ruminating on his own upcoming performance for longer than any other skater. On the other, he finally has a chance to watch the other routines properly. 

He waits with bated breath for the name ‘Caleb Widogast’ to be announced. From his seat near the front of the stands, he has a perfect view to suss out this mysterious competitor, and he intends to make good use of that advantage. Even if Mirimm refuses to share more, there’s a great deal he can learn from simple observation.

His catalogue begins the moment the man steps out onto the ice. There’s a certain awkwardness to Widogast’s movements, as the man drifts out to the center of the rink - a dipped head, and hunched shoulders, nothing at all like Essek’s regal posture. His eyes are nearly hidden beneath the long, wavy bangs that tumble out from his loose ponytail. It’s a curiously unpolished look: not strictly against regulations, but certainly not the finessed coif of a typical skater, especially not with hair of that length. Essek wonders if he does it himself, or if his stylist is simply unskilled. The messiness doesn’t seem intentional, rather, it almost looks like the ponytail began as a tighter pull-back, but wasn’t secured properly. 

His outfit, at least, is neat, if slightly old-fashioned. The hard lines of black and grey are typical Dwendalian attire, and Essek thinks again of Mirimm’s words. Rigid. That is certainly a word to describe the suit. He can’t say that Widogast looks terribly comfortable in its constrictive folds and creases. That type of outfit requires a precision to pull off that his hair and his posture don’t match. Everything about the look is like two halves at war from within, and Essek wouldn’t be surprised if the man loses points on presentation before the music even starts. 

In the quiet moments at center ice, Essek watches as Widogast breathes out, arms crossed in front of his chest. His shoulders come down, as though he’s forcibly told them to relax. Then the first note sounds, and Widogast takes off towards the rink’s edge in a burst of energy, launching into a routine that leaves Essek more confused with every bar.

The man is obviously quite technically proficient, but whatever rigidity he managed to force out of his shoulders, he clearly hasn’t shaken it from the rest of his body. His steps are intricate, but stiff, and though his movements smooth out into something more like a dancer’s elegance by the end of the first step sequence, Essek is keen now to the tension that shudders beneath. He isn’t surprised at all when Widogast’s first jump finishes a full rotation short of the intended triple lutz. Even if the set-up was executed well, it lacked confidence, and no jump approached with hesitation will ever succeed.

Still, the landing is clean, and though the rest of the routine is fairly unremarkable - full of the traditional upright forms and purposeful movements that he’s come to expect from the (admittedly, small) number of Empire skaters he’s competed against over the years - with each passing moment, Essek only finds himself more transfixed by the series of contradictions that make up ‘Caleb Widogast’. 

Who is this man, who skates with all the skill of a champion and the confidence of a fifteen-year-old trainee? 

Why is his outfit so strict, and his hair so wild? 

Who would give up skating for long enough to fall out of memory, only to return as a shadow of their former glory?

Essek must know more. 

He watches Widogast’s face as the song comes to a close, hoping to catch a glimpse of his reaction to the past few minutes. Is he pleased with the middling performance, or disappointed? But as soon as the music dies away, his head is already tucked back to his shoulder, and he hurries his way off the ice even before the polite smattering of applause finishes. No flowers again, and no whoops or cheers from the audience. Even the other Dwendalian entrant - Vadim, oft bronze-medalist, powerful jumps - offers no vocal support to his countryman. He sits a few aisles away from Essek, watching the routine just as intently as him, but without any hint of comradery hidden in his tight-lipped expression. If anything, his look is assessing, rather than familiar.

Stranger and stranger.

Essek’s eyes follow Widogast as he steps out of the rink and heads towards the kiss-and-cry. There’s no coach waiting there when he arrives. Widogast takes a seat by himself, and the next skater takes to the ice. The music starts again, and still, nobody joins him. Widogast picks up his coat from atop his bag and wraps it around his own shoulders, clutching the fabric to his chest as he waits for the scores to be read. 

Essek’s heart unexpectedly pangs. He’s no stranger to being on his own - he prefers it, nearly always - but still… he never realized how lonesome that bench could look. 

Essek prides himself on being able to predict any score within five points, and this time is no exception. Not a bad showing, per se, but nothing spectacular. Even with only half the scores tallied, the podium is already out of Widogast’s reach. Essek is too far away to judge his expression as the numbers are read from the loudspeakers, but his reaction is far from dramatic. The man sits quietly for a few moments more, then gathers his bag and returns to his seat, ignoring the handful of microphones shoved in his direction as he passes the press box. He doesn’t move from that seat, not for as long as it takes Mirimm to tap Essek on the shoulder and remind him that he should get downstairs and stretch for his own routine. 

It only strikes him as odd a half-hour or so later, as he gets up off the cold concrete floor and returns the foam roller to its case, that Widogast’s seat wasn’t next to Vadim’s. If anyone else from the Dynasty was in attendance, they and Essek would have been seated together. A show of patriotic solidarity is never amiss, and the Empire tends to be even more strict than his own country in that regard. But he doesn’t have time to contemplate the question further, because Mirimm is already hurrying him along, back to the rink’s edge just in time for his routine to start. 

The rest of the night passes in an accustomed blur - the flawless performance, the kiss-and-cry, the inevitable triumph. It seems barely more than a blink of the eye before Essek finds himself on the podium, listening to the last strains of the familiar anthem fade away. He receives his medal gracefully, dipping his head as the ribbon is placed around his neck, but when he looks up again, it’s to scan the crowd once more, looking for Widogast. 

The search is fruitless; his eyes land on an empty seat, and no trace of where the man went. Perhaps he left once he knew the final results. Essek can’t help but be a little disappointed - he has always been insatiably inquisitive, and this Caleb Widogast is an enigma like no other - but it seems tonight is not the night he’ll satisfy that curiousity. 

Essek exchanges civil handshakes with the other medalists and makes his way back towards the locker room to collect the remainder of his things, while the crowd begins to filter out of the arena. 

Progress is slow, constantly impeded by eager fans looking for autographs or photos that his station - and the ever-present cameras - don’t allow him to refuse. Mirimm knows not to wait around, and by the time he manages to (politely) fight his way out of the stands, he finds himself in a mostly abandoned facility. The occasional conversation still wafts through the echoing concrete corridors below the rink, but most of the other skaters have left already. He’s pleased by the solitude, not least because his left leg is aching fiercely, and in an empty hallway, he can allow himself the slightest limp. He keeps his ears open for any hint of incoming footsteps, of course, but it’s an unexpected boon after a long day.

The locker room is empty as well. Still, Essek ducks into one of the shower stalls and turns the lock before unzipping his bag. He moves aside the foam roller’s case and reaches in, pulling out the brace that lies beneath. Essek holds it in his hands and leans back against the wall, considering. 

The pain is worse tonight than usual, but this isn’t exactly a regional show. The reporters will be trained on him the moment he emerges into the lobby. Better not to risk it. Essek slips the brace back into the bag, wincing as he pushes himself off the wall, and unlocks the stall door. 

He can manage, and there will be a hot shower waiting for him once he passes through the gauntlet of reporters and returns to his hotel: a well deserved reward.

He takes another step, and his thigh muscle shudders beneath the weight. Essek grits his teeth.

He can manage. 

Essek is nearly to the back stairwell that will take him back to the lobby when he hears it - a new, unplaceable sound, drifting from around the corner. He steps closer, and the sound becomes clearer. Quickened, irregular breathing. 

He walks as quietly as he can to the bend, and peers around. 

A man is braced against the wall, arms crossed over his eyes as he leans his weight against them, his face turned towards the ground as he gulps shallow breaths of air. The shock of red hair, now fully escaped from its tie and spread loose over quavering shoulders, is unmistakable. 

It’s Widogast.

Essek means to back away as silently as he came. The man is indisposed, and no matter how great his curiousity, he wouldn’t spy on someone in such a private moment. But his leg, the treacherous thing, buckles on the first step back, and that slight stumble is enough to bring Widogast’s head whipping up. His bright eyes - blue, very blue, improbably blue - land on Essek, and Essek freezes, feeling more chastened than he probably should, considering he truly hadn’t meant to intrude.

