#How many times am I gonna write about this?

[marmotsomsierost]

"Do you know," she says conversationally, her voice slightly rough from shouting, "what the word for cleric in the language of my birth translates to?" She lowers Ravnda's body to the ground, drawing the soft wool snood from beneath her cuirass. The subtle gradient of deep blue to sunrise-lilac is marred by bloodstains of varying ages, but it's the warmth she's looking for. The hot summer day is already feeling cooler, despite the sun still hanging high in the sky, the lack of wind to stir the air, the weight of humidity lying sticky on skin. She stands, drawing the snood over her head and watching as the hunter in the distance tracks her with his bow. He's the only one not jeering and catcalling with the rest. He has an arrow at the ready, but not drawn; his scouts are scattered in a rough arc behind him. They're also the only ones doing any kind of rough post-battle triage rather than looting the dead and dying alike. There's even a few green-gold roses visible among those receiving medical care, so perhaps there's still something here worth saving. There's a large raven resting unnaturally still on the edge of her vision. She turns to it, glancing briefly at and then away. "You should leave," she tells it, then drops her voice to a whisper as she feels the harmonics start to claw their way up her throat. "Head to the water." She's only partly successful at shoving back the harmony; she watches ruefully as the old half-ogre full-on throws the man she'd been treating over her shoulder, picking another two up by their baldrics and walking at an unhurried but still ground-eating pace away to the northeast. That's not going to be subtle at all.

It's not. The discordant flurry of activity is going to draw the attention of the remaining leaders if she doesn't keep their focus. Pav- well, what is left of Pav, which isn't much- is too far away and in the wrong direction if she wants to distract from the retreating scouts, so she instead reaches for her shoulder, tearing the brooch free and swirling her capelet off. The shot silk flashes bruise-purple and blood-red as it flutters to the ground. Eivind is a bit farther to the west, and she's not sure if they'll let her get that far by continuing to gloat or if they'll tire of it and resume their attack, but she wants both the warm fleece-lined cape he carried and more time for the noncombatants to get away. He's fully dead now, no longer in the half-stasis he's fallen into after taking a killing blow meant for Ravnda and Killick. She could...no. They'd been quite clear after she'd had to explain why their payment for their extremely expensive passage on the courier ship had been abruptly and vehemently refused.

"Well?!" The annoyed shout pulls her from her reverie and for a moment she pauses. it would have been a blink in confusion, but it's too late for that now. Right. She'd asked a question at the start of all this. The end of all this? Time is getting too complicated already.

"No guesses?" She calls back, getting an uncreative series of curses in response. "Ah, it's fine, I have a different question for you first." Her fingers come away bloody after clasping the cloak across her chest. The edge of the cloak must have dragged along the terrible rend in Eivind's flank caused by that disintegrate spell- the magic resistance of a centaur only goes so far when it comes to killing spells. This is what she gets for trying something new. If he'd been suspicious and self-serving, the ray would have hit her instead, and he'd be able to make that fancy cider to cure the headache she would have gotten. Now she has an entirely different, much more frustrating headache to deal with.

"Did you hear her, at the end?" She keeps her gaze focused on her hands, wiping them clean; her feet, picking a circuitous path to where Killick had fallen, crushed beneath the abnormally large manticore they had brought down with their last, desperate surge of magic. She's sacrificed her eyes and ears and sense of touch to keep her voice harmonic-free; it's a struggle to see only what she's supposed to, to hear only what's around her. The enveloping softness of Eivind's cloak helps mute everything down to this world. Killick won't have much of use to her, but she's selfish. She's left her silk and taken Ravnda's snood and Eivind's cloak and the memory of Pav's last Song, and she'll take what Killick has to give as well.

"Were you close enough," she repeats, slightly louder this time, "to hear her last words?" More jeering, more crude jokes and promised threats are all that she gets in response. "Oh, come, you made such a grand deal of it, separating us and whittling us down to gloat, surely you were." Ah, there's Killick's cord bracelet, that will do. Transferring it onto her wrist takes only a moment, though if anyone in sight were alive to witness, the fluid motion going liquid-smooth with boiling colors and darkened light would make it a sight to Witness indeed.

"She said you were finished," he gloats as she finishes securing the bracelet. She hums, shaking her head. It's grown quite cool, the sun still high in the sky but now the shadows are weak, pallid things that waver along the edges, seeping into bone and memory, and the humidity now drawing away, leaving skin and lips feeling cracked and dry. It's almost time. She changes direction for the last time, moving directly towards her enemy.

"No," it hurts to speak clearly in one voice again, but she focuses through it to continue. "She told me you could not be allowed to win. She told me that i had to stop you. To do whatever it takes, no matter the cost." Movement draws her attention away, but it's just the paladin's squire bolting for the trees in a panicked sightless sprint. She Watches her for a long short frozen second before releasing her gaze. She's just a kid.

"My earlier question, though- do you know what Cleric means in the tongues of my people? No?" She steps forward twice, the distance between them stretching like taffy before snapping into place just outside arm's reach. "Cleric." The harmony wants to take her voice, begging to be called forward with little clawed feet, and this time she welcomes it. "One who Sees." She reaches out a hand, her arms by her side drawing the sword she never draws, stretching and wavering between the two as she presses his chin up. She's holding on by the threads of Killick's cord and Eivind's cloak and Pav's last Song and Ravnda's snood, every part of her that isn't touched by them flickering and wavering through the memories and bones of Being, and even though they cannot See, they can feel how the air burns with cold and the weight of the sun lays heavy in the shadows, light in the dark, hungry and curious like a hunting cat.

"it's her gift for you," she saysroarswhisperscroons, holding his head in place, watching his gaze flutter around like a flame-burnt moth, graciously allowing him to give in, to look at her of his own will. He tires quickly. His eyes are a warm, welcoming shade of honey-brown in the instant they look directly at her, and they sing in terror as they bleed into the emptiness at the heart of her. The last part of her, the memory of a life worn comfortable and smooth, might hope that the feel of Killick's cord and Eivind's cloak and Pav's last Song... and not the snood, the memory can finally admit, but the scent lingering on it, the gentle laughter caught inside the warp and weft: that-which-was-she might hope that they tether well enough to limit this devouring emptiness to the area of their last stand.

It's been so long and no time at all and always and never and will be and has been, and it is a bittersweet relief to not have to Be anymore.

to See is enough.

You were the healer—the last light of your party. But now your final ally dies in your arms, and there’s no one left to save. The enemy jeers, calling you useless. You look up, eyes hollow and black. The light is gone. The Void answers. You're no longer a cleric. You're something far worse.

[angelsuecult]

perfect places | s. crosby

warnings: none? maybe some language

summary: Sidney ends up helping you through the overwhelming world that is hockey gear what was once a shopping trip for your daughter leaves you with something more.

request: Would you be able to write a Sidney Crosby x mom!reader story? Like how she has a kid that maybe is on a little league hockey team and the Penguins go to like a practice or something to help out. Or maybe she out shopping for hockey gear for her kid because they want to do hockey and need the gear? She could maybe looking at equipment and looks a little lost and her comes over and helps.

word count: 9.3k

a/n: back with another for you guys! i hope you enjoy it and once again original requester please don't hesitate to reach out if you hate it or anything! requests remain open and i'm hoping to get a few more out this week!

—

You woke up to tiny feet climbing onto your bed. Not just climbing—launching, full-body flopping, elbow-first into your ribs like it was a wrestling match and she had a score to settle. You’d meant to wake up before her today, but apparently five-year-olds don’t care about alarms, or bones, or sleep-deprived parents.

“Mom,” she whispered, even though she was nose-to-nose with you. “Mommy. You awake?”

“I am now,” you groaned, half-laughing as you peeled one eye open. Her little curls were wild and pointing in five directions, cheeks flushed from sleep, a faint pillow line creasing one of them. She looked like a cartoon character and an angel at the same time.

“I had a dream I scored five goals.”

You blinked at her. “Oh yeah?”

“Yup. And they gave me a trophy and then—then everyone chanted my name. And guess what?”

“What?”

“They were chanting ‘the pink rocket.’”

You blinked again, slower this time. “The pink rocket?”

She nodded, dead serious. “That’s my hockey name.”

“Well,” you said, shifting to sit up and gather her into your lap, “I don’t know how many pink things they make for hockey but I guess we’re about to find out, huh?”

She gasped. “You’re going today? To get my stuff?”

You kissed her cheek, already halfway dragging both of you out from under the covers. “Yup. After I drop you off. I’ll go right after.”

She cheered and clapped, and then ran full-speed out of the bedroom with a yell of, “I gotta find my pink water bottle! I need it if I’m gonna be a rocket!”

Your apartment was small but cozy, lived-in. Art made of crayon and washable markers adorned the fridge, and a pair of tiny sneakers were tucked sideways by the door no matter how many times you straightened them. You got her dressed while she told you all about what a good hockey player does—“they skate fast and they don’t fall unless they do it on purpose”—and you helped tame her curls into two pigtails.

The morning ended up a mess of cereal crumbs, mismatched socks, and one very determined five-year-old girl who had insisted on packing her own backpack. You didn’t have the heart to repack it after she proudly zipped it up and hugged it to her chest like a treasure chest full of secrets—though you’d caught a glimpse of a doll leg, a half-used glue stick, and what looked suspiciously like the lid to your coffee thermos.

The car ride to school was full of questions you only half-knew how to answer.

“Do you think I’ll need a helmet? What if it has a visor like the cool ones? Can I pick pink tape for the stick? Do you know how to tie skates? Do you think I’ll be able to do the spinny move like the girl in the video?”

You answered what you could. 

Once you parked outside her school, she kicked her feet impatiently in the backseat while you unbuckled her. The air still had that early fall bite to it—sunny but not warm, brisk enough that you zipped your jacket up halfway as you lifted her from her booster seat. She was a little ball of energy this morning, bouncing as her sneakers hit the sidewalk, her little hand grabbing yours like always, sticky from syrup and too-warm from excitement.

“Okay, let’s go, let’s go,” she said, hopping down. You held her hand all the way up the sidewalk, her backpack bouncing behind her.

At the doors, she turned to you suddenly, eyes wide and hopeful.

“Don’t forget my hockey stuff!”

You cupped her cheeks. “I won’t, baby. I’m going straight to the store after this, I promise.”

Her whole face lit up like you'd just told her she could have candy for dinner. “You’re gonna go right now?”

“Mm-hmm. As soon as you go inside.”

“Look for pink things!” she reminded you. “Pink helmet. Pink gloves. And if they don’t have pink, purple is okay. So you can see me when I skate. ‘S important”

“Pink. Purple. Got it. Anything else?”

She thought hard. “Something that makes me go zoom.”

You smiled. “I’ll see what I can do.”

You bent down and kissed her forehead, then her cheek, then her nose, and she giggled so hard she snorted. Then she hugged you like she always did—tight and with her whole tiny body, fists balled in your jacket.

“Bye, Mommy. Love you big like the whole sky.”

Your chest ached in that soft, warm way. “I love you even bigger lovebug.”

She let go and ran into her classroom, waving once over her shoulder before disappearing into the crowd of other small kids with big dreams.

You were about to turn when a familiar voice called, “Morning!”

You looked up to see Miss Lillian, the teacher’s aide, walking toward you. She was in her usual bright-colored sweater and skirt combo, clipboard in hand, warm eyes squinting in the sunlight.

“Hey, good morning,” you said, smiling.

“I just had to catch you,” she said, pausing at your side. “Your daughter has not stopped talking about hockey since yesterday. I think we’ve heard every version of her ‘pink rocket’ speech. Twice.”

You groaned playfully. “Oh no. She’s gotten to you too.”

“Oh, it’s adorable,” Lillian laughed. “She told Mr. Peters that she’s gonna be the best skater—even though she’s never been on the ice. She said it with her chest. Like a tiny little boss.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “Yeah, she’s got that confidence thing down.”

“I wish I had half of it. But really—she’s just so excited. It’s really sweet to see. And you know,” Lillian nudged your arm gently, “not every parent supports that kind of dream. It’s amazing that you’re doing this with her.”

That made you pause.

“I mean… I don’t know what I’m doing,” you admitted. “I’ve never even watched a full game of hockey. But she lit up when she saw those kids playing on the street. Then she tried it herself and came home covered in bruises but still smiling. And then she said ice hockey would be safer,” you added, rolling your eyes, “which I’m pretty sure is a lie.”

Lillian laughed. “That’s some logic, huh?”

“I guess I figured, if it makes her this happy…” You trailed off. “Well, we’ll try it. If it’s not for her, we’ll sell the gear or donate it.”

“I think you’re doing great,” Lillian said. “She talks about you all the time, by the way. Always telling the class how her mom can do anything. That you’re like a superhero.”

That gave you pause in a way nothing else had.

You cleared your throat and smiled. “Well. Don’t tell her I can’t tie skates.”

“Your secret’s safe with me.”

The two of you said goodbye, and you headed back to your car, heart fuller than it had been twenty minutes ago. The day was just starting, and already you felt like you’d run an emotional marathon. Now, you just had to survive your trip to the hockey store without looking like a complete idiot.

You climbed into the car and started the engine, your mental list already forming—helmet, stick, gloves... was there padding? Skates, obviously. Was there a difference between practice gear and game gear? Did five-year-olds even have games?

After drop-off and a fresh wave of mom-guilt turned motivation, you sat in the driver’s seat of your SUV and Googled: hockey gear for five-year-old Pittsburgh. You stared at the results, rubbed your forehead, and tapped the one that had the most stars and looked the least intimidating.

It was barely 9 a.m. when you pulled into the outdoor shopping complex, the kind of place with cobblestone walkways, faux streetlamps, and fountains that tried to make you forget you were in a strip mall. It was a little too early for it to be crowded yet, and the parking lot was mostly empty except for a few other weekday wanderers—retirees, moms with strollers, maybe someone ducking out of work. When you pulled in, wedging yourself between a massive black pickup truck and what looked like a teenage boy’s first car—dented, bumper stickered, windows covered in sports decals. 

You killed the engine and sat back for a second, staring out the windshield like maybe someone was going to pop out and tell you exactly what kind of skates you needed to buy for a five-year-old who claimed her destiny was to be the pink rocket.

But no one came. Just the pigeons. One strutted past the front of your car like he owned the place.

You stepped out into the cool morning air, shouldered your bag, and told yourself: You’ve done scarier things. Like kindergarten registration. And that one ER visit when she swallowed a Barbie shoe.

Pretzel first.

The pretzel stand was exactly where you remembered it, sandwiched between the upscale candle store and a clothing store that made too-expensive clothes. You ordered a hot soft pretzel with extra salt and a small lemonade, then stood off to the side of the kiosk while you ate, people-watching like it was a competitive sport.

Then you wandered for a bit, peeking into a few small shops near the entrance. A kids’ boutique caught your eye—wall-to-wall sports-themed onesies and toddler sweatpants. You picked up a pair of fuzzy black-and-gold leggings with tiny hockey sticks on them and held them up to your chest with a grin.

“She’d love these,” you murmured aloud, imagining her in them with her pink boots and that crooked little smile she gave when she felt cute.

You took your time. That was part of the luxury of the day: no schedule, no appointments, no other human being asking you to wipe something sticky. Just this.

“Okay,” you said out loud as you stepped back onto the walkway and stared down the main stretch of stores. “Let’s do this.”

The gear shop was tucked at the end of the row, right before a smoothie place. It didn’t look intimidating from the outside—just a wide front with a logo in clean, white lettering. But the second you stepped inside, it was clear: this place meant business.

You gave yourself a pep talk as you zipped your jacket higher. You’re a mom. You birthed a whole child. You’ve survived teething. You can survive shopping for hockey gear.

It was big. Bigger than you expected. Ceiling fans turned slowly above rows of merchandise. Hockey sticks were stacked upright like rows of bamboo, lining one side of the shop. Helmets, skates, and pads were displayed like military gear. You let your eyes drift over the walls, which were covered in team memorabilia. Penguins jerseys in every variation, from current players to legends. You recognized Crosby’s #87 and Malkin’s #71 without even needing to check the names. Your kid had already pointed them out on YouTube clips. There was a whole display in the corner dedicated to Mario Lemieux, complete with a signed photo and a stick in a glass case.

You made a noise in your throat. “Okay… wow.”

There were two adults behind the front counter, both looking mid-thirties—one was chatting with the other, who was scrolling something on a tablet. Nearby, two teenagers stood kind of awkwardly by a wall of gloves and elbow pads, looking like they didn’t quite know what to do with themselves.

First, you took a lap around the store. Not straight to the gear. That felt too overwhelming. Instead, you let yourself drift through the aisles, fingers brushing along soft sweatshirts and team scarves, scanning everything slowly. A few shoppers milled around, mostly adults—probably parents or weekend league players. A couple of them wore Penguins jackets like they were uniforms, heads down, hyper-focused.

You wandered through the adult section, noting sizes and prices, grateful you weren’t here for full pads or whatever gear adult men needed. Some of the gloves looked like medieval armor.

You passed the stick wall—intimidating and enormous—and casually avoided the skates. Not yet. Not today. You weren’t emotionally stable enough for that.

Okay. Helmet, skates, pads... stick. Gloves? Socks? What the hell do kids wear under this stuff? Pink. Sparkly. Maybe a bag? Definitely a water bottle? Did kids her age even wear mouthguards?

Eventually, you made your way to the kids’ section, tucked just beyond the display of goalie masks. You stopped short when you saw it.

Little jerseys. So many of them.

Little shirts, toddler-sized jerseys, beanies so small they could fit a doll. You stopped and ran your fingers over one of the sweatshirts on a low rack—it was gray with a soft fleece lining and a Penguins logo in a bubbly font across the front. You thumbed through them slowly, smiling to yourself as you passed Crosby, Malkin, Rust. And then—

“Oh my god,” you whispered, pulling out a Letang #58.

Your daughter had randomly pointed to Letang’s photo once and declared him her favorite because “his hair is like a princess.” The jersey was youth small. A little big, maybe, but she could grow into it.

You added it to your arm. Then picked up a black Penguins t-shirt with a glittery logo. Then a matching beanie, soft and warm and clearly made for kids who’d lose it within a week. She’d probably lose it too. You’d buy another. That was the cycle.

You stood there, your arm full of black and gold and fleece and tiny dreams, and just… took a breath.

You could picture her wearing this stuff. Picture her squealing when she saw it. Picture her running around the apartment pretending to be “the pink rocket,” yelling “GOAL!” at full volume and slapping invisible high-fives.

With the clothes over your arm you wandered deeper into the section, avoiding the gear wall for now. You weren't ready for shin guards and blade sizes. Not yet. First, let your brain ease into it. Maybe find something pink. Maybe a miracle.

A teenager behind you coughed into his elbow and said—loud enough to clearly be meant for your ears—“Uh, the youth sticks are along that back wall… if you need help with sizes or anything.”

You turned slightly, caught off guard, and smiled. “Thanks.”

He nodded like he’d done his part and resumed awkwardly re-aligning a row of mouthguards.

You wandered back toward the front counter. The older man looked up and offered a quick nod as you approached. “You find everything okay?”

You gave him a sheepish little smile. “Sort of. I was wondering if someone could help me with... the actual gear part?” You adjusted your grip on the sweatshirt and jersey. “My daughter’s attempting to start playing hockey. She’s five. I have no idea what I’m doing.”

That got a chuckle out of the person beside him. “We get that a lot,” she said, friendly enough. “You’re gonna want to check out the back left corner—youth gear section. We’ve got starter kits, different levels, and some sizing charts posted on the wall. One of the kids can help you if you need it.”

You glanced over your shoulder toward the two teenagers. One of them now had a helmet on sideways and was quoting something that sounded like a bad sports movie. You turned back. “Cool. I’ll... go take a look first.”

“Yell if you need us,” the man added, already turning back to the computer in front of him.

So you headed toward the corner of the store they’d mentioned.

And when you got there...

You stared.

Oh god.

It was just... a wall of black and white. Rows of identical looking gear—tiny shoulder pads that looked like robot armor, pants with layers of foam and plastic, shelves stacked with helmets that all looked vaguely like something you’d see in a futuristic prison. Not a speck of pink or sparkle in sight. Not even a pop of color.

Where were the pink things?

You hovered by the start of the wall for a moment, scanning everything. It felt a bit like wandering into an IKEA when you only needed batteries. You were overwhelmed already, and you hadn’t even touched a stick yet.

You picked up one of the smallest helmets, turning it over in your hands. Inside it was lined with foam, and there were sizing stickers all around the rim. You read one out loud under your breath. “Youth small. Fits 19 to 20.25 inches... okay.”

You had no idea what your daughter’s head circumference was.

You set it back down. Picked up a different one. Looked almost identical. Set it back down.

There were starter kits in bags, sure—some marked. You couldn’t remember what brand your friend had told you to look for when your daughter first brought up the idea of playing hockey. Something with an animal name? Maybe a bird? 

You spent the next twenty minutes slowly picking up items, flipping them over, putting them down, walking in small circles around the same display. At some point you realized you’d been holding a single elbow pad for five full minutes, just sort of rubbing your thumb over the seam like it would give you answers.

You picked things up, tried to guess sizes based on your daughter’s height and width (which wasn’t much of either), and gently put things back down when you realized you had no clue what the difference was between “youth small” and “toddler medium.” Every few minutes, you’d pull out your phone to look something up—How tight should youth hockey skates fit? What’s a cage versus a shield?—but the answers just made you more confused.

You found a pair of pink laces and held them like a victory trophy. One point for Mom.

You were squatting awkwardly by the gloves, holding one up to your own hand and trying to eyeball it, when someone walked past you and reached for a goalie mask off the rack above.

It took you a second to register how silly that was.

Because he was, like... a full-grown man. And that was a tiny-ass goalie mask.

You blinked, looked down at the mask in his hands, then back at him.

You turned your head slightly, curiosity piqued, and said without much thought, “I don’t know that that’ll fit you... but I’m definitely not an expert.”

The man turned, just a little, a soft smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. His voice was low, a little gravelly but warm. “Not for me. One of my teammate’s kids. I’m just the delivery guy today.”

“Ah,” you nodded, feeling your cheeks go warm. “I figured. Unless you were shrinking, and no one told us.”

He chuckled, glancing down at the tiny mask again. “Not yet, but never say never.”

He glanced at the gloves in your hand. “You doing gear shopping too?”

You nodded, eyes scanning the mask in his hand before flicking back to him. “Yeah. Trying. I’ve been here almost an hour and all I’ve really figured out is that everything is black and white and confusing as hell.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah. It’s a lot when you’re just starting.”

You smiled, shifting the items in your arms, the jersey slipping and nearly falling. You caught it against your side.

He nodded toward it. “Good choice. That’s a popular one.”

You looked at the name again. “Yeah? Honestly, I heard her mention him once and it was because she liked his hair, so.”

He smiled again—this time with something a little more amused behind it. “Well, you’re in Pittsburgh, so yeah. Letang’s kind of a big deal. And he’s got great hair,” then offered his hand. “Sid, by the way.”

You reached out to shake his hand, your brain stuttering for half a second. Sid. Sid. Unassuming dark blue tee with faded black jeans. Penguins cap. Goalie mask for a teammate’s kid.

Wait a second.

“I’m... Y/N,” you said, still shaking his hand.

His smile lingered, and there was a subtle, almost imperceptible flicker of recognition in your eyes as the dots started connecting.

You didn’t say anything though. You didn’t blurt it out or ask for a picture or grill him with questions.

You just smiled.

“Well,” you said softly, “If you have any rookie shopping tips, I’m all ears. Because right now, I think I’m buying two left gloves and possibly an elbow pad meant for a squirrel.”

Sid chuckled, stepping a little closer, a comfortable distance, easy and unpressured. “Alright. Let’s see what you’ve got so far,” eyeing the pile in your arms like it was an unsolvable riddle, “why don’t we start from the top—literally. Helmet, shoulder pads, gloves, all that. Then work our way down.”

You shifted your items to one arm, then gave him a helpless glance. “Lead the way, Captain.”

That earned you another one of his quiet laughs. You followed him a few steps to the wall lined with youth helmets, most of them black, though a couple had red or blue detailing. The sizes were printed along the shelf edge—Youth Small, Youth Medium—and behind each, a row of boxed helmets waiting for homes.

“She’s how old?” he asked, already crouching to one of the lower shelves.

“Just turned five in March. She’s about... say, three-foot-eight? Thirty-eight pounds. She’s got this mess of curly hair, so the helmet can’t be too tight. But also—safety.”

He chuckled, glancing up at you. “Right, no decapitations. Got it.”

You snorted. “I’d like to keep her head attached, yeah.”

Sid picked up a small helmet and turned it over in his hands, fingers checking the inside padding. He handed it to you. “This one’s a good brand. Solid protection. Comes with the cage too, which is what she’ll need. Some of them don’t, so make sure it’s included if you go with a different one.”

You nodded slowly, already overwhelmed again. “Okay, yeah, that looks... safe?”

He grinned. “Very safe. Want to write it down?”

You blinked. “What?”

“You know,” he said, standing up and dusting his palms off like this was an outdoor project. “In your notes app. Like an old person. ‘One helmet, small, comes with cage.’”

You rolled your eyes. “Wow. Are you always this charming, or is it just for flustered moms trying to buy sports gear?”

“Flustered moms are my specialty,” he said dryly, but his smile gave him away.

Still, you pulled out your phone and opened the notes app, muttering under your breath. “Helmet, small, with a cage, don’t let Sid pick on you.”

He leaned over, trying to peek at your screen. “Did you really just write that?”

You snapped the phone shut. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

You moved on together, stopping at the shoulder pads next. He pulled a small pair off the rack and held it up in front of you.

“These’ll probably fit,” he said. “She’s little, but these are adjustable. You want the shoulder cups to line up obviously, but the important part is the chest plate—it should sit flat, not hanging off her.”

You nodded slowly, inspecting the pads like they were alien technology.

“And this is—what? For... falling?”

“Contact,” he said, grinning. “And yeah, falling too. Shoulder bumps, accidental checks. It keeps her chest protected if she takes a puck or a stick. Not that five-year-olds are slinging clappers yet.”

You blinked. “Slinging what now?”

He clarified. “Slapshots.”

You stared.

“Hard shots,” he clarified.

“Oh. See, you should just say that,” you said, squinting at the pads. “Why does everything in this sport sound like a 1950s insult?”

He laughed—this one louder than the others, deep and honest—and you found yourself smiling just from the sound of it.

“Okay, what’s next, smartass?” you asked.

He guided you through gloves next, letting you try a pair on so you could get a feel for the stiffness. “New ones are tough to move in,” he explained, “but they’ll break in after a few practices. You want her fingers to reach the tips, not swimming in there. And if you’re stuck between two sizes, go up. You can’t grow into small gear.”

You made another note in your phone and then paused. “Is this the part where I have to pick a stick?”

Sid turned to the bin of youth sticks and rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, that’s the fun one.”

“Oh god.”

“No pressure,” he said. “It’s only the most important part.”

You gave him a look. “Really?”

He grinned. “No. Kind of. Sort of. But not at five.”

You sighed dramatically. “Okay. Here goes nothing.”

He stepped up beside you as you both peered down into the barrel of sticks, most of them barely reaching your waist.

“Does she shoot left or right?”

You frowned. “She writes with her right hand, brushes her teeth with it. But she kicks soccer balls with her left foot sometimes. Does that help?”

He winced. “Only a little.”

You watched him pick up one, then two different sticks, holding them out and comparing them against each other like a bartender choosing between bottles of wine.

“This one’s left,” he said, handing it to you. “More kids start left, even if they’re right-handed. It’s weird.”

You turned the stick over, testing the grip.

“Let her try both when you get home,” he added. “Don’t cut it until you know which one she prefers.”

“Cut it?”

He nodded. “You’ll probably need to trim a few inches. It should hit between her chin and nose when she’s in skates. Too long and she won’t be able to handle it.”

Your head was spinning again. “I’m writing that down.”

“Good call, Old Lady Notes.”

You flipped him off lightly without looking up from your phone.

You followed Sid over to the youth skates, where he walked you through sizing—tight but not painful, with room to wiggle toes—and pointed out which brands had better ankle support.

“This is a lot,” you said eventually, “Like... a lot.”

He smiled softly. “It is. But it gets easier.”

You nodded, watching him now more than the skates. “Did your parents do this for you?”

He leaned against the shelf beside you. “Yeah. My dad mostly. But my mom did her fair share of sitting in freezing rinks with coffee and a blanket.”

You smiled. “I should probably start investing in hand warmers now.”

“Oh, definitely.”

You let the silence sit for a moment before he glanced at the stuff in your arms again and pointed at the Letang jersey.

“Good pick,” he said. “But if you want your daughter to win games…”

You looked up at him, catching the little smirk on his face.

“Oh no.”

He shrugged, not even pretending to be modest. “I dunno. She might have better luck with a Crosby jersey. Not like I’m a professional or anything.”

You stared at him. “Cocky much?”

He chuckled. “What? I’m just saying.”

“You’re just saying you’re better than Letang?”

He tilted his head. “Tanger’s great.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“I’m just better.”

You laughed, full and loud, startling one of the teenagers walking past. “Okay, alright. I guess if I had to pick a role model, the guy personally helping me fit elbow pads isn’t the worst choice.”

“I do what I can,” he said with a wink.

You gave him a half-playful sigh and picked up the Letang jersey again. Then slowly, without looking at him, added a Crosby one to the pile. Two jerseys, she’ll be excited regardless. 

He didn’t say anything, just smiled a little to himself and helped you find the right size.

“You’re either really prepared,” he said, lips twitching, “or she’s about to be the best-dressed five-year-old in the entire league.”

You grinned. “Look, if she’s gonna throw elbows, she may as well look cute doing it.”