Widogast immediately straightens, sucking in one last breath before bowing his head. “I am in your way. My apologies.” 

The soft accent catches Essek off guard. Stereotypical as it might be, he was expecting the more severe dialect of King Dwendal. As a child of the Dynasty, brought up in wartime, there were few other Empire voices that were recognizable. All he had were the propaganda speeches on the radio and the indistinct image of a faraway court on the television. He was not a soldier, and would never meet a child of the Empire face to face. At least, that’s what he’d assumed, at the time.

“Are you…” alright, is the word he wants to say. If it’s not an outright panic attack he’s startled the man out of, it was something close to it. But to acknowledge that feels too... forward. They’ve only just met, after all, and he is still a representative of the Dynasty. He must never forget that, or the caution it entails.  “...going up?” Essek finishes, gesturing at the stairwell.

Widogast grimaces, a pained look that smoothes out to something more neutral as surely as his movements did on the ice. It’s almost disconcerting, how calm he seems now - how steeled - when only a few minutes ago he could barely breathe. 

“I will, in a short while. Please,” Widogast says. “Don’t let me keep you.” His eyes move to Essek’s chest and widen in realization, and Essek is suddenly self-conscious of the golden medal that still shimmers between strips of back gauze. “My apologies again, Herr Thelyss, and... congratulations, on the victory.”

“Thank you,” Essek says slowly. So he knows who Essek is. Has the man been studying up on him as well? But he forces the momentary paranoia down. He is the reigning champion, three years running, and today’s victory sets him well on the path for a fourth crown. Of course this man would know his name. Who in the skating world doesn’t?

Still, Essek makes no move towards the stairwell, and neither does Widogast. Finally, Essek breaks the stalemate. “Shall we go up together?” 

It’s a reckless suggestion. If they’re seen emerging together, the reporters will eat them alive. He’s under firm instructions from both Mirimm and the Bright Queen herself that he’s to maintain a civil, but distant, relationship with those Empire competitors he meets. But he can’t help but want to continue the interaction, now that circumstances have brought them together. He might not get another chance like this, imprudent as it might be.

If anything, Widogast’s expression becomes even more pained, and Essek watches him physically hold in a shudder. “Please, go on,” he says again. “I’m sure you’re a busy man.”

An even more reckless thought occurs to Essek. “You’re very right. To be honest, I’m not sure I feel like spending what time I have with the vultures tonight,” he says, regarding Widogast with an air of nonchalance. “And - forgive me - you seem a little tired yourself. Perhaps we should show ourselves out the back? I know another exit.” There. Plausible deniability for the both of them.

Widogast fixes him with a stare as piercing as Essek’s ever delivered, and he knows he’s been found out. That might concern him more, if he knew what, precisely, he was attempting to conceal in the offer. He hasn’t quite parsed out his own intentions - only that the enigma of Caleb Widogast has him intrigued, and he wants as much time as he can steal to begin to unravel the pieces of that mystery.

“...If you are offering, then… I would be grateful.” Widogast dips his head again, sharp expression fading to something almost weary. “I’m not sure I’m up to facing them tonight either,” he admits, more softly.

“Then the rear exit it is.” Essek turns, and a few moments later, footsteps hurry to join his as he leads the way through the twists and turns of the underground structure.

The truth is, Essek knows all the back entrances, to every major rink on the competition circuit. He often comes a day early to walk the halls, scouting out the surest route that will avoid the flash - or worse, the blinking red recording light - of the cameras. In a pinch, he’s even acquired building schematics, if advance travel wasn’t an option.

He can manage, after all - he always does - but there are some nights where he’d rather not have to.

The two of them walk in silence. Though there are a thousand questions burning on Essek’s lips, he knows that there is a time and place, and that this isn’t the appropriate one. Better to show as little of his own hand as possible, while he still knows so little about the man’s connections within the Empire, and… well, he doesn’t want to push Widogast further, not after what he just witnessed. 

It might be the shrewder choice. Widogast is more vulnerable now, at least emotionally, than he might be later on, and Essek could probably press him and learn some of what he wants to know. But still-

But still. He feels how he feels. There’s no use pretending something else. 

They come at last to a different stairwell, this one leading up to a set of heavy metal doors coated in cracked orangeish paint. Essek pushes the doors open and holds the first for Widogast, and the two of them exit into an alleyway. From the opposite end of the narrow path, the lights of the street blare and fade: cars, passing into the gathering night. Essek looks once more at Widogast, holding his coat closed against the chill of the damp night. Each wash of light catches the outline of the man’s hair: a glimmer of auburn against the grey brick at his back, tumbling in loose waves around his jaw.

“Thank you,” Widogast says again, this time with open, unguarded sincerity, and as the man finally meets Essek’s eyes, the back of his neck begins to prickle. “I am in your debt.” 

“Indeed. Perhaps I’ll ask a favour in return, the next time we meet?”

Essek means the banter to be light - playful, even - but Widogast doesn’t smile. He does nod, however, expression altogether too serious for the tenor of the conversation. “A favour,” he says. “Alright.”

“Till the next time, then,” Essek says, and starts towards the alley’s exit. Widogast follows on his heels, but Essek holds up a hand. “Give it a few minutes, in case there are watching eyes on this side.” Widogast frowns, but as Essek points to the symbol of the Bright Queen subtly embroidered on his sleeve, he nods again in understanding.

Essek chances one last glance back before he slips out of the alleyway and onto the street. He sees Widogast framed against the door: a figure in grey silhouette, and still impossibly alone.

---

The shower does help with the pain, and he’s able to go to bed that night without splinting the leg at all, which is a better outcome than he’d hoped. By tomorrow, he’ll be back in the Dynasty, in the comfort of his own home, and for now at least he has creature comforts: good wine, a soft bed, and an evening to himself, without needing to speak to a single other soul. This is his preferred way to celebrate a victory.

As he lays down to sleep, red hair and blue eyes flutter through Essek’s mind, an inescapable interest still burning within him. He finally gives in to the compulsion at almost one in the morning, dragging himself out of bed and back to the sitting room portion of the suite. Pulling open his laptop, he quickly types a name into the search bar. 

There are dozens of results for ‘Caleb Widogast’: old videos at low resolution, standings from various tournaments, even a few news articles in languages he doesn’t know. He clicks on one of the videos first, indulging himself for a minute or so in grainy clips of a boy with the same red hair - though much shorter - as the man he met today. But there’s something about the experience that’s almost uncomfortably voyeuristic, and he quickly abandons the pursuit in favour of the articles. 

The few that are in the common tongue are intriguing, but sparse, and all uniformly disappear after a certain date. By three in the morning, he’s exhausted every dead end, and come to one inevitable conclusion: Caleb Widogast - the junior’s champion, a prodigy, just like Essek - existed for many years, and then he simply didn’t.

After today’s standings, Widogast won’t be moving on in the circuit. The next leg of competition is all that matters. Essek shuts the laptop, tired and frustrated, and resolves to put the conundrum out of his mind. 

And, for a time, he succeeds.

2. Pivot.

The next time they meet, a season has passed, and Essek has his fourth championship victory. Riding high off his success and all the accolades that followed, the exhibition rounds before the next circuit are a breath of fresh air - literally. 

The warm shores of Nicodranas seem an unusual place to host an ice skating event, but perhaps the international planning committee has tired of all the cold and dreary locales they’re typically forced to frequent - or maybe somebody had a summer home that they wanted to make use of. Either way, it doesn’t quite suit Essek’s constitution, and he begrudges not having a good excuse to wear his typical heavy mantle outdoors, but it is a change of pace.

He’s taken aback when he spies the name ‘Caleb Widogast’ on the day’s program. Countries usually announce their designated entrants for these events months in advance - how is it possible that both he and Mirimm could be caught unawares yet again? But when he asks, this time Mirimm brushes him off entirely, and he’s forced to stew in silence as he waits for the man to appear. 