“Bulked up in pink elbow pads,” he said thoughtfully. “Terrifying.”

“Exactly.”

You made your way toward the checkout counter, arms full, the jerseys, sweatshirt, t-shirt, a beanie—and the mini stick Sidney insisted every hockey kid needed, sat on top like a cherry on a very expensive sundae, mentally ticking off the grocery list you still had to tackle after this. Apples, chicken, string cheese, enough pasta to keep your tiny enforcer fueled or pre-fueled. 

Sid followed a few steps behind, still holding the youth goalie mask you’d caught him with earlier. You glanced at it again now, curiosity tugging.

You smiled and nodded toward the youth goalie mask he was still holding, white and pristine and blank. “So, mystery solved yet? What’s that for?”

He held it up a little, letting it catch the light. “It’s for my godson. His birthday’s next month. He’s obsessed with goalies. Gonna get it customized—mask, pads, the whole nine yards.”

You raised an eyebrow, impressed. “That’s a pretty cool gift.”

Sid shrugged like it was nothing. “He’s a good kid. Deserves something cool.”

“You getting his name painted on it or something?” you asked, genuinely curious now.

“Thinking about it. His favorite goalie was Lundqvist, but he keeps pretending to be Fleury when he plays in the driveway. So maybe something between the two. We’ll see.”

You grinned at that, setting your items down gently on the counter as the clerk started scanning. “That’s sweet.”

He gave a small, sheepish shrug. “Trying. He’s already better in net than I am, so I gotta keep my rep somehow.”

You laughed. The older man behind the counter gave you a friendly nod as he started ringing up the items.

He hesitated for a second like he might say more, then cleared his throat. “Hey—have you ever heard of the Little Penguins program?”

You paused. “The what?”

“Little Penguins,” he repeated. “It’s this thing we run through the team. We usually do Winters but we added Fall on there too. Kids can sign up and get a full set of gear for free—well, technically a deposit, but you get it back—and they do learn-to-skate stuff, drills, scrimmages. They get to practice on the ice, even skate with a couple of us players.”

Your mouth parted slightly. “Wait—like with the Penguins Penguins?”

He nodded. “Yeah, the big guys. Usually a few of us show up. Just for fun, nothing formal. But it’s a good way for the kids to dip their toes in without it being overwhelming. Especially for parents who are still learning the ropes.”

You blinked. “That… actually sounds amazing. Why is this the first time I’m hearing about it?”

“Marketing’s not our strong suit,” he said with a crooked smile. “I think the sign-ups start late summer. July-ish.”

You imagined your daughter, pink helmet and jersey, oversized gloves bouncing at her sides, skating across the ice next to Penguins players like it was a totally normal Tuesday. “Okay, yeah. That’s... wow. I’ll definitely think about that.”

He smiled again, and it hit you that he was genuinely pleased you seemed interested. “You should. It’s fun. And your daughter sounds like the kind of kid who’d love it.”

You hummed thoughtfully. “It actually does sound like something she’d love. I mean, if there’s juice boxes involved, I’m sold.”

He grinned. “I’ll make sure they have the pink ones.”

“You better,” you said. “But yeah. She would lose her mind.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” he said, lightly bumping your elbow with his.

“Just the apparel today?” The cashier asked.

“Yeah,” you said, glancing at Sid. “Apparently I need to go home and take measurements. Like an adult.”

Sid turned to the cashier with a grin. “She’s doing her homework. Proud of her.”

You swatted his arm lightly, but he just laughed and leaned casually against the edge of the counter.

As the man scanned the Crosby jersey—Sid gave a soft, smug hmm at the sound—as if he hadn’t practically forced you to grab it.

The cashier handed you a long receipt and bagged up your stuff, folding the jerseys carefully. You thanked them, then turned back to Sid one last time, tucking your phone back into your coat pocket.

“Well. I should let you get back to your godfatherly duties. And I’ve got to go buy protein-rich snacks for a child who thinks hockey is a personality trait now.”

He laughed. “You’ve got a good one on your hands.”

“I do,” you said, feeling your chest warm a little. “Thanks again, by the way. For the help. Seriously. You saved me from panic-buying a full adult-size goalie kit.”

“Glad to be of service,” he said, then added, “Hey—if you end up signing her up for Little Penguins, I’ll probably be there. Come say hi.”

Your hand tightened slightly on the bag handles. “Yeah. I just might.”

He gave you a little nod, “Keep me posted. If she joins the Little Pens, I wanna know.”

“I will,” you said, turning toward the door. “If she scores her first goal, I’ll even make her point to the sky and say it’s for you.”

Sid smiled, shifting the goalie mask to his other hand. “Hey, if she ends up falling in love with the game, I’d say this was a good use of a Saturday.”

You nodded.

You watched him for a second—just a second—then shook your head to yourself with a soft laugh and headed out into the parking lot, the automatic doors sliding shut behind you with a whoosh.

You had groceries to buy. You had gear to organize. You had a daughter to tell about “this thing called Little Penguins.”

A Few Months Later…

The rink was loud with the echo of blades scraping over ice, muffled thumps from little bodies falling down, and the hum of excited chatter from proud parents in the stands. The bleachers were fuller than you expected them to be this early on a Saturday morning—coffee cups cradled like precious gems, toddlers bundled in puffer coats and fleece hats, a chorus of “that’s my baby!” and “get up, you got it!” rippling through the space like music.

You sat midway up the stands, leaned forward with your elbows on your knees and your hands clasped under your chin, barely blinking as you tracked your little girl zooming across the ice in her baby pink skates—the ones you’d debated splurging on, only to be guilted into by her lip-quivering pout and an impassioned speech about how “pink skates make you faster.”

Apparently, she wasn’t wrong.

She was a blur of movement and energy, her tiny helmet bouncing slightly with every stride. Her white jersey was too big on her, practically swallowing her whole, with “Crosby” emblazoned across the back—his number 87 stitched proudly under it. Pink tape spiraled down the length of her stick, the edges fraying just a little from the constant use. It was a vision, the kind that made your chest squeeze so tightly it felt like your heart might burst from sheer joy.

You were smiling like an idiot as she collided softly with another kid, both of them toppling over like penguin-shaped dominoes.

A dad sitting nearby chuckled, following your line of sight. “Yours in the pink skates?”

You nodded, still smiling. “Yep. That’s my maniac.”

“She’s got good instincts. Keeps her head up, even when she’s down,” he said with a grin, nudging his own daughter, who was munching Goldfish crackers next to him.

“She’s obsessed,” you said with a little laugh, eyes never leaving the ice. “This morning she woke me up at 6:10—on the dot—in full gear. Elbow pads over her pajamas. Helmet on backwards.”

The dad laughed. “They don’t just fall in love. They jump in head first.”

“Tell me about it. I think I have about twelve hours of footage just from driveway practices,” you said, tapping your phone like proof.

Down on the ice, your daughter had popped back up, brushing the snow off of herself with those padded gloves that made her hands look like marshmallows. She took a wobbly step forward, then another. A coach—tall, in full gear himself—skated past and gave her an encouraging tap on the helmet. She giggled and tried to chase him, only to crash into the boards.

You winced a little, but she scrambled back up, laughing. Unfazed. Just like always.

“Did you grow up around hockey?” the dad asked, sipping from his thermos.

You shook your head. “No, not even a little. This whole world is new to me. First time I walked into a gear shop, I almost cried. It was like IKEA, but colder and meaner.”

“Ah. One of those,” he said knowingly. “So how’d she get into it?”

You smiled a little to yourself, watching her now attempt to scoop a puck with the toe of her stick like she was playing field hockey.

“It started with street hockey,” you said softly. “Some neighborhood kids were playing, and she just... joined in. She didn’t even ask. Just ran over and jumped into the game like she was born for it.”

“I know the type,” he said with a grin. “Future captain.”

You smiled at that—because part of you believed it. Knew it, even.

“Yeah,” you said. “Future something.”

A cheer erupted from the crowd as one of the kids—somehow—managed to score on one of the adult coaches in net. The coach fell dramatically backward, arms spread wide like he’d been defeated in battle. 

It was cold and it smelled like coffee and the unmistakable sweetness of childhood. The coaches were endlessly patient, calling out encouragement and clapping for every kid, no matter how awkward or uncoordinated they were. One coach—Sid, you realized—was crouched low near the boards now, tying the laces of a tiny skater who looked like she was upset or tired.

You watched him a moment, that same calm energy radiating off him that he’d had in the shop months ago. No helmet, just a cap pulled low over his hair. Still recognizable, though—especially to the row of moms sitting a little too upright on the lower bleachers, their giggles loud enough to rise above the noise of the rink.

You’d never said anything to your daughter about who he was. You liked keeping it simple. To her, he was just Coach. Of course, she knows him. But here he's just a nice guy who high-fived her when she got her skates on the right feet and always knew when she needed an extra push on the back.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket, and you checked it quickly. A message from your best friend:

“How’s my niece doing?? Any goals?? Any falls??”

You snapped a quick picture—her mid-laugh, head thrown back—and sent it back with a caption:

“Living her best life.”

You tucked your phone away and leaned forward again, watching as your daughter bent her knees the way they’d shown her, arms stiff out in front, tongue sticking out in concentration. She was taking it all in—every second of it. From the cool air on her cheeks to the slap of the puck to the roar of imaginary crowds in her head.

There was something sacred in watching your kid find the thing they loved. Like watching a door open inside them you didn’t even know was there. Every spill, every grin, every wild, uncoordinated movement across the ice—each one carved that love deeper into her bones.

You clapped and cheered when she completed a clumsy turn, just barely staying upright. She turned toward your seat in the stands and grinned, giving you two very exaggerated thumbs up. Then she fell on her ass again.

You laughed, hand to your heart.

The mom next to you leaned over. “First season?”

“Yeah,” you said. “First everything.”

“Well, you’re in for it now,” she said, sipping from her thermos with a knowing smile. “There’s no going back once they get a taste of the ice.”

You looked down at your daughter—scraping her way back to her feet, cheeks flushed, still smiling—and you knew it was true.

There was no going back.

And you didn’t want to.

After nearly three hours of watching your daughter, it was over. The hallway just outside the locker room was chaos in a very specific, beautiful way—kids peeling off helmets and elbow pads, trailing behind coaches or sprinting toward waiting parents, little voices bouncing off the walls, squealing about scoring, or falling, or “that time Coach tripped on his own skate.” Everyone was coach apparently.

You’d waited in the designated spot outside until one of the assistants—some fresh-faced guy in a Penguins jacket—gave the okay for parents to head in.

“Y’all can head in now,” he said, stepping aside and trying not to get knocked over by a tornado of five-year-olds dragging their gear bags behind them.

Inside, the locker room was warm and bright, lined with benches and low cubbies that were already stuffed with half-shed gloves, little skates, jackets, and about seven different water bottles. The buzz of post-practice chatter filled the air instantly, like someone had turned the volume knob all the way up.

You barely had time to take it in before a flash of pink barreled toward you.

“MOMMMYYYYY!”

There she was. Wild curls matted from the helmet, cheeks flushed with effort, teeth bared in a wide grin as she ran, half-hopping in her skates, arms wide.

You bent down just in time to catch her.

“There you are, Speed Racer,” you grinned, crouching down and opening your arms as she barrelled into you. Her gear clunked against your chest—chest protector and all—but you didn’t care. You hugged her like you hadn’t just been watching her be wild on the ice.

“I FELL SIX TIMES!” she squealed, voice muffled against your shirt.

You ran a hand over her head, feeling the heat radiating from her scalp. “You fell six times and you still have that big ol’ smile on your face? Must’ve been a good time.”

“It was the funnest ever,” she said seriously, stepping back and immediately beginning to unfasten her chest protector with a kind of frenzied determination. “And guess what! Owen and me were on the same team, and I touched the puck with my stick! Like for real this time! I didn’t miss!”

You helped peel the Velcro from her shoulders, gently tugging the damp, slightly stinky gear off while she babbled on.

“Toootally touched it. Owen saw. Right, Owen?!”

A little boy with dark hair and dark eyes, Owen, turned toward you, a toothy grin spread across his face. His front teeth were at war—one was missing, the other wobbly and hanging on for dear life.

“Hi,” he said confidently.

“Hi, Owen,” you greeted, giving him a warm smile. “I hear you two had fun today.”

“We’re on the same team,” he said proudly, pointing to his white practice jersey. “White team’s faster than the black one.”

Your daughter nodded vigorously. “We’re the fastest. Way faster.”

“I believe it,” you nodded solemnly, ruffling her sweat-damp curls as you zipped the top layer of her jacket. “You guys looked awesome out there.”

“They were, weren’t they?” a voice chimed in to your right. Owen’s mom, dressed in a puffer vest over a Penguins hoodie, smiled as she peeled her son’s gloves off one by one. “Owen hasn’t stopped talking about it since he got off the ice.”

You smiled back, instantly comforted by the friendliness in her tone. “Mine either. I’m pretty sure she’s still skating in her head.”

“She’s adorable,” the mom said. “Pink skates and pink tape? That’s iconic.”

“She had to be pink,” you said, laughing softly. “Apparently, pink makes you faster.”

Owen's mom grinned. “Hey, she might be onto something.”

You all shared a laugh as the room buzzed louder—parents helping their kids wriggle out of gear, skate guards being snapped on, water bottles getting passed around. Owen sat down next to your daughter on the bench, pulling a juice box out of his small backpack. “We made up a game,” he told you while trying to stab the straw through the plastic film.

Your girl nodded. “You pretend the puck is a bumblebee and you gotta squash it with your stick before it stings someone.”

“That sounds very advanced,” you said seriously.

“We’re gonna play it next time too,” she added. “Owen said he’s really good at squashing bees.”

Owen nodded matter-of-factly, still struggling with the straw.

Owen’s mom bent down to help him, chuckling as she did. “He’s been trying to squash bees with sticks since he was three. I’m just glad he’s finally doing it on the ice and not in our backyard.”

You grinned and reached into your own bag to grab your daughter’s snack. She immediately tore into the applesauce pouch like she’d been starved for days, then leaned against your side, still warm from all her movement.

“They looked so cute skating next to each other,” Owen’s mom added with a soft smile. “I was telling my husband—it almost looked like a little date out there.”

You laughed at that. “I think they’ve bonded over their mutual chaos.”

She leaned in a little and lowered her voice. “He told me in the tunnel that he thinks your daughter’s hair is ‘like gold spaghetti.’”

You choked on your sip of coffee, covering your mouth. “Gold spaghetti?”

She nodded, snickering. “Crush territory. I’m calling it.”

You smiled, heart melting a little, and pulled your phone out from your coat pocket. “Alright, if they’re officially best friends-slash-future-spouses, we need a picture.”

Both kids were now on their snacks, Owen with his juice box and your girl halfway through a granola bar, crumbs smeared around her mouth. You lined them up on the bench—gear still half-on, cheeks still flushed—and snapped a picture.

It was absurdly cute.

“Alright, say cheese,” you said. “Or… say Penguins!”

“PENGUINS!” they both shouted.

Click.

You took a few more, some with funny faces, some with your daughter attempting to put her arm around Owen’s shoulders and nearly knocking his juice out of his hand. You were pretty sure your camera roll had hit triple digits by now, but you didn’t care.

Eventually, your daughter leaned into you again, resting her sticky hand on your leg. “Mama,” she said quietly. “I’m thirsty.”

You glanced down. “Didn’t you bring your water bottle?”

She blinked up at you sheepishly. “I left it on the bench. Where I sit. I think.”

“Oh no,” you said, sighing gently. “You silly goose.”

“I forgot!” she insisted, holding her hands up like that’d fix it. “Thirst to death mama.”

You reached up and tucked a curl behind her ear. “Alright, okay. I’ll go grab it. Can you hang here for a sec?”

She nodded. “I’ll stay with Owen.”

You turned toward his mom. “Mind keeping an eye on her real quick? I’ll be back in like a minute.”

“Of course,” she said warmly. “Take your time. These two are thick as thieves already.”

You smiled and stood, patting your daughter’s helmet-less head. “Be good,” you said.

“Always,” she grinned, already halfway through a whispered joke with Owen that involved a fart noise and something about the Zamboni.

You made your way out of the locker room, weaving around kids and parents and piles of equipment. The hallway was quieter. You passed by a few of the coaching staff and volunteers still lingering around, one of them wheeling a cart of extra equipment back toward storage.

You shifted your weight awkwardly near the tunnel toward the bench, one arm wrapped around yourself for warmth. You weren’t totally sure if you were allowed to just stroll out there in regular shoes. Like—was that frowned upon? A total rookie parent move?

Your eyes scanned the hallway for someone official-looking. After a few seconds, a man in a staff jacket with a clipboard walked past. You stepped forward quickly.

“Hi! Sorry—excuse me?”

He stopped and turned. “Yeah?”

“Um, I was wondering—my daughter left her water bottle out there on the bench,” you explained, nodding toward the rink. “It’s pink and glittery—shocking, I know—and it has a little flower keychain on the handle. Would it be possible for someone to grab it for me? I don’t wanna like... destroy the sanctity of the bench in my street shoes.”

The guy smiled, already turning to wave someone down. “Yeah, no problem. Hang tight. I’ll send one of the volunteers out.”

“Thank you, seriously.”

You leaned back against the wall, tugging your sweater sleeves down over your hands as you watched the lingering players on the ice, most of them part of the older age group now, finishing their drills. Some were still skating slow laps while a couple of the younger assistant coaches stood near the blue line laughing about something. You weren’t really paying attention—your mind was still back in the locker room with your daughter’s flushed cheeks and dramatics about “thirsting to death.”

Then you heard it.

“Called it. I thought that was your daughter out there.”

The voice, familiar in a way that shouldn’t have made your stomach do what it just did, made your head turn to the right.

Sidney.

You blinked once. Then again.

He was walking toward you casually, jersey still on but his skates had been swapped out for black Adidas slides and socks. His hair was damp, curls starting to appear at the ends, and he looked warm—flushed in the cheeks, a little sweaty, and way too comfortable for how good he looked.

You exhaled in something that bordered on a scoff. “What gave it away?”

He leaned a shoulder against the wall next to you, arms crossed as his eyes swept over the rink like he was still mentally coaching. “Let’s see... pink skates, pink laces, pink tape on the stick… Don’t think I forgot, Y/N.”

You grinned. “Wow, real detective work there.”

He smirked, slow and knowing, and turned to look at you instead. “Also? She’s got your eyes. It was game over after that.”

You looked away briefly, caught off guard by the way he said it—not teasing, not in passing. Just simple. Honest. The words made your chest tighten a little, in that soft, fluttery kind of way.

��She had the best time,” you said, your voice softening. “She’s been buzzing since we walked in this morning. Like... shaking with excitement.”

He smiled again, this time a little wider. “That’s what we want. Fun first.”

“She even made a friend,” you added. “Owen. They’re practically a duo now. He’s five. Missing a front tooth. Very committed to calling the puck ‘zoomy.’”

He chuckled under his breath, glancing down like he was picturing it. “Owen’s a good kid. He’s one of my favorites.”

“Wow. Already playing favorites?”

Sid shrugged. “Perks of being Coach Sidney. I can pretend I don’t, but come on—kid called me ‘Sir Puck’ once. I’m only human.”

You snorted.

There was a small lull between you, just a beat or two where you stood side-by-side, both facing the ice as the zamboni started circling again. His arm brushed yours once when he shifted his stance, just barely. The warmth of him so close made your skin feel hyper-aware, like it was begging for more contact.

“She, uh...” you started, glancing at him. “She left her water bottle on the bench. Swears she’s going to ‘thirst to death’ if I don’t bring it back.”

Sid raised an eyebrow. “Thirst to death? That serious, huh?”

You nodded solemnly. “She’s dramatic. I don’t know where she gets it from.”

“I’m shocked,” he deadpanned.

You shot him a side-eye, lips twitching. “Anyway, I asked one of the staff to grab it, but I think they forgot about me. Been standing here like a total newbie.”

“You want me to grab it?”

You blinked. “Wait—seriously?”

He was already pushing off the wall, waving a hand dismissively. “Yeah. I’ll be back in a sec. Pink glitter, right? With a flower keychain?”

“Yeah,” you said, still a little surprised. “That’s the one. Can’t miss it.”

He gave you a quick smirk. “Got it. I’m trained in the art of spotting glitter.”

You laughed, watching as he jogged down the short corridor, and stepped onto the bench in his slides like it was nothing. You bit your lip, just a little, arms crossed again as you watched him scan the bench, crouch, and retrieve the bottle from where it had rolled a few inches under one of the seats.

He came jogging back a minute later, bottle in hand, holding it up like a trophy.

“Coach of the Year,” he said with a grin, handing it over.

You took it gratefully. “Seriously. If there was a trophy, you’d be winning it.”

“You’re gonna make her think I’m her favorite now,” he said, mock-conspiratorial.

“She already called you ‘the guy with the funny whistle,’” you said, twisting the cap to check the water level. “So you’re basically a celebrity.”

“She’s not wrong,” he said, leaning back against the wall again. “It’s a very specific whistle. I’ve trained myself.”

You looked at him—really looked—and shook your head, smiling despite yourself. “You’re such a dork.”

“You keep saying that,” he said, tone low, amused. “But you’re smiling.”

There was a small pause after that—comfortable, but charged. A beat where neither of you spoke, but you could feel the static in the air, the unspoken familiarity that had somehow built over a single strange meeting. The gear shop.

“I’m guessing those notes I made you take all those months ago at the gear shop came in handy, huh?”

You groaned dramatically, rolling your eyes but smiling anyway. “Don’t remind me. I think I have PTSD from that trip. But yeah—God, they helped so much. I never would’ve figured out which stick flex to get her without your help. Or those elbow pads that didn’t slide down every two seconds.”

“You were so overwhelmed,” he teased. “Like I was speaking another language.”

“Because you were,” you fired back. “Half of it was just acronyms. I still don’t know what CCM stands for.”

“Honestly?” he leaned closer, voice dropping conspiratorially, “I don’t think anyone does. We just pretend.”

You laughed again, head tipping back. His eyes lingered on your face for a second longer than necessary, like he was cataloguing every shift in your expression, every laugh line he could coax out of you.

“How’d the goalie mask go?” you asked, shifting gears, “for your godson?”

“Great,” he said, and you noticed how his whole face softened when he talked about the kid. “He loved it. Said it made him look like a Transformer. His words, not mine.”

“That’s basically the highest praise possible.”

“Exactly,” he agreed. “He even slept with it beside his bed the first night. His mom texted me a picture.”

“That’s adorable.”

He glanced toward the rink doors, then back at you. “So… did you have fun?”

You lifted a shoulder, smiling again. “Oh yeah. Nothing more fun than watching my kid wipe out every five minutes while I try to pretend I’m not dying inside.”

His head tilted, a laugh bubbling up from him. “You looked like you were holding it together okay.”

“I was faking it,” you said. “But thanks.”

“Pretty well, I’d say.”

You rolled your eyes and turned back toward the hallway leading to the locker room. “Only ‘cause you saved me from a water bottle emergency.”

“I’ll see you around?” he asked, but there was something tentative in the way he said it, like he wasn’t sure if it was okay to hope.

You slowly turned to face him once again. “Yeah. You will.”

He smiled, something softer than before—less teasing, more sincere.

And then his voice came again. A little more certain. A little bolder.

“Actually—hold on.”

You stopped.

He was standing straighter now, hands in his pockets, one foot shifting over the other like even he wasn’t sure he was really doing this until the words were already coming out of his mouth.

“Would you wanna get a coffee sometime?” he asked. “Or... whatever. Something not surrounded by five-year-olds and hockey tape.”

You stared at him for a second, surprised—though you weren’t sure why. Maybe because he said it so... sincerely. Not flirty. Not presumptuous. Just... hopeful.

You found yourself smiling again.

“Yeah,” you said, your voice low. “I’d like that.”

—

[inbabylontheywept]

How is your life so interesting

Normally, I just kind of laugh this question off, but I've been asked enough times I'm gonna take an honest stab at it.

So, the first thing worth considering is whether the story itself is all that interesting, or whether I am just a good storyteller. My most popular story is about cutting a lot of worms and half, and crying, and then being comforted by my mom. That's not a terribly uncommon or hard to imagine event. A lot of my stories more about the telling than the substance.

There are also some stories that are weird, but they're weird in ways that I also find, like, relateably weird? It might just be that I knew a lot of athletes in college, but I don't think eating raw eggs is that weird. Eating 15 in one go is, but I was roommates with a guy that ate like, three for breakfast, three in his in-class protein shake, and another three at dinner. That guy was attending ASU on a gymnast scholarship, but also, he genuinely ate 5 dozen eggs a week. That seems much more normal than eating 15 in one day.

To say nothing of eating raw onion. Tons of people eat raw onions. It baffles the non-onion eaters, but it's a super common thing. Especially in Mexico.

Some of the stories happen because I am better at noticing story-worthy events than most people. I can't tell you how many times I've been in public, and seen someone do some weirdass thing, and then had to nudge my wife and to get her to watch it too.

If I had to point to the parts of my life that are truly, genuinely, bafflingly weird, they would be my dating stories, and. I dunno. My general thermonuclear dumbass event posts. And I can break down why those two are interesting pretty simply:

I was unbelievably bad at dating. The majority of the time, that just meant that there was a few minutes of stilted small talk and never get a call back. But the thing is, Mormon culture strongly encourages dating as like, a social-practice thing, and I was very motivated to get good at it, so I just kept trying and trying and I think I went on at least 200 first dates before meeting my wife. I genuinely believe that if anyone went on 200 first dates, they would get some pretty incredible bad date stories too. Especially if they had autism. I know I write well, and I can sound very charming here, but it took me a very, very long to get decent social skills. I am just a disturbingly persistent learner.

I am very convincing. This is helpful when I am interacting with other people, because it can do things like, convince them to let me into their secret facility, or convince them to not vote Republican again, or to save at least put the company match into their retirement accounts. But when I'm just debating something with myself, my convincingness works against me: I am very good at tricking myself into believing that bad ideas are, somehow, actually good. This is part of why I have so much sympathy for the right wing lunatics that I work with. Every time I meet a crazy person I go, ah, but for the grace of God, go I. Anyway, this does an unfortunate thing where my excellent verbal skills drive my poor decisions, which results in the very odd combination of welll written, articulate stories about someone being A Fucking Idiot. Like the condom bomber story. I think this is also why most of the lawyers that I meet are insane in their personal lives.

Anyway, those are my theories! I'm gonna tag @lizardho because we mostly had the same childhood, but she has a better grasp on what normal people look like than me, and perhaps she'll have her own theories on the weirdness of our lives.

[chereid]

೯⁺ 𖥻 𝓨𝗢𝗨 𝗖𝗔𝗡 𝗛𝗘𝗔𝗥 𝗜𝗧 𝗜𝗡 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗦𝗜𝗟𝗘𝗡𝗖𝗘 ! ᰋ

ꨄ︎ 𝒫 airing : : 𝒮pencer reid x female!bau!nonverbal!reader

ꨄ︎ 𝒮 ynopsis : : being nonverbal has it's difficulties. you speak with your hands━━SPENCER REID learned them by heart.

ꨄ︎ 𝓒ontents : : nonverbal!reader. reader knows sign language. asl. spencer learns asl. fluff. mutual pining. rossi knows sign language. the reason why reader is nonverbal,, past trauma( the team knows but won't be talked about ). light smut. reader being the one rambling( using sign language ) and spencer focusing on you and your hands alone. teasing from the team. the team didn't know about your relationship for a while(aside from rossi). grammatical errors. ooc.

ꨄ︎ 𝓦ord count : : 1.7k

ꨄ︎ 𝓒ase file shelf.

ꨄ︎ 𝒲hispers of viana : : OKAY. i made this a week ago. also,, this idea popped up after reading,, this by @/mggslover !,, gained the motivation to write it because of a boy my age who is nonverbal !! met him at the hospital && he was sososo sweet. i couldn't understand what he was trying to tell me😭😭 i made him type on my notes,, he didn't seem bothered by it,, so it's okay... ishm I FORGOT TO ASK FOR HIS SOCIALS IM GONNA KMS. also! i mentioned i met the guy at the hospital ,, yeah,, still haven't recovered.. SO THIS WON'T BE GOOD-GOOD I'M SORRY💔 also i still don't know sign language so indented = sign language. i made rossi know asl,, bc yay why not,,, contains too many breaks because i acc do nawt know anything ab sign language but,, wanted to write thistgisthis. and for the last time . I AM MINORLYATFAULT DAMMIT

the first time SPENCER REID laid eyes on you, you were signing with rossi. it was quick, neat, rehearsed. the others were slightly confused, derek arching a brow, jj tilting her head, emily sort of just standing there with a strangely amused expression. but reid? reid was focused. like laser beam concentrated. he was already trying to recall what you had just signed.

rossi had patted your shoulder and left, but you remained standing in the center of the briefing room, notebook held in front of you like a shield.

"she's nonverbal," garcia had whispered afterward, when she added, "not mute, though. trauma-related, i believe. i overheard that from strauss once. she can talk, just. doesn't. or won't."

it didn't make him pity you. he just considered how you spoke. how calculated it was. how careful you had to be, how you hacked out understanding in silence. he thought that was sort of beautiful. he thought it was absolutely beautiful.

so naturally he began learning asl. and not the watered down kind. complete, perfect grammar, complete complications, practiced every night( he read eight different asl books and read each of them three times). he didn't want to ask you to adjust for him. he wanted to be able to meet you where you were.

he began small.

hi.

and your eyes had widened a bit, guarded. but you signed back,

hi, spencer.

and that was the start.

over time, your conversations increased. it became kinda a secret language between you two( if you take rossi out of the picture ). sometimes in the car on stakeouts, he'd ask you questions just to see the way you signed. like the way you'd talk about the stars or the way the wind blew that day. usually it's him who rambles. but he can't help it. and you'd always get a little smile when you saw him staring at your hands like they were the most fascinating thing in the universe.

the team saw something, but not everything. you always signed to them, usually to rossi, but gradually more and more to spencer. and yeah, reid signed back, but they just thought he was being nice. helpful. because he was like that. always happy to learn a new language. especially so he could converse with a friend. and don't take it the wrong way, they're learning. trying. but they aren't spencer reid who could finish reading 20,000 words per minute.

rossi was the one who glanced at you both with that knowing look.