Thankfully, he doesn’t have to wait long. Widogast’s lot falls first in the order, and Essek settles in to watch the short program he missed all those months ago. 

Alas, there’s not much to watch. If he thought the man was unpracticed the first time he saw him skate, it’s worse now. These non-qualifier rounds are meant for testing and perfecting choreography before the competition truly begins, and Widogast is obviously still working out the kinks in his routine. The jumps are turbulent, nearly all under-rotated, and even his more melodic passages lack presence or style. Once again, the second half improves on the first, but in a short program - as the name implies - there isn’t much time to make an impression. Essek fully expects to see Widogast’s face fall as soon as he finishes. 

But he’s caught off guard as the music reaches its crescendo, then fades, and a raucous cheer rises from somewhere high in the stands. He’s close enough this time to see an embarrassed smile break over Widogast’s lips, and he gives a little wave to whoever made the noise before skating off the ice. 

The kiss-and-cry isn’t empty this time either when he arrives. Someone is sitting on the bench, in a tracksuit of blue and grey. They’re too far off to discern any other details, and Essek finds himself rising and descending against his own better judgement, ignoring Mirimm’s pointed look as he makes his way towards the semi-circle of cameras. 

Now that he’s closer, he can start to get a sense of Widogast’s companion. Tall, olive-skinned, with close-cropped hair tied up into a top-knot. Despite the baggy clothes she wears, the woman is obviously athletic. Muscles bulge beneath the flimsy fabric as she gives Widogast a hard pat on the back, and he leans in closer to her. She’s younger than him, Essek notes, and not built like a skater - nothing about her is delicate. It’s also unlikely she’s a coach, not at that age. A friend then, or a lover? He’s seen some skaters wait with their husbands or wives, even parents, when their coach isn’t available. It’s certainly a possibility.

He slips away before Widogast’s scores are announced, not wanting to risk discovery by either the man himself or the reporters that circle like sharks around the booth, waiting to snatch an interview from anyone who stops too long. He’ll have to find another excuse to reintroduce himself, somewhere farther from the ring of microphones. 

He finds his moment halfway through the roster of performances. It’s a carefully engineered crossing of paths, as he descends to find a glass of water at the same time as Widogast and his companion dip off from the rest of their group, heading in the same direction. 

Because, apparently, Widogast does have a group now: a few mismatched individuals clustered in the upper rows, far from the seats reserved for performers. That must have been where the cheer came from. Maybe he’s accumulated a small following between the first event and now.

Essek sidles up beside the pair, walking in lockstep for a few moments before speaking. “I was wondering if I’d see you again.” Widogast pauses, glancing over towards Essek, and puts his hand up to the woman as his eyes widen.

“Caleb, who’s this?” the woman asks, stumbling to a halt just inches shy of Widogast’s back. Her tone is entirely too aggressive for meeting a stranger, and he wonders what about himself provoked that level of suspicion in so short a time. 

“Essek Thelyss,” he says, giving a slight bow. “Your friend and I met a few months ago.” Her glare only intensifies, and Widogast puts a hand on her shoulder.

“It’s alright, Beau,” he says, then turns to Essek. “It’s good to see you again. I… understand congratulations are in order?” Essek inclines his head. 

“They’re appreciated, but not necessary. I’m happy to focus on what comes next.”

“I understand that completely.” Widogast’s words seem more steady now than they were before, and his posture straighter. Perhaps it has something to do with the woman - Beau - at his side. Some need others to prop them up, when their own courage fails. Essek is not one of those people, but he doesn’t judge those who do too harshly. It’s a difficult world they live in. “I intend to do the same.”

“And how was it, exactly, that you two met, Essek?” Beau crosses her arms, flexing until the muscles ripple beneath a sheen of acrylic blue, and Essek doesn’t miss how she subtly shifts so that she’s placed between the two of them, like a surly tomcat guarding its kill. He still doesn’t know what he’s done to warrant this kind of aggression from her, and he opens his mouth to retort, but Widogast beats him to the pass.

“Beau,” he warns. “This isn’t… it wasn’t him.” She turns her glare to her friend, and Essek watches on, even more perplexed, as a silent conversation ensues beneath the actual words spoken. “And this isn’t the time, or the place.”

Beau hesitates, but seems to find what she was looking for in Widogast’s eyes. It’s her turn to breathe out slowly, as she turns back to Essek. “Sorry, man,” she says. “Didn’t mean to jump down your throat.” She sticks out a hand, and he reluctantly takes it and gives it a light shake. Her grip is incredibly strong, and Essek doesn’t try to match it, aiming instead to take his hand back quickly, before any joints leave their sockets.

“No offence taken,” he says as she releases him. “I should return, anyhow. My turn will come soon.”

Widogast looks for a moment like he might protest, but eventually his mouth snaps shut, and his expression shifts to something between embarrassment and contrition. “It was good to see you again, Herr… Essek.”

The informality of the address takes Essek by surprise - no Empire skater has ever called him anything other than Thelyss - but his mouth quirks up at the edges. He gets the feeling he’s being mollified. He’s more surprised to find that the obvious manipulation is working. “Till next time, Caleb.”

If it’s offered, then he can return the gesture. He couldn’t be blamed, for following Widog- Caleb’s lead. Courteous, but still sufficiently distant. That still lies within the confines of his mandate.

Yes. That is a line he can defend.

And besides, it may not matter much. He’s learned all he needs to know at this point. Caleb’s poor performance at their first competition was not a fluke, thus the man remains an enigma, but not a threat. Essek is happy enough to lay the matter to rest. He has greater concerns to focus his energy on.

...

Herr Essek.

He’s never heard his name spoken before, in an accent like that.

Hmm.

3. Turn.

As for the third event, their paths don’t cross at all. Essek notes the familiar name in the program at the start of the first day, but doesn’t have the time or the inclination to seek him out over the course of the competition. This is, in many ways, the most important tournament of the season, though it isn’t the one that will determine the overall champion. New skaters debut here, and the tone of the whole circuit will be set by the results of this first event. He must perform. Any other distraction is a death sentence. 

And of course, with that anxiety mounting, the pain grows worse, as it always does. A flare, the likes of which he hasn’t felt in years, begins to burn steadily by the conclusion of the short programs, and the distraction is so great that even Mirimm notices his discomfort, when he can’t stop himself from squirming in his seat by the fifth hour. It’s undignified, and he hates his own weakness more than that of his body. He has better control than this. 

The pain will pass, if he can put it out of his mind. 

His performance in the free skate still earns him the top spot of the podium, but it’s a shakier thing than either he or Mirimm are comfortable with. For the first time in almost two years, and after a few very stern words from his coach, Essek concedes to the braces at the end of the second day. The constriction makes his gait awkward, and he waits until he is absolutely certain everyone else has left the building before attempting to sneak out to the street. His car will be waiting for him at the curbside, ready to spirit him away on the double as soon as he emerges. All he needs to do is follow the memorized route.

In this particular arena, the changing rooms are on the same level as the rink itself, and the path to his chosen exit takes him within a breath of the sideboards. He can taste the biting chill on his lips as he walks between walls of fibreglass, rather than concrete. 

Essek’s heart nearly stops when he hears the schiff of blades against ice drifting through the wall to his left. Someone is still here, skating.

He will have to walk past at least one opening to the rink before his path is clear. He slows to a more careful pace, lest he be spotted. It’s too late to go back and change out of the braces now, and if he’s recognized, the person would surely wonder about his altered steps, maybe even ask questions, maybe even tell others about what they saw, and… 

None of that is acceptable. So he will not allow it to happen.

At the first break in the wall, Essek pauses, then dips his head around the corner. It takes him a few moments to spot the figure on the far side of the darkened ring: a wraith of black and crimson. The shape drifts in and out of sight, obscured by the same wall that hides Essek. 

Late as it is, the rink is closed for the night. There should be nobody left here but the cleaning staff, and as always, his curiousity gets the better of him. Essek risks sticking his head out a little farther, trusting the darkness of the hallway to keep him safe for long enough to sneak a glance at whoever has snuck back in.

The only light in the arena falls from a single overhead array, casting a haze of sallow yellow over only half the ice, littered with patches of red from the emergency exit signs. He thinks at first that’s what he’s seeing - the reflection of the emergency lights - but the flashes of red behind the plexiglass are too fast-moving, too unstable to be echoes of something stationary. 

He steps closer still, pressing his back to the edge of the wall as the figure glides into the haze once more, curving backwards in a relaxed arc. Strips of red material that line the long sleeves of his black shirt shimmer as he passes through the transition between darkness and light. Essek squints, trying to make out any identifying features, before the skater slips into blackness once more.

He thinks, for a moment, that it almost looks like-

But that can’t be. The movement is too legato, too relaxed. If it really was-

The skater disappears, then emerges again, spinning out into an effortless combination - triple salchow, double toe loop - and sinks into the landing without a flinch or a stumble. His leg comes up as he transitions into a layback spin, the edge of the skate barely grazing the tip of his ponytail as he grasps the skate behind his head. Unmistakable auburn locks, still halfway to escaping from their tie, fan out as he spins, and spins, and-

It is him. 

It’s Caleb.

Without thinking, Essek steps closer, mesmerized by the sight. The spin narrows, and his foot comes down to a point as Caleb’s hands rise into the air, held together in a perfect spire. The pace quickens, so fast now that even if there was all the light in the world, Essek wouldn’t have been able to make out his face. The only sound is the whisper of his skate against the ice as the spin resolves, and he glides into darkness again. The tension releases, and Essek realizes he was holding his breath.

This Caleb is nothing at all like the one he’s seen in competition. The transitions he uses, the posture of his arms, the suppleness of his movements are softer, less biting than before - and yes, less powerful, but more graceful in return. It strikes Essek all at once, what the difference is: Caleb is not dancing like an Empire skater. His moves tonight lack the academic precision of any of the other Dwendalians Essek has competed against, whose style he now recognizes in the remembrance of Caleb’s earlier performances. Those routines were an imitation of a philosophy, one that didn’t sit comfortably on Caleb’s shoulders.

Whatever this style is - this bowling, wild, unpredictable dance - it’s something new. Something original.

Caleb reappears into the light. Double toe loop, single toe loop, double salchow, and straight into a quadruple flip, with barely a breath of space between the two. The final jump under-rotates by a mile and Caleb’s hand smacks down onto the ice as he falls out into an erratic spin, only rescued from a total wipeout by a last ditch turn onto the inside edge of his skate. Even so, he skids almost to a halt, and Essek puts a hand to his mouth, caught between horror and admiration.

He could have injured himself there, seriously so. To force a combination like that into the leadup for a quadruple jump... it was a one in a million chance of success, even for someone of Essek’s calibre. He must have known that he would fail, and likely twist an ankle in the effort, if not worse. Why risk it? Is it a strategy for the next competition, banking on difficulty over execution to boost his score? 

But it isn’t a routine that Caleb’s practicing. There’s no music, and if there was, Essek can’t imagine what piece would match the sequence of mismatched moves he’s attempting. 

No, this isn’t practice for the next event.

This is experimentation.

This is creation.

At last, Caleb glides to a stop at the center of the ice. Chest heaving, he raises his hands and pushes back the bangs from his forehead, hair held in place at last by the sweat of exertion. A panting wheeze becomes a smile, becomes a grin, becomes a laugh, and the sound peals out across the rink, echoing from the farthest corners. Essek feels the same joy swell within his own chest, the same excitement at having done the impossible, even if the effort was imperfect.

He doesn’t fall in love, in that moment. It’s still too soon, for all of that. But something in his heart falls out of place, and into Caleb’s unknowing hands. There’s a force drawing him towards center ice, tethering them together - a connection, when he has not felt connected to anyone, in so very long.

Essek slips away, letting Caleb experience his last moments of giddy triumph in peace. He’s already desperate to see him once more: the real Caleb, not the shadow he’s witnessed in competition. Essek doesn’t know how he’ll manage it, but he will. He is determined not to let this be the last time. 

And there has never been anything he’s been determined about, that he did not achieve.

Essek contents himself with that certainty, and only realizes as the car door slides shut at his back, that somewhere in the last hour, his pain disappeared.

[psychosistr]

Talk to Me- Chapter 5

Summary: A brilliant idea on Steelbeak’s part leads to a fun time involving one of Domino’s favorite pastimes.

Notes: Another chapter of bonding and fluff before something more dramatic begins >:3

-First Chapter-

Steelbeak finished taking off the cap on the bright red fire hydrant, looking through the fence at his partner waiting on the other side. “Ready?”

Domino, standing a couple feet off to the side to avoid the incoming spray, nodded. “Do it.” He had both of his pistols out and loaded.

That was all the go-ahead Steelbeak needed to bring the thick wrench up to the pressure valve on top of the hydrant and start twisting it, releasing a fierce stream of water that rushed through the fence and all over the ground on the other side. It had been a while since he’d broken open a fire hydrant without his metal beak but, after some fumbling with the spare wrench from the emergency repair kit in the trunk of Domino’s car, it all started to come back to him. The struggle had been worth it, though, to see the excited gleam of anticipation in the loon’s eyes at what was to come.

Once there was a sufficient pool spread out across several feet ahead of him, Steelbeak gradually eased the water pressure until he was able to screw it shut again. “Alright, Dee- it’s all you!” He gave the darker bird a thumbs up once the cap was back on the hydrant.

“This should only take a minute.” Domino aimed his guns at the large pool of water and began firing at it. Instead of lead bullets, though, what came out of the pistols were small capsules that burst when they hit the water’s surface. Anywhere the capsules hit began to rapidly freeze over and, after firing enough shots to empty both clips, the ground was covered in a large, semi-even sheet of ice. “There.”

While Domino holstered his guns once more, Steelbeak tossed the wrench back into the trunk of the other bird’s car and made his way back through the open gate. “Lookin’ good, Dom.” He looked over the icy ground before giving the loon a wink. “And the ice ain’t lookin’ too bad, neither.”

“Smooth.” Domino chuckled quietly, giving the taller bird one of those charming smirks that made blood rush to his face. “If the ice is anywhere near your level, then this should be fun.” He returned the wink before stepping onto their improvised ice-rink, gliding across it with ease on his bare feet.

Despite the whole thing being his idea, Steelbeak was a little more hesitant to step out onto the ice. “Just don’t laugh at me too much when I start fallin’ on my face, alright?” He took a cautious step onto the slippery surface. So far so good. Now just add the other foot and push forward to- “Woah!”

Steelbeak, predictably, ended up sliding forward a few inches before his feet started to slide out from under him and he fell forward onto the ice. While he thankfully avoided hitting his face, the impact still knocked the wind out of him and left him momentarily dazed.

“Do you really expect me NOT to laugh after that performance?” Looking up from his sprawled out position on the ice, Steelbeak saw his partner standing in front of him. The loon was smirking down at the prone rooster with an amused smirk on his face, clearly enjoying the other’s misfortune.

With a grumble Steelbeak attempted to get back up, succeeding in getting as far as his knees without falling. “Well, ex-cu-use me- we can’t all be figure skaters.” He tried to get his feet under him and managed to get a few inches off of the ground before slipping again and falling back into a seated position. “Son of a-!”

He heard laughter and looked back up to see Domino practically doubled over and holding his midsection. While Steelbeak wanted to be mad over someone laughing at his clumsiness- and he really, really, REALLY wanted to be mad about it- he found himself just staring, instead.

Sure, he’d heard Domino laugh before, particularly tonight while they’d been talking, but the other man was usually so much more..reserved about it. A quiet laugh here, a chuckle there, maybe even a few seconds of more joyous laughter once in a while if something was particularly funny.

This, though…this was different. This was more like at the restaurant right after he’d revealed the trick he’d played on Steelbeak: It was raw and open and just so genuinely joyful between the sound and the smile on his face that it warmed something in Steelbeak’s chest and made it impossible for him not to smile and laugh along with him.