"pretty sure he's in love with you, kid" he told you one morning, dryly, as he was making coffee. you blinked at him. signed,,

how do you know?

he smiled. "because he stares at you the same way emily stares at tequila."

... don't you mean you? you wanted to state, but restrained yourself.

the teasing came later.

morgan began it all. "pretty boy's got himself a signing buddy,"( more like you got yourself a signing buddy. ) he teased one morning. "y'all look like you're passing notes in class."

reid blushed so red it was really alarming.

you just rolled your eyes and waved your fingers:

jealous you can't keep up?

"i━━ okay, okay, she got me. i'm out."

everyone laughed( he couldn't even understand half of what you signed ). except rossi, who sipped his coffee like he was privy to some information they were not.

reid was quiet that entire day. and the next.

of course, he'd eventually snap.

he saw you in the break room, empty. where you typically retreated to escape the commotion. he seemed nervous. restless. hands quivering slightly as if he couldn't help but keep them moving.

can i talk to you?

you nodded, clearing a space beside you. he sat down across from you. deep breath.

i like you. i like you a lot. i think about you constantly and not just in a friendly way. in a.more-than-that way.

he winced a little, as if preparing himself for rejection.

you blinked. heart pounding. giddy. and then slowly, you signed,

me too. i like you, spencer. but. let's keep it private? work is still work.

his entire face beamed. "yes! yes, of course. absolutely. private. secret. top secret. agent-level secret."

you smiled. just a little gasp. no sound, but he could see it in your eyes.

he was already lovesick-looking.

oh, and dating spencer reid was like falling into poetry. he signed you good mornings, good afternoons, and good evenings. he annotated books for you with both little notes and signs he wanted to show you. he kissed your hands sometimes like they were the whole language he adored.

no one knew. or at least, they didn't know know. you were always signing regardless. sometimes you'd touch your fingers against his wrist and jj would just smile, thinking nothing of it. morgan was too busy making noise. hotch, well.. hotch. garcia kept shipping you with literally everyone( mostly spencer ).

the one and only rossi raised an eyebrow whenever reid would look at you for just a fraction too long.

"still think i was wrong?" he whispered one afternoon, walking past you in the corridor.

no. definitely not. but you didn't sign.

"so," rossi asked a week later at the round table, not even glancing up from his file. "you two finished sneaking around yet?"

you and spencer both stiffened.

morgan choked on his coffee. "wait, what?"

"they've been dating. for weeks now. maybe months. i don't know. you all are blind."

emily looked at you with big eyes. "what?"

you just signed,

hi.

spencer coughed. blushed. again.

"man," derek complained. "i knew something was up."

"no, you didn't," garcia chastised. "rossi knew. he always knows."

rossi just smiled, smug. "i read fast."

it was raining the night it happened. spencer had volunteered to drive you home from the jet. everyone else had already separated.

he came up with some reason to come in. books he borrowed? something along those lines( silly of him, you both just left the jet, what books ?).

the moment the door closed after him, he turned to you.

"can i kiss you?"

you nodded. a little too quickly. too eagerly.

and it was soft. soft. but also desperate. like he'd been waiting for years. your hands in his hair, and his arms tight around your waist like he couldn't believe you were real.

you took him to the couch. didn't need to utter a word. he trailed, kissing you once more like a habit. his fingers traced your jaw, your neck, down your back. your hands signed between kisses,

you're so warm.

he grinned against your mouth. "you're perfect."

it became hotter. clothes were not completely vanished but they were. relocated. his lips on your neck. your legs. your belly. and you ━━ you couldn't keep it in.

the moaned. escaped before you could shut them up. breathy, soft, but oh so there.

spencer stopped. eyes wide open. he stared up at you. you freaked out.

i'm sorry.

you signed, panicking.

"don't be," he breathed. "god, don't be. that was the most gorgeous sound i've ever heard."

and then he kissed you again, slow and once again, desperate.

you allowed him to hold you afterward. his hand beneath your shirt was warm but never inched any lower, as if he was scared of rushing you. and perhaps that's why your body trusted him.

perhaps that's why when he asked ━━ with a gentle brush of his lips against your jaw, eyes asking permission more than anything ━━ if he could kiss you again, you let him.

and it was messier this time. not the hesitant type, not the uncertain type. it was desperate, much longed for. his fingers buried in your hair, and yours gripping the nape of his neck, thumb tracing behind his ear. and the way he kissed, god, he kissed as if he was committing every curve your lips held to memory.

his glasses misted, but he didn't mind. you smiled during the kiss, teeth clashing once as he attempted to smile in return. you signed against his chest ━━ adorable. ( adorable. adorable. adorable. ) he only smiled harder.

"you're unfair," he whispered, thumb tracing the edge of your mouth. "you know what you do to me?"

tell me.

he leaned in to kiss you again. slower, softer.

"you ruin me."

in a good way?

"the best way."

somehow, you found yourself lying back on the couch. your fingers intertwined in his shirt and his weight resting carefully over you. you buried your face in his neck and kissed there. slow, soft.

he grunted ━━ not even ━━ but you felt it more than you heard it. you kissed beneath his jaw. again. again. again. you did not say a word but you were loud in other ways. he let you feel safe enough to be loud.

he whispered something akin to "jesus, you're perfect" against your cheek, and it curled your toes. his hand remained at your waist, and your leg touched his. you moved ━━ wanting more, not all, just more.

he drew back only to ask, "are you sure?"

you nodded. signed ,

yes. please.

his lips slammed against yours again.

it was still soft, but different now. a little deeper. teeth brushing, tongue dancing. he didn't force. he let you welcome him. and you did. you drew him in again and again. he kissed you like a man who'd waited months ━━ because he had.

he kissed you until your chest was heaving and your body was warmer than ever.

and when you moved again, thighs touching more, his hand crept up to cradle your cheek.

"we can stop whenever," he vowed. breathless. hopeful.

i don't want to.

he kissed your fingertips for that. soft, reverent. then your knuckles. your wrist. your pulse.

when he finally drew back, both of you were flushed and swollen-lipped. you let out a soft giggle.

so. dating?

he blinked. then laughed. his laugh is also adorable. head thrown back, nose scrunched.

"yes. very, very much dating."

cool.

you attempted to look and act cool, too, but your smile was way too wide.

"cool," he repeated.

the following week at the office, nothing changed ━━ to everyone else.

to rossi, you noticed the smirk you received from him across the conference room table.

to reid, you signed,

missed you.

while getting coffee.

he clenched his lip to keep from grinning. signed back,

me more.

morgan cocked an eyebrow from the hallway. "you two ever gonna share the inside joke or what?"

"nope," reid replied, taking a swallow and not looking at anyone.

never.

but when he strode past your desk, he touched your hand. and you looked at him like he hung the stars.

and yeah, you were still quiet.

but with him, you never had to be quiet.

© reidscherrygirl

[zennertumbles]

I think a lot of people didn't like these endings because of other reasons though, also.

I personally found a lot of SU to be pretty toothless, often, in how it grappled with the turnaround of its villains. My memory of it is so-so by now but I often remember feeling plainly unconvinced that the characters in question should have changed their minds in the circumstances presented to them, or that their journey of atonement also felt lackluster.

As for Aang and Ozai, I have definitely seen people argue, "no we should kill Hitler! Don't pretend we shouldn't kill globe conquering egomaniacs!" But I have also seen stronger points that the story places Aang in an INCREDIBLY difficult moral dilemma and rather than letting us see his choice in it, or how he plans to do what his heart tells him regardless of what problems that could still cause... he gets saved from that by deus ex dragon turtle. Now, I for one am fine with the ending of ATLA, it's already a show all about watching these kiddos navigate tough choices and the nuanced situations that war can breed, but I think that's a valid criticism.

3rd run Star Wars movies, same shit. Defected Storm trooper Finn? That's a great character concept, love to see it, they didn't give the dude nearly enough screen time. Would have loved to see more baggage of his but he cool. Kylo however? Sloppy redemption. He's on team Blowing Up Planets but we're just not gonna talk about that. F minus all the way down, movie was too damn soft on him.

I would also point to how Fullmetal Alchemist (original story) handled Scar. He's a very fascinating and complex character, who is confronted with his own actions (which come from a compelling place and are in large part carried out against war criminals, many of whom are also trying to fix their shit) and the writing really gives all of this stuff room to simmer. Scar has to choose his battles and give up his principled stance in pressured, heated moments, it feels believable. His course of action at the end of the story also feels believable, as well as how it is offered to him.

I get how chucking a villain off a cliff can be a lazy way of trying to address what harms have been done without digging into the difficult questions posed by keeping these characters around, but some of the stories that save their baddies feel just as messy and even more unsatisfying. Also I think the chucking off a cliff thing is its own interesting convo because it often feels like the direct result of a choice those characters are making, like reaching the end of a crooked course of action and insisting upon it with full ignorance to the wall they're about to run headlong into.

Sometimes I think about how and why some people had such a *bad* reaction to the end of Steven Universe, specifically in regards to the Diamonds living.

Even though they no longer are causing harm to others and are able to actually undo some of their previous harm by living, some folks reacted as though this ending was somehow morally suspect. Morally bankrupt, even.

And I think it might be because so many of us were raised on a very specific kind of kids media trope:

They all fall to their deaths.

Disney loves chucking their bad guys off cliffs. And it makes sense- in a moral framework where villains *must* be punished (regardless of whether their death will actually prevent further harm or not), but killing of any kind is morally bad for the hero, the narrative must find a way to kill the villain without the protagonists doing a murder.

It's a moral assumption that a person can *deserve* to die, that it is cosmically just for them to die, that them dying is evidence that the story itself is morally good and correct. Scar *deserves* to die, but it would be bad for Simba to kill him. So....cliff. (edit: yes, cliff then hyenas. But cliff first. Lol.)

Steven Universe, whatever else it's faults, took a step back and said "but if killing people is bad, then people dying is bad", and instead of dropping White Diamond off a cliff, asked "what would actual *restorative*, not punitive, justice look like? What would actual reparations mean here? If the goal is to heal, not just to punish, how do we handle those who have done harm?" And then did that.

Which I think is interesting, and that there was pushback against it is interesting.

It also reminds me of the folks who get very weird about Aang not killing Ozai at the end of Avatar. And like, Ozai still gets chucked in prison, so it doesn't even push back on our cultural ideas of punitive justice *that much.* and still, I've seen people get real mad that the child monk who is the last survivor of a genocide that wiped out his entire pacifist culture didn't do a murder.

[kxsagi]

OUGHHHH MAY FIRST CAME 😈 at least here in Poland. You can ignore this if it’s something you don’t wanna write btw!!!

Can I request BL men that are already pro players, and they’re dating a reader that has chronic pain and uses mobility aids because of it? And the media is super weird ab it cause how dare a pro athlete date a disabled person. Maybe he comforts her because she stumbled upon a weird ass article or a hate comment idk.

Uhhh ness shidou bachira and whoever u want 🙇‍♀️ I love you and your writing I hope you have a good day!

SORRY if this is too specific. Shout out to my fellow disabled girlies 😔✊

“𝐦𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐚 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐝”

a/n: NOOO I LOVE THIS, I LOVE YOU AND YOUR COMMENTS AND I AM SO HAPPY I GET TO WRITE THIS FOR YOU

ft. ness alexis, shidou ryusei, bachira meguru, kaiser michael, itoshi sae, itoshi rin, isagi yoichi

ness alexis

ness is literally the definition of a gentle boyfriend, so the moment he sees that one trashy gossip headline – “Pro Athlete Seen With Disabled Girlfriend: Fans Concerned?” – his jaw drops like someone just slapped him. 

“concerned for what?” he whispers like he’s in a horror movie. 

you find it first, though. you're just scrolling while curled up on the couch, using your heating pad, when you freeze mid-scroll and go, “hey, do you wanna see something funny, but soul-destroying?” 

ness peers at your phone and immediately climbs onto the couch to wrap himself around you like a human blanket. “do not let stupid people ruin your mood. you are my favorite person. also, what is this site even called? ‘goalz4gossip’? this looks like it was made by a 12-year-old with an ipad and rage issues.” 

he goes on a small rant in german under his breath and then kisses your forehead 400 times. 

“you’re literally the strongest person i know. the media can go date each other if they’re so pressed about us.” 

shidou ryusei

shidou finds a comment that says, “how is she even keeping up with a guy like him? she uses a cane 💀” and immediately screenshots it. 

not because he agrees, but because he wants to roast it on his private story. 

his post is just a screenshot with the caption: “buddy she keeps up with me just fine, she made me cry last week for stealing her fries. sit down.” 

shidou doesn’t sugarcoat stuff, but he’s aggressively supportive. like, if someone tries to come at you sideways in public, he’ll bark at them. 

literally bark. 

“you okay, babe?” he says when you look a little too quiet after seeing one of those backhanded articles. 

you shrug and say, “i’m fine,” but he doesn’t let it go. he walks over, squats in front of you, rests his chin on your lap and goes, “wanna egg their office building? or better yet, light it on fire and commit arson together?” 

instead of actually committing a felony, he picks you up bridal-style and plops you into bed. “you’re hot, you’re smarter than me, and you walk cooler than 99% of the population. who cares what some sweaty journalist thinks?” 

he also gets you custom accessories for your mobility aids with little flames or skulls ‘cause you’re metal like that. 

bachira meguru

bachira is completely unbothered by the hate. but super bothered when it makes you upset. 

like you’re sitting in the park one day and overhear someone whisper “is that her? the one with the crutches?” and he notices how you instinctively stiffen. 

he grabs your hand instantly, leans into your ear and whispers, “they’re just jealous you’ve got me wrapped around your finger.” 

always trying to turn the moment silly so you smile again. 

later, when you’re spiraling a bit in your room reading too many mean reddit comments, he flops beside you dramatically. 

“stop. too much screen. i’m gonna fart on your phone.” 

you shove him away laughing, but he tugs you close with a pout. 

“you know… they don’t get to have you. i do. and i think your pain doesn’t make you less, it just makes you stronger and cooler. like a character in an anime who gets up anyway, no matter what.” 

then he insists on decorating your mobility aids with googly eyes and doodle stickers cause “it’s armor now. i’m your sidekick. beep beep.” 

michael kaiser

he acts unbothered in public, but he absolutely loses it behind the scenes when he sees an article titled, “Can a Pro Like Kaiser Settle for Someone Like Her?” 