It took a while for both of them to calm down, having to wipe tears of joy from their eyes once they’d settled into quiet, breathless chuckles. “Here.” Steelbeak was surprised to see a long strip of purple fabric being dangled down in front of him. He realized quickly enough that it was Domino’s scarf and that the other end was being held in its owner’s hand while he looked down at him with a calm, patient smile as he waited for him to take the other end. “Or do you prefer having frostbite on your tail feathers?”

“Nah, can’t say that I do.” With a grin on his beak, Steelbeak grabbed the free end of the scarf. “Don’t go off on me if I pull ya down too, short fuse.”

Domino rolled his eyes, but the fond smile on his face made the action ultimately pointless. “You of all people should know that I’m stronger than I look.” Well, Steelbeak definitely couldn’t argue with that one after everything he’d seen the other bird do to guys more than twice his size. With that in mind he gripped the scarf firmly in one hand and pushed off of the ice with the other, managing to get all the way up to his feet with Domino pulling the scarf taut to offer him a counterbalance. “Three seconds without falling- you’re already improving.” The darker bird joked with a smirk. Steelbeak was about to say something snappy back in return- “Why don’t you hold on to that?”

“Huh?” Steelbeak looked at his partner in confusion, then down to the scarf still being held in his hand. “Ya sure ‘bout that, stripes?”

“If you keep falling like that, you’ll break the ice.” Domino said while wrapping his end of the scarf around his left hand twice. Once he was done, he held his hand up for the other man to see. “This way we can make it last a bit longer.”

“If ya say so, Deedee.” Steelbeak shrugged and mirrored the shorter bird’s actions with his right hand, wrapping the scarf around it twice. “Just don’t go too fast, alright? Im kinda rusty.”

“Wow, I never would have guessed.” The shorter bird said sarcastically before he pushed off of the ice with one foot to glide forward.

The sudden motion startled Steelbeak a little at first, but he was silently grateful that the other man at least heeded his request to go slow. It took him a while to get used to the feeling of skating over the ice, lots of long strides back and forth before taking slow turns around the edges to go back the other way. It had been a really long time since he’d been skating- at least two or three years, if he was remembering it correctly. Every now and then he’d start to lose his balance and nearly fall, but a firm tug on his hand would always level him out before he reached the point of no return. The quick pulls and feeling of tension around his palm were more than welcome and, after a while, a slight flush bloomed across his cheeks when he realized what it reminded him of.

He snuck a glance down, his eyes trailing along the purple fabric connecting his off-white feathered hand to the black feathered one on the other end. Even with the ends of the scarf wrapped twice around each of their hands, there was still a foot or two of space between them- just enough to avoid bumping into one another if they ended up falling. Still, despite the distance between them and the lack of warmth in his palm, the pressure around his hand and the bright smile on the other man’s face left him with a feeling better than every instance of the real thing put together.

“Dang…you’re amazin’..” It wasn’t until red eyes were looking at him with a quirked brow that Steelbeak realized he’d said those words out loud. He felt his whole face go red and he looked away in embarrassment, trying to recover from his slip of the tongue. “I mean, you’re, y’know, amazin’ at this skatin’ stuff! Haha, yeah, that’s it! Dunno how ya can do it so good with no shoes on or nothin’!”

When he hazarded a glance back at his partner, he saw the aquatic fowl was looking at him with an amused smirk. “Uh huh.” He said sarcastically before guiding both of them around another turn. “If you’re really interested,” The teasing tone of his voice clearly communicated that he knew the other wasn’t actually that interested in it. “It’s mostly because of how much I’ve practiced.” They got around the turn and started skating back the other way, the loon even showing off a little by skating backwards so he could face his partner properly as they talked. “My base up north was in a colder climate and we dealt with snow and ice quite a bit throughout the year. I spent a lot of time on breaks and between missions going out for walks and skating on the lake nearby. It was refreshing after spending so long cooped up in the academy.”

Feeling that the embarrassed flush on his cheeks had calmed down significantly, Steelbeak regarded the loon curiously. “Thought ya said your academy was up north, too?”

The amused smile on Domino’s face quickly turned to a grimace at the mention of his old training camp. “Yes, but I only ever got to go outside for training exercises..the instructor kept me too busy for anything else..”

“Real stick in the mud, huh?” Now Steelbeak really WAS interested.

“More like a thorn in my side.” The grimace turned into a full-blown scowl as he spoke, still keeping an even pace across the ice. “I don’t know what I did to piss him off, but the general in charge of my class had it out for me from day one: He always singled me out for extra work to do around the base, so I never had time to study. When I started my firearms training he shot me in the leg and gave the excuse of ‘The first thing to train on is how to handle BEING shot’. Not to mention he took every opportunity to hit me from behind or pull out my feathers.” He rubbed at his head with his free hand, clearly remembering the feeling all too well. “Then, even after I passed my final exams with some of the best marks in my class, he STILL refused to give me my agent status and tried to make me an eggman.”

“Geez, what a prick.” Steelbeak was scowling now, too. “What’s the guy’s name?” He’d have to pay the jerk a visit sometime in the future, maybe see if he could pull a few strings to have him reassigned or put on a suicide mission or something..

“General Rover.” Domino huffed and shook his head. “I already-”

“Wait, wait, wait- hold it!” Steelbeak cut him off before he could continue, his earlier scowl replaced with a curious look bordering on bewilderment. “General Rover? As in General ‘Red’ Rover? Old dog, dark brown-but-kinda-red fur, some sorta Australian breed?” He moved a finger vertically over his left eye with his free hand. “Real bad scar right about here? Eye’s kinda milky lookin’ an’ don’t work that well?”

Domino looked a little baffled, but nodded nonetheless. “Yes, that’s him. Was he a friend of yours or-?”

The loon was interrupted once again, though this time it was by Steelbeak laughing so hard that he had to stop and grab the bars of the fence at the end of their path rather than turn as they had been. “You’re pullin’ my leg!” He wheezed out between his uncontrollable fits of laughter. “I-I’m dyin’! Oh-ho man, I’m dyin’ here!”

Domino eyed the taller man with a look somewhere between confusion and caution, likely thinking the other was in the process of losing his mind with how hysterical he was acting. “I think I’m missing the joke here..”

Steelbeak made an effort to calm down, he really did, but the whole thing was just so FUNNY that the best he could do was look at his confused partner with a face-splitting grin and gasp out a few words here and there between barely-restrained chuckles. “That..That’s the chump whose wallet I stole!!”

Red eyes blinked and widened in surprise. “Wait, are you serious?”

“Yeah!” Steelbeak tapped the eye that he’d indicated earlier. “I gave the old dog that scar when I was a kid! Cut ‘im an’ left my knife right in his eye- messed the old dog up for life!”

“That was YOU?” Domino’s confusion was quickly turning into amusement. “Wow…what are the chances?”

“I know, right?!” It still took a few more deep breaths for the rooster’s fit to finally stop. “O-ho man, that’s the best laugh I’ve had all night.” He used his free hand to wipe a stray tear from his eyes before looking at the darker bird with a grin. “Yeah, I think the guy’s got a problem with birds or somethin’, and what happened with me probably didn’t help any- sorry ya got the fallout from it.”

“Don’t, it wasn’t your fault he was a terrible person- I’m fairly certain he’s ALWAYS been like that.” The loon shook his head with a chuckle, a deadly smirk slipping onto his beak. “Well..I suppose I should say he was like that..”

Steelbeak smirked back at his partner, already getting an idea of what happened from that blood-thirsty gleam in the other bird’s eyes. “Ya blew up on the guy didn’t ya, short fuse?”

“Making me an eggman was the last straw.” The short-tempered bird sighed with a tone of mock sympathy. “He just pushed me one too many times. Such a tragic accident.”

“I can hear the world weepin’ over it.” Steelbeak matched the other’s mock-pity before they both broke the façade and started to chuckle and snicker again. “Wish I could’ve been there t’ see it.”

“Do you remember the man that grabbed my shoulder in the hall right after we started working together?” He continued when he received a nod from the taller bird. “Imagine that, but about fifty times worse.”