“settle for– oh okay. okay. no one tell my manager i’m about to commit slander with a side of defamation.” 

you find him aggressively typing in a notes app. “dear anonymous hater from 'SoccerDailyBuzz': how does it feel knowing you could never even get a date with her, much less someone who calls you ‘baby’ while making espresso at 6 AM?” 

turns his anger into sarcasm but also kisses your shoulder after every sentence to calm himself down. 

“i didn’t fall in love with your pain, but i fell in love with the way you live through it. your stubbornness, your fire, the way you still make fun of me even when you’re hurting. that’s what makes you beautiful, you know? wait, that sounds so cheesy.” 

he makes a point to show you off even more. red carpet? he’s holding your hand the whole way, mobility aid and all. interview? he’s saying “my girlfriend is the strongest person i know” before anyone even asks. 

he sees your worth so clearly. and he makes damn sure everyone else does, too. 

itoshi sae

sae’s already got a reputation for being cold and unbothered, so people are shocked when he’s openly soft around you. 

he doesn’t do PDA or gush about you on TV, but the way he always slows his pace to walk beside you, carries your bag without a word, and makes sure you’re seated comfortably before interviews, it’s noticed. and, of course, dissected. 

you show him a headline that says, “What’s Sae Itoshi Doing With Someone Who Can’t Even Keep Up?” 

and he reads it with a completely neutral expression, then tosses your phone face-down on the table and goes, “well, that’s funny. you seem to keep up just fine when you’re lecturing me at 2 AM about leaving the stove on.” 

you burst out laughing, but he looks at you with the tiniest furrow in his brow. “does it bother you?” he asks quietly. 

you admit it hurts a little. and he just nods, slides over, and presses his forehead to yours. 

“they don’t get to know you. they don’t see how hard you fight. how much you endure. they don’t see you the way i do. and that’s their loss.” 

next time you two are seen in public, he’s the one walking with your cane slung over his shoulder like a sword. the caption on the paparazzi pic reads: “new accessory or relationship statement?” yes. yes to both.

itoshi rin

rin already hates the media, so this gives him another reason to despise them. 

when someone tweets, “idk i just think it’s weird for a high-performing athlete to date someone who can’t even do sports,” he literally glares at your phone like it personally insulted him. 

“what the hell does that even mean. i can’t do ballet, but i’m not out here judging people who can.” 

he’s blunt, but he’s furious on your behalf. he’s also the type to go down the rabbit hole of comments and get angrier by the second. 

when you try to downplay it – “it’s fine, i’m used to it” – he looks at you like you just said gravity isn’t real. 

“don’t do that. don’t act like you have to take it just because people are cruel. they’re wrong.” 

then, more softly: “you’re… more than what your body lets you do. and i fell in love with you, not your physical stats.” 

rin shows his love by doing things for you. adjusting your seat. finding the best accessible routes. learning how to help without hovering. 

someone once asked him in an interview, “how does your girlfriend feel about not being able to travel as easily to your matches?” 

rin deadpans: “she’s the reason i win. so unless you’d like to speak directly to my motivation, maybe pick a better question next time.” 

isagi yoichi

isagi is the type who genuinely doesn’t understand how people can be so heartless. 

like he reads one awful comment and goes, “... do they think you’re not allowed to be loved?” with genuine confusion in his voice. 

he’s devastated that you saw it. “you shouldn’t have to read stuff like that. i promise i’ll protect you from it all.” 

you shrug and tell him you’re used to it, and he immediately goes into ‘motivational team captain’ mode. 

“you being used to it doesn’t mean you have to accept it. people suck. you’re brilliant, and funny, and beautiful, and strong in a way most people will never understand. and you don’t have to prove your worth to anyone.” 

he holds your hand tighter when you’re out in public. makes a habit of stopping to adjust your pace so you’re never rushed. 

also, he subtly drags anyone who says anything ableist during interviews. 

“a lot of people think strength is just about running or scoring goals, but i’ve learned from my partner that real strength is showing up every day, even when your body fights you. that’s the kind of strength i look up to.” 

cue the internet sobbing. cue you sobbing. cue him also sobbing because he made you cry and didn’t mean to. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[openhandsanyway]

My phannie thoughts of the day:

I am mourning a project that was never gonna exist and that nobody except for me has ever even dreamed about: Dan and Phil animated "bro"mance... on Tubeclash!

Okay, so. Tubeclash was a German Youtube webseries back around 2014-2016. The concept was that it would be like a reality tv show with famous German youtubers including audiences voting for stuff, except it was entirely animated.

The creators were three guys with some background in animation and filmmaking who were otherwise just fans themselves. They would write, animate and dub one episode PER WEEK (insane schedule) and people got to suggest plot points for the next episodes in the comment section.

If you watched any amount of German youtube back in the day, you know that this was a huge thing. Each episode got over a million views, and many of the famous youtubers who were depicted in it were actively participating in the comments.

There was never an English version, but IF THERE HAD BEEN one I am 1000% sure that Dan and Phil would have been in it and they would have been the main characters. Which youtubers made it onto the show was decided via audience voting, as well as how quickly they were eliminated, and the phandom would have had that in the bag.

But here comes the best part: All seasons of Tubeclash ended up centering around a "bromance". Two male best friend youtubers who were shipped irl and who were pitted against each other for drama by the plot of the show.

This could have been cringe in so many ways, but it was actually neither weird/fetishistic nor was it mocking shippers. Two of the animators were, and still are, a real life gay couple (which you could reeeeally tell from how they drew male and female bodies lol). So they approached these plotlines with some amount of emotional sincerity, as deep friendships, just with some homoerotic tension.

And I don't need to tell you why Dan and Phil would have been perfect for this.

The creators never crossed the line, they never made these youtubers kiss in animation or stuff like that, but there were hugs and hand holding and dramatic fighting and making up again and okay, some shirtless guys and big bulges in pants...

It was a product of its time and it was never gonna be a thing internationally, but damn it, I think it would have been really cool.

[dick-meister]

I’m unhappy.

This is gonna be the last time I say something about this so I don’t sound like a broken record player but this is gonna have all my thoughts I’ve been having recently about Adam, this fandom and so on.

First, I want it to be known that everything said here doesn’t apply to everyone and that a lot of this is built up frustration that’s reached a point where I cannot stay silent anymore. This stuff is supposed to be fun, I shouldn’t care so much and yet here I am.

I love writing Adam. I’ve always loved it and I still do now but I’m upset with how he’s treated and some of that blame falls to me, I understand that. I don’t like pushing boundaries, I don’t like making people uncomfortable and I try to remain realistic and balanced to everything that I do when it comes to RP. And maybe it’s because of that approach I’m in this position because I feel that many abuse that and see my character/characters as something to use in order to bolster the superiority of their own muses.

It’s the worst when it comes to Adam. I feel like most interactions boil down to making him or both muses miserable or antagonistic prodding between muses that go no where. I feel like I’m at a point where if Adam even breathes he’ll be ridiculed or scoffed at. He can’t tell a harmless joke without it being taken offensively, he can’t make any kind of comment about anyone at all ever because once again, it’d be scrutinized and go beyond banter.

If I allow him to get angry and lash out, he’s in the wrong. If I don’t let him get angry and lash out he’s in the wrong. No matter what he does, he’s in the wrong and the people I had to talk to about these things and relate to that no longer relate or don’t talk about it and that sucks. So it just feels suffocating and like a constant air of doom at all times no matter what interaction I have. Like a ticking time bomb that at any point, even if it’s a nice thread, it’ll go to the wayside.

It’s hard to come on here and feel like I’m walking on a thin line or that I need to be the one to change the direction a thread is headed or put in the effort to keep a thread from dropping because how many times do you think I’m willing to do a thread that goes

Adam: *Makes comment*

Someone: *You’re awful and you should feel bad.*

Adam: *Cool*

End interaction.

Like. This isn’t fun and makes me feel secluded to the point where I cannot muster the strength to send asks to people who I know like my muse let alone people who are new/have a certain negative dynamic.

I put so much time and effort to make a muse that could be agreeable, that could make you question moralities and junk like that but it feels like more and more each day people are here to just get a one up on Adam and that’s it. Im tired.

Im sad that when there’s like a mini thing going on with Adam that requires help from outside support, he’s let down by those who can help but choose not to (This is based off IC interactions by people who were participating not those who didn’t see/didn’t want to participate.) it was to the point where people who didn’t meet certain criteria to help considered making new muses to help which is nice and I fully appreciate it so much but the fact that it needed to get to that point in the first place is just… Sad. Idk how to properly explain it.

Unholy Crusade took a massive toll on me as an Adam RPer, it took a toll on a lot of people but it messed me up and I think that’s where a lot of this stems from. Starting that with a poly only to end up abandoned by said poly and having to deal with feeling excluded, neglected and abandoned really messed up my feelings with the verse. I love it, I love the conclusions people had but the road to get there was such a painful journey that is not recoverable and has had rippling effects throughout how my muse treats relationships, group verses and more.

I don’t really have much more to say other than small knit picking things. I’m just exhausted playing a character that is just doomed either by his own actions or actions done by others for the sake of self gratification.

Im sorry to anyone if I forced my muse onto you where he wasn’t welcomed. Im sorry if our RPing experience has made you feel uncomfortable/upset/hurt or any other negatives. It’s not my goal, I’d hate to do to someone else what I feel is being done to me.

Going forward, I’m gonna still be RPing off and on with verses I’m comfortable with and muses I’m comfortable interacting with. I’m gonna be aiming to staying away from dash comms and all that. I won’t be taking a break or announcing a hiatus or anything because I still want to interact but I just needed to vent. I needed to get this out. Even if this is all just a byproduct of my own doing or depression or anything else. This is where my head is at, this is how I feel, I don’t want anyone to change their character for me, I don’t want anyone to do anything special for me I just want people to be conscious of how much shit they’re throwing my way or anyone’s way.

It’s one thing to want and love angst all the time but it’s another to do angst and have 0 recovery through it or expect only angst out of the other person.

I know this is all a mess of paragraphs and feelings but it’s the best I can really do right now. If you made it this far, thank you, I appreciate you reading my words and I hope you have a good day.

[murderandjambalaya]

Stick figure hcs!!!

It’s been a while since I got on tumblr and I STILL haven't posted, like, anything about my hcs (except for old writing from before I switched accts & devices but SHUSH WE’RE NOT LOOKING AT THOSE), so here’s some stick-focused world building stuff (mostly the hollowheads)!

rambles. Very much rambles. Only some coherent rambles. This is your only warning.

WTF IS A GENDER

Most sticks are closer to drawings or computer programs than humans, and their perception of gender reflects this! A few sticks across the outernet might take on more traditionally human genders, but most sticks see gender and pronouns as a fluid extension of their personality and self-expression. How attached a stick is to their gender varies from each individual to the next. That being said, most stick figure “genders” are more like pronouns (or lack of them) + flavors. My flavor hcs for the sticks (or at least the ones I have a clear idea of) are: (EDIT - this was supposed to be gender flavors and it slowly flew away from that but it’s long enough that I don’t want to delete it. I am so sorry.)

Red- uses she/he, cat videos, brainrot, bright blue artificial dye, time-out corner, three yo-yos at once

Orange- uses xe/xem, Yippee, Power of Friendship, orange juice mixed with caffeine in a Monster Energy can, loaf of bread, Take On Me music video but make it cosmic horror

Yellow- uses she/they, raccoon covered in car grease holding a wrench, ridiculously thick goggles+gloves, tism, curious. A bit too curious. Why are you googling “how to get away with arson.”

Green- uses he/him, disaster bi, theater kid (only derogatory during the influencer arc), WHAT’S UP DEMONS, it’s ME, yaoiYA BOI, Siren by Kailee Morgue

Blue- uses all prns, witchcore, “my farmer gf- or as I like to call her, my crop top,” if their eyes open yk you’re fucked, LET HIM COOOKKKK, rhubarb & lemon, Willow from ToH, 🫵rehab

Ourple- uses he/they, moth, capitalism, product is dairy free (father has not returned with the milk yet), “hello, Zuko here,” you’re literally broke how do you have so many suits, anxiety, Cavetown, flower crowns, psychological warfare, “DO YOU EVER FEEL LIKE A PLASTIC BAG*ugly sobbing*”, birb. Birb is love. Birb is life. grisp the birb.

Chosen- uses he/him (anything but ‘it’), Shadow the Hedgehog, Falling in Reverse, Transcendental Cha Cha by Tom Cardy but make it the seven stages of grief, Sobbing on the Ground, *pac man noises*, traumacore, Alan gave me depression bc he knew otherwise I would beat him in hand-to-hand combat at 14, eats pizza crust-first, coffee as dark and bitter as my soul, cornered stray dog, 🇺🇸F🇺🇸R🇺🇸E🇺🇸E🇺🇸D🇺🇸O🇺🇸M🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🦅🦅🇺🇸🇺🇸🍔🍔🍔🍔🍟🍟🍔🦅🦅🇺🇸🇺🇸

Dark- uses he/they (‘it’ when the mission code is in control), Murder, “spider-man, spider-man, does whatever a- OH NO NOT THE CHILDREN,” the crackling sound of a circuit board being broken in half and emitting sparks, ✨extra✨, shoplifting from Hot Topic on a Thursday, I’m Gonna Kill Santa Clause by Danny Gonzalez, masculine but like in a peacock way, knife pronounced “kuh-NIFF-eey”, chaos, the Sillies (aka bloodlust so strong I could commit a felony. Perhaps even multiple felonies.)

Vic- uses she/her (annoying local qpr always wearing the same gender), a woman politician???!!/pos, I’ve been near you for five whole minutes when are you going to murder me already, wet cat, tears, fluffy blankets, bones, space, I miss my wife, Tails. I miss her a lot.

MT- uses he/him, musty crusty Old Man, *eyebrows widen in surprise*, Flashbacks to The War, beefing with literal children, Dad Jokes, dust, depression

Agent- no time to Gender, never beating the loyal dog allegations, lost all whimsy in The Great Fire of 1941, “I just wanna be part of your SYMPHONYYYY,” ink, crunchy, fucked-up lil guy/w bg explosions for dramatic effect, IM SMITH SHADY YES IM THE REAL SHADY ALL YOU OTHER SMITH SHADIES ARE JUST IMITATING SO WONT THE REAL SMITH SHADY PLEASE STAND UP PLEASE STAND UP PLEASE STAND UP

Mitsi- uses she/her, Girlboss, actually the woman ever, paint, daffodils, ashes, earl grey tea, :3 “friend-shaped”

Gold- uses all prns, ash baby, space but it’s a liquid that will suck you into it, LET ME OUT, crayons, cotton, sunlight, glitter, sand, Minecraft end poem

Corndog guy- money, corndogs, repressed godhood, Pink Pony Club by Chappell Roan

Did any of that make any sense? Admittedly, no. Am I saying that if you bit into Red, you would taste artificial blue dye and cat videos? Yes. Absolutely. For added fun, read these like Ao3 tags.