If Steelbeak had less self-control, then he would’ve trilled at the other’s words- the more sadistic side of his mind just adored what his partner was capable of (as long as he wasn’t the target of it, of course). “O-ho-ho, you DESTROYED ‘im, didn’t ya? C’mon, c’mon: I need details.”

“Well, if you insist.” Domino smirked as he began to recount the full story of how he brutally attacked his former instructor/tormentor.

Steelbeak had every intention of listening, too, more than happy to hear all the gory details…but a spec of red on the shorter bird’s shoulder distracted him. Normally he wouldn’t think anything odd about seeing red on his partner since it was one of the main accents on his usual outfit, but the loon wasn’t wearing any red tonight. What was even more out of place was the fact that it was moving like a bug, going up from his shoulder towards his head, but he couldn’t see any legs or wings moving. If anything, it looked more like a la-

“MOVE!” He acted without thinking and practically tackled the darker bird.

If what he saw didn’t kill him, his partner probably would.

<-Previous Chapter Next Chapter->

End Notes: Will I ever write a story where these two don’t end up in some kind of danger?...Probably not x3

Also, just wanted to add that I consulted @thefriendlyfour regarding the general from Domino’s training days to get a better idea of what a jerk he was and was granted free reign to come up with a name and design for him. I went with the name “Red” Rover to fit in with the children’s game theme that seems to follow any OC’s associated with Domino’s past x3 He’s an Australian Kelpie with dark brownish-red fur, contributing to his nickname.

[watolocke]

Watolock Figure Skating AU

So this all came to me at once and I wrote a lot of plot points and possible moments down. I’m not much of a fic writer so if you want to force yourself through this disconnected block of text, have fun! I sent this to the Miss Sherlock Discord but I’ll give it its moment in the Tumblr tag lmao.

Sherlock began as a rising star in the junior figure skating community when she was 15, holding an excellent track record of consecutive wins. She had excellent technical skills and creative flair. Her interaction with fans was minimal but she remained popular regardless. 

Unfortunately her teenage years appeared to be the peak of her career when her abilities began to crash after the death of her parents (and some other secret angsty backstory involving figure skating) soon after she turned 20. She began crashing in competitions and her renowned self-choreographed routines fell flat. Her heart and soul was no longer in it.

The only time she feels fully at ease on the ice in her early 20s is in private.

Wato is a hobbyist when it comes to skating. While she is fascinated by the sport she is by no means a religious competition follower and while she could probably list a handful of names she's read about, she wouldn't be quick to recognise. Admittedly she is a bit of nerd surrounding the physics of figure skating jumps.

She uncovered years old tape recordings of the Olympics in her parents' attic and pored over the figure skating footage in her free time while getting through high school. (I honestly just needed an excuse for her not to be a Figure Skating Fangirl who would know Sherlock immediately).

She continues to practise into her college years when she has short breaks between working for her medical degree. It's always in public rinks and it is never more than a hobby.

Kimie Hatano is the rink owner. Gentaro Reimon is Sherlock's coach. Tatsuya Shibata is a pairs skater.#

Their first encounter is at the end of Sherlock's private rink time. She begins to unlace at the back to avoid being rudely talked to or god forbid, asked a question.

Enter the public. Among the groups of friends and couples, a shorter frantic woman stumbles in. She's hefting an assortment of bags and dressed terribly in Sherlock's opinion. Sherlock watches her hastily tie her laces connected to her ratty old skates and push in earphones before she steps onto the ice amidst the rush. For some unknown reason she seems to stand out despite the lacklustre attire. Her expression is just so full of will and determination.

She is soon gliding effortlessly and stepping rhymically across the ice the best she can amidst the admittedly sparse public. There are stammers and blips occasionally and it would be a lie if Sherlock didn't admit one or two falls escaped the woman. It wasn't completely fluent but the beauty and luminescence of the her character easily erased the most minor of errors.

She begins to slide into more advanced step sequences before launching into a series of single jumps. Sherlock hadn't been aware, hadn't even considered the thought, that what she'd seen had simply been a warmup for this assumed amateur. She throws herself without almost any hesitation, catching herself when she underestimates a landing. She continues, never letting the proud glow leave her eyes.

There's a moment where she seems to *prepare* herself, remaining motionless on the ice and taking a breath before she sets off again. Moving with unexpected strength and a spark in her eye. Jump. Sherlock holds her own breath as she sees this woman take off with the clear ambition of a toe loop. One revolution. Two. Three. Landing. Slicing into the ice on the right back outside edge, she lands with only a slight wobble. An almost flawless triple toe. Sherlock is enraptured. Of course, she can do such moves in her sleep but, here she is... Awestruck.

Frozen in place, Sherlock doesn't appear to notice the glee and surprise on the woman's face as she pushes herself to the exit, breathing heavily and reaching for a discarded bottle of water by her bag.

Sherlock practically falls out of her seat in an attempt to catch the woman during her break. Sherlock knows how much she herself despises being interrupted. She fills with a strange emotion as she approaches slowly in the building afternoon crowds. Nerves? She has not been noticed. She could still turn away. No, not Sara Shelly Futaba! She's a figure skating prodigy... with nerves of steel! And really she should take note of potential competition that could jeopardize her consistent wins.

Sherlock: Who's your coach?

Wato, pulling out her earphones: Eh? Sorry?

Sherlock: Do you have a coach?

Wato, looking bemused.

Sherlock, taking in Wato's scuffed and worn skates and attire: No! Of course you don't. What am I thinking! 

Wato, quickly growing angry and scoffing in disbelief.

Sherlock, failing lamely: No no... No! Sorry I just... Uh, what's your name? 

Wato: Tachibana... [Sherlock is clearly waiting for her to elaborate] Wato.

Sherlock: [to herself] Tachibana Wato... Listen- [cut off by phone buzzing, glances away] Ugh..! Listen- [Wato has disappeared; initiate frustrated Sherlock stomps and hair mussing]

Sherlock rushes out instantly, knowing she has no time to hunt down this newly named mystery girl without incurring the wrath of her ballet instructor. She spends the whole lesson a little out of focus and enamoured by Wato. It certainly doesn't go unnoticed. She's endlessly teased by Shibata on the sidelines as her (usually flawless) form is corrected. Sherlock obviously gives him a murderous look and already has 4 possible scenarios in which she can end his career.

The next time she's at the rink, she casually attempts to ask around about a Wato Tachibana. Yet we all know that Sherlock lacks any semblance of discreetness and of course Kimie Hatano, rink owner and Sherlock's designated moral support, knows the "sweet girl who has been showing up for about a week now and oh! She is so lovely, she'd probably even like you, Sherlock! Whoops, I didn't mean that..! Anyway, since you like her so much I'll introduce you both!". Cue Sherlock indignantly denying any interest but not denying the offer.

Mrs Hatano is endlessly encouraging Sherlock to speak to Wato but let's face it... She's a hopeless lesbian. 

Wato has just returned from a gap year in Syria she took in pursuit of her dream as a doctor. She was doing training as a nurse and was further encouraged to chase a higher medical career. Now in the summer building up to her final year in university before she enters medical school she is taking her free time to pursue an outside hobby she enjoys to lessen the pressure of such a demanding course.

She becomes close friends with Mrs Hatano during her visits and praises Wato each time she sees her but Wato is much too humble and even unaware to admit she's any good. Mrs Hatano remarks on her days as an ice dancer and all the many incredible men and women she met (in more ways than one). Wato laughs along at her stories that would be unbelievable if they weren't coming from her lips. Sherlock is often seen moping in the sidelines lamenting her inability to approach Wato after their awkward first encounter.

After some long, hard talks with Mrs Hatano Wato decides that she can afford to fish out money for a few lessons, purely to occupy her summer *obviously*. Sherlock, who is usually opposed to assisting any beginner's lessons jumps at the chance when Mrs Hatano mentions Wato. 