WTF ARE THE HOLLOWHEADS

In my hcs, the hollowheads are not siblings *coughcoughchodarkpropaganda*. However, Vic and Cho are practically twins. Why? A hollowhead’s physical appearance (since I usually draw them like Fleshy Human People) is mostly determined by their creator’s intentions when creating them. Alan can only see them in stick form, so their appearance being shaped by his intentions is kinda like how ppl have hcs of their ocs that are still a part of them even though they’re only in the creator’s head and haven’t been drawn yet. Vic and Cho are so similar bc they’re only in we’re both drawn as punching bags, even though Cho was a challenge and Vic was a training dummy. Sec didn’t actually have a comprehensible mortal form until xey found RGBY (just picture an Eldridge Horror exploring Alanspc when TSC was first introduced) bc Alan created xem without any intent to make xem alive or any idea of what xey’d be for who xey’d be, so TSC is Art. Literally. Xey embody art itself. That’s why xeir whole green glowy power is so effective, it’s not meant to be an offensive measure, but a large part of the outernet IS art, so xey have a very wide range of control (or xey would have, if it was what xe wanted when xe realized it. Xey find more purpose and joy in just existing with xeir friends. Xey connect and create. It’s xeir whole thing).

A hollowhead’s appearance is also heavily shaped by the attachments they make, most notably their secondary colors. Their second color reflects the deepest attachment they make. When a hollowhead is first created, before they make any attachments, their second color is clear. The hollowheads’ pupil/irises being different colors would also make them blind until they form an attachment (light passes through clear stuff instead of being absorbed by it), and by that logic, even while attached, most hollowheads are some form of colorblind. Vic has never not been blind while Dark is the only hollowhead with Rainbow Premium™️. Second’s secondary color is Green, Chosen’s is red, Dark’s is black, and Vic’s was white but faded mostly back to clear with hints of silver (after Misti’s death, Vic kinda self-isolated and got addicted to the VR memory tech). Attachments forming appearances is also the reason why Sec is the only one with a cursor ahoogie. Vic has a large, cursor-shaped scar on their back. It fades while Mitsi helps her heal, but starts growing again once she starts blaming the cursor for Mitsi’s death. Sometimes, during her really bad flashbacks, her old cursor scars will start to show up on her skin, even though she has a new body with no scars each time she’s drawn. Chosen still has all his cursor scars. They function like normal scars. During his terrorist years, Cho also gained a “halo” after seeing the one on the Angel of Death poster. With each attack, he’d gain a few small, jagged, triangular red arrows floating around his head. Dark thought they looked cool, but Chosen would sometimes feel like they were poking him. Cho would gain more arrows per attack as the destruction went on, having an overcrowded full-on halo by the time he stopped killing sticks. It hurts a lot, these days. Sometimes, when the sunlight hits it just right, the halo flashed purple. Although his other powers remained unaffected, Chosen’s fire started to burn a little redder after escaping the PC. After the Showdown, it sometimes burns his hands. Just a little, not so much that he can’t use it anymore. It just hurts when he does. The same thing happened with Dark’s fireballs. They got darker as time went on. Dark only has a few scars. The star-shaped one on his neck only gets deeper. When under the mission code’s influence, Dark’s secondary color reverts to clear and the whites of their eyes go black. With the virabands on, Dark’s pupil/irises turn red. During the Showdown, they had red pupils and black eyes. The virabands also project six small screens in front of their face which look like eyes with the same coloration. These projections act as a targeting system for the virabots, give quick stats on how many are functional, track the location of the other band if only one is being worn, and look really fucking cool (according to Dark).

OK THAT’S PROBABLY ENOUGH FOR ONE POST, thanks for coming to my Ted Talk!

[unordinary-diary]

Blyke and John: the Followup

In my last entry, I pointed out the similarities between chapters 249 and 121, but I had hit the image limit and wasn’t able to embed screenshots. I got around this by linking the chapters, but this is probably my favorite parallel, and to do it justice I think I need to really put them next to each other.

(121) (249)

(121) (249)

(121) (249)

(121) (249)

(121) (249)

(121) (249)

(121) (249)

(121) (249)

(121) (249)

(121) (249)

(121) (249)

(121) (249)

(121) (249)

It’s the same fucking scene but backwards and in a different font.

They’re the SAAAAAAAAAAME!!!!!!!!

This was definitely on purpose. Shit like this ^^ doesn’t happen by accident.

[cherryapplefish]

It’s summer when he gets down on one knee.

Summer when eyes like the sunrise you watched together this morning look up at you with hope and love as if he shouldn’t already know the answer.

Summer when your throat closes up, tears brimming in your eyes, and whether it’s the heat of the sun or the blood rushing to your cheeks, your face burns.

And it’s always been summer. Always been summer when you’ve made your most cherished memories.

Melted popsicles on small hands. Sweat running down the back of your neck. Caleb by your side.

It’s always been summer when he took you by the hand and dragged you out to watch fireworks. It’s always been summer when you sat under the stars while he babbled about the different constellations and going beyond the deep space tunnel. It’s always been summer when you looked up at him and realized that you want him by your side for the rest of your life, whatever that means.

It’s summer when Caleb gets down on one knee, a velvet box holding a silver ring in one hand, and asks:

“Will you marry me?”

[plasticflowersinahistorycemetery]

ISA'S DONE IT AGAIN, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!!!!! i'm about to write my dissertation under the cut x

flowers in the attic being a whole ass vibe. i swear i was getting it before you even wrote the book title in there and then it came up and i was like !!!!!! holy shit!

the time skipping made me feel things.

bobby singer has my whole entire heart and always will. i've said it a thousand times already but i am such a bobby girl. like... wait:

when you accidentally roamed around Bobby Singer’s house and overheard him talking to someone on the phone about “Sam and Dean deserve better, John”

okay, but tell me why i started crying. you have literally made me cry too many times and i love the pain.

Three years go by. You grow up, and so does your body. You read more fucked-up books, listen to even more fucked-up music. Your style shifts from church-girl to church-girl-who-listens-to-Nine-Inch-Nails. You keep your flowy white dresses but add leather bracelets and combat boots. You learn how to handle a butterfly knife, become something of a cinephile, and—maybe most importantly—get prettier.

is... is she... me? because... i'm telling you, isa. this feels so me-coded. i'm gonna scream. churchy-core girly, reading fucked up books in secret, listening to metal and rock music in secret. THE BUTTERFLY KNIFE???? (we've spoken about my proclivity for balisongs, have we not?)

all the books written in here are some of my genuine favourite books. isa, i love this reader so much. i don't think i've ever related to one more. your mind fascinates me.

You want him to take you in his hands and disassemble you like one of his rifles, strip you down into pieces and suck the rot from your bones, then put you back together however he wants. However he needs.

AHHHHHHH!!!! can you hear me? i'm SCREAMING. the poetry here made my heart try to escape. i have butterflies.

isa. isa isa isa isa. this is art. i cannot wait for the rest of this series. <3

His window’s already passed, so he’s shooting at the glass.⋆˚࿔

WARNINGS: teenage angst. mentions of underage smoking. possible misrepresentation of the midwest. time jumps. 4.4k

Sioux Falls is a quiet town, mostly. 

Especially if you live on the outskirts. A few cars drive by, the laughter of children playing on the street reaches you sometimes, and occasionally, the salvage yard next to your house interrupts the silence—but never long enough for it to matter.

That’s why, when a loud gunshot suddenly rumbles through the air, you almost jump out of your skin.

You have a habit of climbing through your bedroom window and sitting on the tilted roof, enjoying the feeling of sun-warmed clay tiles under your bare thighs and the cool breeze that comes at this height, so much better than the humid, suffocating air closer to the ground.

You catch your paperback before it plunges into the front yard and quickly sweep your eyes around, trying to figure out if you should run and hide before a stray bullet finds you. From here, you have a pretty good view of your surroundings. You can make out the edge of town in the distance, and you have a perfect view of the nearby houses. Including the salvage yard.

In the middle of it, looking tiny between all the broken car parts and old machines, is a boy. He looks a little older than you—around twelve. He’s pouting, at least from what you can make out, arms crossed like he’s about to stomp his feet on the ground. There’s also a fresh wound on his cheekbone, still bloody and raw.

Next to him stands Bobby Singer, the owner of the salvage yard. He’s the one with the gun in hand, seemingly explaining how to aim.

You frown, squinting to get a clearer view. Who teaches a barely teenage boy how to shoot? But you’d learned how to walk around your house without making the floor creak, and how to scrub vomit out of the carpet by the time you were seven—so maybe it isn’t your place to judge.

You watch curiously as Bobby hands the boy the gun, pointing toward a line of cans on top of a rotting car. The boy huffs but takes it. He aims, his pout vanishing, replaced by pure concentration.

You consider hiding, just in case, but the cans are lined up to your left, not toward your house, and you doubt a bullet would ricochet that far. So you keep watching, quiet and careful—like a ghost.

The boy aims, and there’s a moment of silence. Then, a loud bang makes you flinch, even though you were expecting it. It’s followed by another, then another, and one more. Once it stops, all the cans are on the ground, and the boy wears a proud little grin on his face.

That’s not the last time you see him.

Every day, you walk home from whatever you did that day—going to church, picking something up for dinner at the corner store because your mother was passed out and forgot to cook, a trip to the local library—and climb onto your roof, your worn-out copy of Flowers in the Attic in hand, even though you know you’ll probably end up not reading.

Because just a few minutes in, he would emerge from the salvage yard. Ripped jeans, an old t-shirt, always frowning. Sometimes, he’d practice shooting again. Other times, he’d just walk around, kicking at old metal junk and complaining about something, startling you with the loud clatter.

Sometimes, behind him, there would be another boy. Younger, maybe a year or two younger than you. The tiny boy would follow the older one around like a lost puppy, rambling about something, or sometimes even reading a book himself. His younger brother, you assume. Maybe a cousin.

Those are your favorite afternoons. Because the older boy stops frowning, his steps become more secure and less angry, his movements gentler, and the way words leave his mouth softer. He stops kicking around trash, stops the resounding bangs disturbing the peace, stops fighting. Instead, you're left to listen to the soft whispering of the breeze whooshing through the trees as you watch carefully, as the two boys play around.

They throw their heads back in laughter, only a phantom of it reaching your ears. The little one tries to jump the older one, and they start to play-fight on the dirt. Then they lay down on the ground, soaking up the sunlight that softly kisses their faces.

They look peaceful. The older boy looks like a kid again, the grin he wore from handling the gun replaced with something softer, sweeter, warmer.

The sight fills you with something thick and poisonous. It washes down your throat, wrapping around your insides. It festers, rotting you from the inside out. But you keep watching.

It isn’t until a few years later that you begin to recognize it as yearning.

Three years have gone by, and you're just as alone and ghostly as you were back then.

After another long day at school—of not talking to anyone, hiding in the shadows, silently observing your peers act like animals just let out of their cages—you crawl back onto the roof outside your bedroom.

You try to suppress the flickering hope igniting in your chest, keeping your eyes glued to The Secret History in your hands instead of letting them wander to the empty salvage yard.

Dean—you learned the boy's name just a few days after he disappeared for the first time, when you accidentally roamed around Bobby Singer’s house and overheard him talking to someone on the phone about “Sam and Dean deserve better, John”—has the tendency to materialize when you least expect it.

You know the older boy is Dean because, on one chilly autumn when you were eleven—when it was way too cold to be outside, but the brothers had come back after being gone for months, so you sat on the roof, slowly freezing to death—you had been listening to music on your walkman, one headphone pulled away from your ear to catch any stray whisper of laughter or joyful screaming.

Your eyes were focused on the sketchbook in your hands when a screech, piercing through the air and reaching you like thunder, made you drop your pencil into the hydrangea bushes below and look up so abruptly that your neck cracked.

“Sammy!”

Your eyes quickly found the younger boy, who looked like he'd just fallen off one of the car piles, lying on the ground, holding his wrist and sobbing. The older boy ran to him, looking at the bridge of tears, but at the sight of his brother’s distress, he changed. His shoulders squared, his face neutralized, and he seemed to stand taller. A leather mask slipped over his youthful face and transformed him into someone older. It felt unnatural. The look in his eyes made you feel both protected and warm, but a crushing sadness flooded your chest at the same time.

Now, at thirteen, you’ve learned not to wait for Dean.

He and his brother come and go all the time, sometimes visiting Bobby for a day, sometimes staying for weeks. There’s no pattern to follow, no warning signs. It could be early in the day, in the dead of night. Around Christmas or when the flowers are blooming—or once, right in the middle of Halloween.

Every time, you sit on the safety of your roof and watch. You see a black, classic car drop them off. Sometimes the man walks in with the boys, sometimes he barely waits for them to climb out of the car before speeding away.

Every time, Dean looks angry.

Is it creepy to be so aware of the brothers? Maybe, yeah.

But to be fair, you used to sit in this exact spot long before the boy with the gun ever showed up.

All you know is that the sight of Dean makes the loneliness in your heart feel both lighter and more suffocating at the same time. It makes your heart flutter, but your stomach drop. He’s like sweet, thick honey washing down your throat, luscious and sickening.

You try not to perk up when you hear tires scratching against the asphalt of Bobby’s driveway.

Still, you peek over the edge of your novel, gnawing at your lower lip—already bleeding from earlier in the day.

The car stops. The boys slide out. The car leaves. 

A quick drop-off, then.

Your eyes find Dean immediately, and something inside your chest snarls like a starving animal.

His face has matured quickly, chubby cheeks replaced by sharp cheekbones by the age of fifteen. He’s taller, his back broader, and he has a few new visible scars. His old shirts have been traded for a worn-out camo jacket, and his holed-up sneakers became combat boots. His hair has grown a little longer, not as blond as it used to be but still a honey color. His grasp on the gun now in his pocket is more comfortable, his movements more aggressive but less impulsive. Confident, smug, precise.

Sam looks about the same as he did that first day, just a bit taller.

As always, both of them walk into the house without sparing you a glance. You’re pretty sure neither of the brothers has noticed your stalker tendencies yet.

Good. Because the only thing worse than Dean not knowing who you are… is him being aware of your existence.

You read until it gets too dark, then crawl back inside your bedroom. No sign of the brothers that day—or the next.

But on Thursday, they’re already in the salvage yard by the time you sit on the roof. Dean seems to be teaching Sam… bow-hunting? Who even bow-hunts anymore?

Either way, they’re arguing. Sam keeps pointing at a half-deflated soccer ball while Dean tries to get him to grab the bow. It looks handmade, the wood clumsily carved and the string a little too loose—at least from what you’ve read bows are supposed to look like. 

That’s when you accidentally kick one of the clay tiles loose. It clatters to the ground and shatters loud enough for Dean to whip around. You freeze. The only sounds reaching your ears being the rustling wind against your white dress and the pounding of your heart.

Dean turns like a predator, like he’s ready to annihilate whatever’s in his way. Like a hunter.

You feel the weight of his green eyes even from a distance, pinning you in place and stealing the air from your lungs. His expression is unreadable, alert. His grip on the bow tightens slightly. He studies you for a moment, then decides you’re not a threat.

Still, his gaze lingers—not soft, not warm, not gentle. Not the way he looks at Sam or even Bobby sometimes when they’re talking over car parts. No. This look is analytical. Detached. Almost bored.

You stare back, wild hair dancing in the breeze and wide eyes, like a trembling doe staring down the barrel of a loaded gun.

Next to Dean, Sam moves. He turns his head, searching for what his brother is looking at, finding you on the roof of the house next door. He feels safer, so your eyes dart to him. Still scared, still caught. 

But Sam just gives you a bright smile, raising his hand and waving. It’s so unexpected that you need a few seconds to react. You shakily wave back, managing your best smile.

Sam deems it good enough. He opens his mouth to say something, then seems to realize his voice won’t reach you. He looks around, trying to figure out a way to communicate, and it makes your heart skip a beat. 

Oh, he wants to talk to you. You’re not used to that.

But that’s when Dean finally peels his eyes off you. He turns to his brother, a small smile appearing on his face at Sam’s actions. It makes your breath catch. He smacks Sam’s shoulder lightly, then tries to hand him the bow again.

This time, Sam grabs it.

They turn around and start practicing, and you're so shaken by the encounter that you slide back into your room and, for the first time in years, close the curtains.

The rest of the evening is spent with you staring at the ceiling, playing your favorite mixtape on your Walkman, and letting your mind wander. You dream of green eyes and skilled hands. Of camo jackets and pocket pistols. Of soft smiles and hard stares. You dream of Dean, wondering if he’s thinking of you, too.

You assume he wasn’t, because for the next few days, Dean doesn’t glance your way again. Every time he steps into the salvage yard, it’s as if that afternoon never happened. He helps Bobby fix a car or fiddles with one of his own. He practices shooting, bow-hunting, or even knife throwing—seriously, what kind of kids are these?—but he never looks at you.

Sam, though, does. The first thing he does when stepping out of the house is look toward yours. When he sees you there, book or sketchbook in hand, he raises his arm as high as he can and waves. You always wave back, less nervously each day.

He does it on Friday, and Saturday, and Sunday. Then, the next week, he doesn’t come out of the house.

Screams echo from Bobby’s house. They don’t sound like young voices—probably Bobby arguing with some other adult. Maybe the man who drops off the boys, or that pesky neighbor who lets his pet rabbit eat everyone’s gardens and poop all over their front porches.

But after that, you don’t see the boys again.

You force any disappointment out of your chest. It’s okay. It’s not like you’d ever actually talk to them. Dean is clearly too old for you, too cool, too… not weird.

It’s okay. It would only become another item on the long list of things you couldn’t have.

Three years go by. You grow up, and so does your body. You read more fucked-up books, listen to even more fucked-up music. Your style shifts from church-girl to church-girl-who-listens-to-Nine-Inch-Nails. You keep your flowy white dresses but add leather bracelets and combat boots. You learn how to handle a butterfly knife, become something of a cinephile, and—maybe most importantly—get prettier.

You learn how to handle yourself. You’re still quiet and eerie, but you’re not trembling anymore. You still have no friends, still hate everyone from your school, still spend far too much time on the roof. But now, you know how to do your makeup, and how to find and collect bones from decaying animals, and how to survive off of mac n cheese and cigarettes.

It’s another torturous day of high school. Junior year, and your classmates still act like kindergarteners. Finally, it’s your last period. Philosophy—a class that gives the stuck-up douchebags a chance to talk out of their asses with pretentious words they don’t even understand, and the football douchebags a chance to make low-hanging jokes and moan noises. Both types will find any excuse to slip in a misogynistic comment, so you just zone out and try to survive.

You sit at the back of the classroom, staring out the window, waiting for the hellish torture to begin.

“Good day, class,” the teacher—some old white lady who loves to turn every discussion into something about God—announces from the front of the room. “Please, everyone welcome our new transfer student, Dean Winchester.”

The name makes you whip around like an owl, heart nearly pounding out of your chest. And there he is, in all his glory. Dean.

He looks like he’s spent the last three years on the West Coast, his hair returned to that sandy blond shade he had as a kid, sun-bleached and wind-tousled. His skin is golden, tanned, sun-kissed—making the scar on his right cheekbone stand out even more. His eyes are just as green, his posture just as relaxed, and his grin just a touch meaner. He looks mostly the same, just taller and, for lack of a better word, hotter.

The girls in the back start to whisper. The stuck-up guys judge his worn-out jacket and peeling combat boots. One of the meatheads in the front row even fist-bumps him. Dean stays nonchalant, just like he was that day he stared up at you.

He looks around the room with confidence, and then his eyes meet yours.

You immediately snap your gaze back to the window, your heart ready to jump out of your throat and straight to the floor.

Dean Winchester, the boy with the gun, is back. And this time, he’s in your school, which suggests something more long-term. You try to stomp out the sparks of hope already flaring in your chest, smothering them before they catch.

Even if he’s staying, he’ll never want to talk to you.

A chair screeches against the floor beside you, making you jump. From the corner of your eye, you catch Dean settling into the empty seat next to yours. There are two open spots at the front, but he chooses this one.

He probably just prefers sitting in the back, you tell yourself.

You keep your eyes glued to the board for the entire period. You don’t waver, don’t even think about turning his way. Your shoulders stay tense, your hands tremble, your mouth is dry.

The second the bell rings, you bolt.

That day, you don’t crawl out of your window. Because Dean Winchester is back—the boy who has shamefully plagued your daydreams and nightmares for the past few years. The boy who made the beast in your chest growl and lay down, tummy up. The boy who inspired the first page of your sad-girl poetry journal. The one who made you feel weird and dewy for the very first time. He’s back.

For the next whole week, you continue to evade Dean. You watch him from your locker as he chats up a cheerleader—then quickly walk away. You see him greet Sam in the hallway before slipping into the bathroom to avoid them both. You walk home glancing over your shoulder, making sure he isn’t behind you. In class, you ignore his casual glances like your life depends on it.

Maybe he remembers you. You can't be sure, but just in case, you keep your face hidden behind your hair or your book. That silly childhood crush and the thick smoke of old yearning in your lungs mix with new sensations. The shiver that runs up your spine at the sound of his voice. The tingle in your thighs when you catch sight of his hands fidgeting with a pencil—silver ring on his middle finger. The way your legs clench and something low in your core heats up when you watch him shoot, now from inside the window.

It’s a week later when, as you make your way down the front stairs of the school, a figure appears in your periphery.

You turn your head, startled, still all doe eyes and bitten-raw lips.

There, standing beside you, is Dean. He’s wearing the same camo jacket he did back then, but the necklace is new. Or maybe you just never caught sight of it from a distance. He also smells good, like cigarettes and something a little bitter. Like gunpowder. Like death. 

You stare at him with a blank expression, freaking out on the inside. He chuckles, clearly amused by your empty look and tense posture.

“You live in the house across from Bobby’s, right?”

There’s an easy smile on his face, and the fact that it’s directed at you has the rabid animal in your chest salivating. You nod before you even fully register the question.

“Cool, so we’re heading the same way.”

You want to say something—anything—but instead, you just nod again, turn around, and start walking.

You hear quick steps behind you, then Dean catches up, hands in his pockets and a lazy strut that contrasts with your tight, calculated pace and clenched jaw.

You grab your Walkman, slipping on your headphones before you even think about how rude that might seem. Awkwardly, you tug back the ear cup on the side facing Dean, hoping it’s enough of a sign that you’re not trying to push him away.

If he notices your nervous fumbling, he doesn’t show it.

“I’m Dean Winchester,” he says, like you don’t already know. “We’ve got last period together, I think. What’s your name?”

You mutter it, too quiet the first time, and have to repeat yourself. God, you hate people who are good at small talk—or any kind of talk, really.

You walk the next two blocks in silence before Dean speaks again.

“What are you reading?” He points at the book tightly clutched in your hand.

That’s a safe topic, so you finally turn to face him and stutter your way through a short, hesitant summary of The Virgin Suicides. From there, the conversation doesn’t exactly take off—but it doesn’t die either.

Mostly, Dean talks. He admits that he doesn’t do much reading but loves watching movies, and how he’s been kind of into horror lately. Your heart jumps out of your chest, and you mutter back about how you love horror anything. 

You want to ask him what his favorite movie is, but something wraps around your throat—cutting and painful, like barbed wire—and it stops you from saying anything. He isn’t deterred by the lack of response.

He keeps poking fun at movie stereotypes, then shifts to your classmates. All you can do is giggle and nod. Because you agree. Because when he calls the pretentious asshole from philosophy Richie Rich and mocks his obnoxious use of the phrase “let me play devil’s advocate for a second,” you want nothing more than to join in.

Instead, you open your mouth, close it again, then open it once more, and by then it’s too late. So you just chuckle, nod, and look away. The laughs seem to be good enough, though, because Dean keeps talking all the way until you reach the path that splits the salvage yard from the rest of the neighborhood.

“Uhm—my house is that way.” Your voice is barely louder than a whisper, almost lost in the distant sound of a waterfall crashing against rocks. You point to your right, down the smaller path you’re standing at—the opposite direction of Bobby’s.

“Let’s go, then.” Dean shrugs and starts to walk past you.

“You—” you pause, clear your throat, fingers fumbling with the edge of your skirt. “You don’t have to walk me all the way. You’ll just have to walk back and…” Your voice dies in the back of your throat, not very sure of how to finish that sentence. 

Your eyes stay fixed on the yellow grass beneath your feet until Dean takes a step forward, making you look up at him. God, his hair looks lighter, and his eyes are more olive under the sun. You feel that same heat travel down your insides and concentrate lower. 

“Come on, I’ll walk you home.” He nods toward the dirt path, and this time, you don’t argue. You simply walk past him, waiting for him to catch up before continuing toward your house.

The walk is silent, but it’s not as uncomfortable as it was at the start. The quiet feels peaceful, relaxing, natural. You spot a few squirrels darting through the grass, a patch of flowers in the distance sweetens the air, and Dean’s big frame next to you somehow makes you feel protected.

Once you're standing in front of your driveway, you turn to Dean. The sun is hitting his face just right, accentuating his sharp features. He looks down at you, tilting his head slightly as if he's taking you in for the first time, his hand absentmindedly fiddling with something in his pocket.

“T-thank you,” you mumble, before quickly turning around and rushing into your house, not daring to look back.

God, he must think you're so weird right now.

Inside your house, your mother is passed out drunk on the couch. You almost wish Dean had asked you to do something else. That he would’ve taken you out of this place, maybe to Bobby’s house, or to hang out by the waterfall. Maybe he could’ve taken you to the woods and used his pistol on you. He could’ve made you run, chasing you down through the trees before shooting you with the precision he shoots those cans.

The stench of rotting food and stale vodka fills the air, so you quickly retreat to your room, shutting the door behind you. You spend the next few hours with your journal, letting all those swallowed down words spill out.

The next morning, Dean is waiting for you at the path division, empty backpack slung over his shoulder and that same relaxed smile on his face. That same afternoon, he's waiting for you outside of school. And the day after that. And the day after that.

Dean and you don’t hang out outside of your daily walks to and from school, but it’s enough.

You learn more about him in your short shared time. His music taste—Led Zeppelin and Black Sabbath and “anything classic rock, because everything else is too lame.” His obsession with old western movies—because he saw some old black cowboy boots your mother used to wear when she actually left the house and almost lost his mind over how “fucking cool they are!” And his interest in mechanics—since one time, you mention in a whisper that the character in your book has a classic Cadillac, and he goes on a full rant about how “Cadillacs don’t got a thing on Chevys—which is short for Chevrolet,” he had to explain to you. “Their engines are so much better, and the muffler…”

He kind of lost you on that one. Not only because you understood only about ten percent of what he was saying, but also because your mind kept drifting to images of Dean, hair sweaty and sticking to his forehead, in a thin shirt and smudged with motor oil.

Dean looks like he was made to work with his hands. The rugged look fits him, all rough edges and hard surfaces.

You want him to take you in his hands and disassemble you like one of his rifles, strip you down into pieces and suck the rot from your bones, then put you back together however he wants. However he needs.

A few weeks go by, and just like that, a little tradition begins—and the beast in your chest only gets hungrier.

INTRO | NEXT PART

NOTES: part one is out!!! I actually love writing this series. writing teenage angst is a little cringe but also so much fun. I have never been to the Midwest nor Sioux falls, so the descriptions may not be accurate, I'm sorry. anyway, I am having a blast with this one. please let me know what you think, it makes my sick brain go all fuzzy. I love you all, hope you liked it!!!

TAGS: @littlesoulshine @mostlymarvelgirl @pink-ghost666 @h8aaz @otteropera @xoswiftieprincess @tinas111 @blossomingorchids @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @losers-clvb @pieandflannel @anxiety-prime-max <3

If you wanna be tagged in future works, let me know!!

[doomedclockworkdotmp3]

heeyyy gaaanggg

the pose and the background of the album version (left) are based on oingo boingos only a lad album art. not cause i think he has anything to do with it but just cause ive been wantin to draw that pose for like. weeks and i didnt know who to put there. so why not my latest bug man.

[bigcats-birds-and-books]

Books of 2025: ADRIFT IN CURRENTS CLEAN AND CLEAR by Seanan McGuire.

Ah, yes, my favorite January tradition: heartbreak in tiny series installment form :)

This one is about a turtle-obsessed disabled Russian girl who gets adopted by an American family and fitted for a prosthetic she doesn't ask for, want, or need, and then she splashes through her Door.

I love Russian language and culture things (shout out to accidentally double minoring in college), so I was excited for a Russian protag and a Russian-coded Door world! Excellent enrichment in my enclosure. Neat cultural expansion on the Wayward Children universe (multiverse? cosmos?? insert appropriately scaled setting word here).

I also liked the aquatic nature of Belyyreka--terrifying giant frogs and delightful giant turtles and delightful talking foxes on the riverbanks were all lovely, and the worldbuilding about different weights of water was neat! Very mind-bendy kind of setting, I dig it.

This installment felt very slim (146 pages in my copy), and Our World Heavy--the first 46 pages were in Colorado, and the last 100 were in Belyyreka, but it felt like we did More Frequent and Larger Time Skips in Belyyreka compared to Earth? Kind of speedrun mode, sans Quests, really (this one was a lot more oriented toward Finding/Building Your Family, which was signposted pretty clearly upon our arrival in Belyyreka). Mostly a quieter installment up until the, y'know, Typical Impending Tragedy of Return at the end. (Did I almost put it down at 1AM last night with 30 pages left so everyone could Be Happy? perHAPS,)

Overall: I had a good time! But, ow, my heart (once again and forever).

[flaming-toads]

So what if I go back to s1e10 of 911 and I enjoy Bobby's little dating profile and think about silly cute ideas about it hmm?! HMMM?!

[hood-ex]

There are less than 600 works in The New Teen Titans category. This has to be rectified *Jack Skellington voice* immediately!