However, the instructor insists she just show what she can do first lesson while Sherlock is lurking in the back of the rink seating. Wato gets off to a shaky start due to her nerves but is soon smoothly gliding across the ice and doing moves, slowly increasing in difficulty. Amid this she is periodically throwing out single and double jumps. Sherlock is convinced she needs to speak to this girl and maybe advise her on how to improve her technique. Sherlock can already see the magic if Wato were to improve her rotations and unstable landings. Although these things never come out quite as smoothly she skates...

So unfortunately the first time they speak sherlock unintentionally comes off as pretentious and the two get into some verbal combat despite being interested in each other.

Kento definitely approaches Sherlock later and she pouts and mopes about how badly she handled that situation but that Wato was *totally* in the wrong too..!

Sherlock thought she was being constructive when advising wato on her technique but she was just pointing out everything wrong. She didn't have time to get to the positives before Wato was offended and began the verbal warfare.

They also both make the mistake of going to Mrs Hatano, wondering how they could apologise. Mrs Hatano, of course, has a genius idea: Coffee. However, when both women arrive and suddenly there's four coffees between the two of them. There's a lot of uncomfortable fumbling and light blushes as they talk over each other attempting to defend themselves. Sherlock tries to act cold and unaffected but they're eventually both giggling. 

Conversation is still awkward as they both lace up before Wato's first proper lesson but Sherlock lightly nudges Wato before shoving a piece of chocolate in her hand. Before Wato can reply Sherlock has turned away, shoved on her skate guards and marched off. And lucky she did because she may have melted if she saw the soft smile Wato had on her face.

Next thing you know Sherlock is pretending nothing happened and patiently leading Wato in a beginner's class. Sherlock notoriously doesn't have the patience for *anyone*. Period. On the side we have a slightly stunned Mrs Hatano. Sherlock is so caught up in explaining successful landing technique in detail that she doesn't even notice them. Shibata films it as "blackmail material" but Sherlock steals his phone. Before deleting the video she sends it to herself... because Wato looks so cute in it but she'll never let anyone in on that.

As first professional lessons usually go, Wato falls over an unimaginable amount of times by over-rotating on her jumps and Sherlock rushes over each time to check that she's alright.

Wato, grinning: You know I'm getting a medical degree, right?

Sherlock, holding the sides of her face gazing very intently at Wato's pupils: You can't determine your own concussion!

They probably look in each other's eyes for a few moments too long before clearing their throats and getting back to practice.

Sherlock leads Wato through the appropriate motions by lightly placing her hands on Wato's hips and waist and demonstrating the leg and arm movements for better balance. It's all in the name of sport yet it ends up achingly intimate.

By the end they are both glowing and Wato is gazing up as Sherlock rambles about everything and nothing all at once and she can't take her eyes off her. They end up beside each other once again, yanking off their skates and mindlessly discussing breathtaking routines from *decades* ago because of course Sherlock has endless knowledge on all her interests. They end up sat there late into the afternoon as the public passes in front of them and Mrs Hatano brings them drinks and snacks. 

Wato talks about her school life and how exhausting it can be but how much she adores it. Sherlock laughs at her affably for not following modern skating competitions. Wato jokes that Sherlock isn't as popular as she claims she is. Conversation is cut short when Wato cheekily requests to see one of Sherlock's apparently *incredible* routines. Sherlock stalks off with a less than friendly farewell and Wato has to use all her energy not to chase after this woman she's barely known a day.

Sat speechless she confides in Mrs Hatano who halfheartedly mentions Sherlock's "moods", although it seemed like more than a mood to Wato.

They each spend that night pondering the fun they had and just how much they want to see and speak to each other again.

The next time that they meet Sherlock stomps up to Wato with a phone number and a proposition. The number is to organise additional practises with Sherlock who gets extra rink access because "it's practical, Wato! Don't be dense!" The proposition is an invitation to witness one of Sherlock's routines privately during one of the previously mentioned additional practises. Sherlock requests that she set the date for it but Wato quickly agrees.

It takes a week more of practises in the presence of Mrs Hatano and various instructors before Sherlock finally approaches Wato to make good on her offer that night.

When Wato enters the rink it is the quietest she's ever seen it. She doesn't even see Mrs Hatano shuffling about. Admittedly it is quite late in the evening on a Sunday. She calls out, spotlights flash and as she blinks Sherlock appears from the other side of the rink all booted up with a long, *extremely fashionable* coat draped around her. Wato laughs loudly at her dramatics and Sherlock badly covers a smile as she skates to the centre of the ice.

Wato shades her eyes from the lights as she tries to see who's in the tech booth although she's almost certain she already knows. She hears a  yell of "catch!" before feeling the impact of a coat on her face. Before she can protest Sherlock has assumed her opening position and she is... *dazzling*. Her outfit is delicately sequined and elegant.

The music sets off at a somber pace and Sherlock possesses all the majesty and grace of a prima ballerina. The pace picks up and though she feels slightly wobbly in front of this new audience she slices through the air, elevating herself half a metre off the ice and landing with perfect balance.

Sherlock does the most impossible choreography and Wato is *beyond* amazed. She is void of speech or even breath to fully convey the beauty of what she'd just seen.

Sherlock bows deeply after showcasing one of her early successful routines and twirls, waving timidly to the audience of one.

As Sherlock begins to exit the ice Wato rushes over and grabs her arm as she sings her praises. Sherlock goes to shake Wato's arm off in habit but is stuck halfway through putting on her skate guards by Wato's fascinated expression and sparkling eyes.

Since this is just a very long sneak peak of my ideas... I’ll stop here. Feel free to send me asks with your thoughts and questions about this AU though. I am very invested in it.

[fantasysuiteleague]

Week 4: Ex Mates and Shitty Dates

We annoyingly pick back up at the end of the pool party to see that the girls have not yet realized they are stuck in a shitty West World loop where they sit around and complain about Corinne, assuming Nick is “better than this,” without yet realizing that he doesn’t actually care about any of them and their feelings do not matter. A few feet away Nick is being scolded by Vanessa, which obviously scares him as he more or less begs her to “be patient” while he continues to make a fool out of himself and the rest of the women.  Corinne is sleeping off-camera, uninterested in Nick’s transparent speech about how he appreciates everyone’s *openness* yet, somehow, still feels like he’s “making the right decisions.” 

Jasmine provides a flabbergasted in-camera realization that Corinne doesn’t even have a rose and yet is so confident in her *connection* with Nick that she has yet again opted-out of participating. Eventually Taylor and Sarah take it upon themselves to let Corinne know that her shit “hasn’t looked the best,” which is like telling Trump that he’s “sort of unpopular.” After Sarah tells Corinne that she needs to pull it together because she’s embarrassing her parents and coming off super entitled, Corinne offers up the alternative fact that she is not privileged.

After this unsurprisingly ineffective *confrontation,* Corinne goes on to “wonder” why Sarah and Taylor are so obsessed with her. And by “wonder,” I mean very knowingly point out that, much like our old pal Chad, she has taken up an enormous amount of real estate in everyone’s brain, and is there to stay whether they like it or not. She’s the only thing that the girls are talking about; she’s getting the most attention from me and everyone else watching; even Chris Harrison pulls Nick aside before the rose ceremony to talk about her. But then again, this was her plan the entire time. And it’s one we’ve seen before from the OG villain Courtney Robertson. Get on the show and be obnoxiously sexual with the Bachelor while simultaneously being insensitive, irrational and offensive to the girls, and then start saying ridiculous shit like “I love the taste of victory” or “we’re fighting for a fiancé, not a pickle.” And why not take this route (besides all the obvious reasons like, for example, your future) when it leads to maximum screen time and your name in lights for a few extra minutes?

Home Sweet Home

“Get ready to travel around the world! Starting with .... Milwaukee, Wisconsin!!” While the girls feign excitement over flying from California to Wisconsin, we get a head with Nick and meet up with his parents in a quaint little diner in Waukesha, Wisconsin. Within the first 23 seconds of being on-screen (yes, I counted), Nick’s mom is crying. I mean, I would be too if this were my son, but come ON lady do you not have any other tricks in those bags under your eyes? As it turns out, no, she does not. Nick spends his time with his weepy mother and beta father explaining that he has finally lowered his guard and thinks he can find love this time. Now if you’re me you might have stopped and said “wait, what guard?!” before remembering the guard that kept him from going on this show and trying to propose to someone not once, but twice. Yeah, that “guard.”

Giggles and Girlfriends

After meeting up with the girls in the park, Nick whisks Danielle L. away for a date consisting of walking around town like “normal people.” As this date goes on and they force awkward conversations about nothing, I start to notice that Danielle L. giggles literally every time she opens her mouth to speak. I want to give her the benefit of the doubt and say she’s just nervous, but I’m a cynical asshole, so I’m pretty sure she just doesn’t have much of a personality and it’s the only way she knows how to feign interest. At one point when they’re strolling down the street they walk past a cafe and just so happen to run into one of Nick’s ex-girlfriends whom he dated some undisclosed amount of time ago. Interestingly enough, I know someone who indirectly knows this girl. Turns out this girl hasn’t spoken to Nick for over 10 years and she is happily married with two kids. One day she got a call from the producers who offered her cash to come on the show and “surprise” Nick in this scene. They told her what to say about Nick, she was handed her money, and went on her merry way.

Later that night Danielle continues to giggle while just barely keeping her nipples in her dress. She gives the whole my-parents-got-divorced-so-I’m-more-mature-than-most-24-year-olds speech, and tries to spin her lack of knowledge about Nick as wanting to be open-minded. It’s all pretty transparent, seeing as she was 100% recruited to be on this show and has no intention of marrying Nick. Then again, does anyone? And if so, we should probably get them some help.

America’s Dairyland

Obviously all of the girls would rather be in a spa eating a taco, Corinne, but you can’t get to Bachelor in Paradise without going on at least 1-2 terrible group dates.  So even though Nick has clearly never been to a farm, he and the girls get to do some farm chores because Wisconsin is famous for cheese and this was the most creative the writers could get. Even more creative is the main storyline for this group date: Corinne and her unwillingness to do any chores. We get a little comical relief at the expense of Jaimi’s sexuality when Nick can’t manage to work the teat so Jaimi the resident bisexual has to come in and show him how its done, but even this feels lazy. After we’re treated to extensive footage of the girls shoveling cow shit, Corinne decides to take a seat away from the action because her fingers hurt....

Later that night, Astrid starts to gain sentience as she asks “how many more group conversations are we going to have about Corinne?” finally realizing they are all stuck in a loop and that maybe, just maybe, none of this matters. As the girls continue on their loop, Corinne listens from just outside the room and decides its time to take action. She starts by recycling an old Bachelor gag by comparing herself to a vegetable and then aggressively grabs her chest, demanding to know if THIS behavior is immature. And in this moment, she pushes it too far. I’m not laughing anymore because this is tired and transparent, and I feel insulted that she (and the producers) think that this dog and pony show is entertaining. I mean, yes, it’s entertaining but COME ON. It’s been done before. 

With some encouragement from the producers, Corinne decides to present herself to the group for a hearing on the reality of her immaturity. Unfortunately, Sarah is the senator chose to question Corinne’s intentions for the group and she blows it. Instead of attacking Corinne’s disingenuously shitty character, she decides to focus on Corinne’s rose ceremony nap. Sensing weakness, Corinne pounces and goes on and on about how SORRY she is for taking a nap, knowing full well that the girls’ issues are larger than her one nap. The only person we see really getting under Corinne’s skin is Kristina, the Russian spy who ultimately wins the night. Earlier Kristina stole Nick first and had a great chat about how she wants to tell him all about her past as a Russian oligarch’s daughter who almost died in a bus crash but then was rendered blind until she was pistol whipped by her captive 20 years later, but doesn’t ever seem to have much time with him because he’s dating 25 other women. Feeling invigorated by Nick telling her that he loves her “zest for life,” Kristina hits Corinne with a “right reasons” accusation and barely lets Corinne get a word in as she brushes off her false claim of having a “medical condition” that kept her from participating in the rose ceremony. After confusing Corinne with her broken English and calling her out for lying about a panic attack, Corinne gives up and walks away. Kristina ends up getting the group date rose for the night, putting the cherry on top of the first successful Corinne Confrontation of the season.

That’s So Raven

Raven drew the short straw this week by getting the “realistic and meaningful” date with Nick which includes going to Bella’s soccer game with Nick and his parents. Unsubscribe. Having played soccer all my life, there is nothing worse than watching young girls play the sport. Nick’s mom shockingly manages to make it through her 1 minute of screen time without crying. After the soccer game, Bella and the gang opt-out of showering and instead go to the local indoor skating rink where Nick shows off his super cool skating moves and makes out with Raven in front of his parents and sister. Later that night Raven tells Nick a tale as old as time about this one time she caught her boyfriend cheating on her. But it’s not your average I-walked-in-on-him story. Instead, she purportedly got a call from a friend who said that some girl was about to fuck her boyfriend, prompting her to get in her car and drive to Arkansas to confront him. When she gets there, the bedroom door is obviously locked (even though she was out of town so he had nothing to hide?) so she KICKS IT OPEN to see her boyfriend thrusting into a stranger’s vagina. 

She proceeds to launch herself at them, scratching her boyfriend and beating him over the head with a shoe. The best part about this entire story is the low key demeanor in which she tells it -- as if all of this is normal everyday life and not something resembling a scene from Jerry Springer. 

Roses are Rude

Despite having a rose, Danielle L. breaks the cardinal rule of cocktail parties and steals Nick away to have a one-sided nonsensical conversation about how she’s just gonna “go for it” and “put herself out there.” This awkward conversation is made even more awkward by resident know-it-all Taylor who interrupts them by just standing next to the bench and not saying anything. While Taylor and other girls get their time with Nick, Corinne is busy inhaling apps and talking to Josephine with her mouth full about how gross Taylor is...lol. Josephine, having clearly figured out that the best way to get screen time is to be the Karen Smith to Corinne’s Regina George, agrees with Corinne and points out that everyone has been talking about Corinne behind her back...except her. 

After bulking up, Corinne decides she’s not going to be fake so grabs Taylor by the hand like they’re pals and leads her outside to confront her about how "disgusting” Taylor’s behavior towards her has been. Taylor one again does an incredibly good job of calmly trying to explain to Corinne why she’s terrible, but because Corinne is a child, she locks on to one word--intelligent--and starting shouting that she’s not stupid. Well, it’s pretty clear that in a lot of ways Corinne is a stupid little girl who has no business “running” a multi-million dollar company or marrying a 36-year-old, but I also recognize that she set this up herself to guarantee more screen time, so it’s not completely accurate to call her unintelligent. Taylor hasn’t yet figured out that you can’t rationalize with an irrational person, and so we’re left with a “to be continued” even though, thanks to past seasons and the guarantee that Nick will never do the right thing, we know exactly how this will end.

Did you notice . . .

We are not impressed by your use of the word “plethora,” Taylor.

Nick definitely gets his limp dick from his dad.

“Everything is good now and everything is great in the world.” Lol just wait until November, Raven. 

I find it incredibly hard to believe that Danielle L. didn’t have her first kiss until she was 17. I had an afro 1/2 of my childhood and still was able to find a boy to make out with in 5th grade. Sure, he ended up becoming a druggie, dropping out of high school, and allegedly having an affair with my old drama teacher (who later got fired for embezzling school funds), but that’s not the point.

Raven shows up to the date with noticeably longer hair than she’s had at any point in the season. If you’re going to rock some wack extensions, you gotta rock them the whole time girl.

Alexis’s biggest fears are Nicolas Cage and aliens. Same, tbh. It’s pretty clear that Alexis is sticking around because she’s hilarious and easy to talk to. She really deserves more screen time.

I’m just going to leave THIS right here .... you’re welcome.

Minority Report: I think we’ve set a record for number of black girls (3) to make it past week 4!! I’m not sure how much longer we have Jasmine or Jamimi, but I’m still holding out hope that Rachel is able to overcome her *disability* of being a black girl on the Bachelor and make it to the top 4.