#i have had a week and a half i don't want to be the guy who accidentally starts mcytblr apartheid discourse

[coquettefrancaise]

i got you babe

by sonny and cher

pairing: sick!Azriel x reader ~ 2.9k

warnings: non-sexual bathing

summary: when Azriel collapses from his fever while you're on vacation, you, the only person he'll accept help from, hurry home to nurse him back to health

a/n: overthinking is not for the weak (please please please give me ideas for fics guys I am stRuggling here)

Azriel had felt like shit the moment he woke up. From his sore throat to his heavy, achy limbs. Granted, he had felt the early symptoms of this earlier last night but had hoped sleep would erase it.

That didn't seem to be the case.

He rarely became sick but when he did, it was not pretty.

One could argue that it was because he didn't allow his body to rest which was why but he claimed it was a part of his 'bad luck'. The constant misfortune he was given that had wound him up with a loathsome childhood and three unrequited loves. Until you.

You had turned his world upside down so abruptly that he had been left dizzy and craving more. It took him time to be cared for in the way you did but he now grew to adore it.

He coughed, wincing at the soreness of his throat. Unfortunately for him, you were in the summer court with the females of the inner circle, taking a much needed vacation. And as much as he wished you were here to tell him he'd be alright, he didn't want you to end your trip early.

He stepped out of bed, hand catching the frame as he felt faint. He was fine.

He then took a moment for it to subside and went to change for training and take something for the intense pressure building in his head. It felt as if someone had stuffed cotton balls inside it.

One look in the mirror and he cringed. Face pallor, sunken eyes, sinuses swollen. His body screamed at him to go lay down and bury his face in your pillow and succumb to heavenly sleep. Anything besides being up and about.

Instead he splashed his face with cold water.

Besides... even if he didn't wish to disrupt your fun, Azriel was nothing if not schedule-oriented. It gave him some semblance of control to be able to know what his day consisted of. And it threw off his entire day if there was a kink in his program.

Albeit lethargically, he readied himself and swallowed a sour headache tonic. Hand pressed to his temple to further relieve the pain, he went downstairs to eat breakfast.

Cassian was at the table, a half-finished bowl of oatmeal and glass of water in front of him, humming a small tune. Cauldron, that water looked absolutely delicious.

"Good morning, sleepy head." Cassian cooed, pspspsing at Azriel as if he were a cat in want of chin scritches. "Ready for your ass to be beat?"

Azriel ignored the meathead and sat down, grumbling thanks to the house when his own food appeared. He didn't hesitate to gulp down the water, the ache in his chest dimming. Still fine.

He could feel Cassian's eyes assessing him, skeptical. "You look pale."

It was times like these that Azriel hated how observant the Lord of Bloodshed was.

Apparently, Cassian believed that, with you being gone, he was to be Azriel's warden. Telling him to go to bed when he had been too caught up in paperwork, reminding him to drink more water, having Rhys check on his whereabouts every few hours... and if he found out Azriel was sick, he'd coddle him. And Azriel didn't enjoy being coddled. Except by you.

"Woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. So you should probably take yourself out of my business before I shove that spoon up your ass."

Cassian threw his hands up in innocence, an amused chuckle falling from his lips. "You kiss your girlfriend with that mouth?"

Azriel made no comment.

"Aw, I understand now. Are you just so distraught that she's been gone for a week? Is that why you look so under the weather? She's your only salvation?"

Yes, actually. But Azriel wouldn't admit that.

"You really just enjoy hearing yourself talk, don't you?" he pushed his bowl of oatmeal away, not feeling too hungry.

"You can't even eat because you're so lost without her. It's alright to admit that you're totally, completely in love, Az. We've all been there."

Azriel felt that his head might explode if he sat there for one second longer, so he stood and headed up to the training ring. And Cassian, ever the obedient pup, followed.

As soon as they stepped out into the fresh air, Azriel felt somewhat better. Like he could breathe easier, even if his sinuses still stung sharply. He was still fine.

But his moment of relief was cut short as he swayed softly at his equilibrium being thrown off kilter.

Even in the dim lighting of twilight, Cassian caught the movement, frowning at Azriel. "You don't look so good, Az. You should sit down for a bit or-"

"I'm fine," Azriel snapped, closing his eyes as the intensity of the words caused him to feel even more light-headed.

He heard Cassian sigh heavily and then felt a hand at his brow. "Holy shit. You're hot."

Azriel scoffed.

"Not that way, you idiot," Cassian growled, "you're burning up with a fever."

"I already said I'm fine. Now can we please get this over with? I have actual work I need to catch up on."

"Mm, no."

And then Azriel was being pushed out of the training ring and towards the stair doors. "Your pretty bird would have my head if she knew I let you train in the midst of a fever."

There was no argument there.

You would have caught his fever way before it had broken, Azriel was sure. He never knew how you managed to do it. One cough and he would be put on bed-rest with warm soup being ladled to his lips while you dabbed at his sweat-slick skin with a cool washcloth.

But you weren't here to do those things so Azriel dug his heels into the gravel. "I've lived this long without being coddled by you Cassian. I think I can survive longer without you starting now."

Cassian would hear none of it, so he pulled out the big guns and said, "I'll tell her to come home early if you won't go back to bed."

That had Azriel's heels lift.

You had been ecstatic about this trip for months. You'd planned everything down to the last detail and even bought new clothing for it. Azriel wouldn't begrudge you your long-awaited vacation just because he wouldn't listen to his asshole of a brother.

"Fine," Azriel grumbled under his breath.

With that, Cassian continued to guide him to the stairs when Azriel collapsed. Not fine.

"I really, really, really wish we had a beach in Valeris."

You and the rest of the inner circle—excluding Amren—hummed in agreement at Nesta's contented sigh.

You had arrived nearly a week ago and spent most of the days under the summer court's sun while lounging on their pristine white beach. And in the evening, when the sun went to bed, everyone dressed their best and went out partying, taking advantage of the fruity beverages and up-beat music.

"You could always lay by the Sidra," Elain murmured from under her sun hat. While she didn't want to tan like the rest of you, she still wished to be nearby the group, so she used a towel and hat to cover her body from the warm rays.

"Because seeing a female in a skimpy bikini, sunbathing at the Sidra wouldn't be odd." Nesta said drily, adjusting the straps of said bikini.

The group chuckled then returned to the peaceful silence.

Oftentimes you all fell into naps from the noise of the salty waves lapping onto the shores at your toes. The only reason you hadn't burned to a crisp being that you periodically passed around a protective sunscreen.

Speaking of... you sat up, adjusting the sunglasses sitting on your nose, and dug around your bag for the sunscreen. "Alright ladies it's time."

Despite their groaning, they followed suit in sitting up, taking swigs from their waters and then passing around the lotion you offered. "You're such a mom," Mor teased, rubbing it into her arms.

You shrug, making sure you didn't miss the crevices of your ears or hair part. "I enjoy taking care of people."

"And we're grateful for that," Feyre chimed in, "because without you, we'd all be shriveled and red and a horrible sight for sore eyes."

You'd always enjoy taking care of the people you loved. It began when you were a little girl and you were tasked with watching your youngest siblings. If your parents weren't available, you fed, clothed, and played with them. Unlike others, you thrived under the responsibility.

So when you got together with Azriel, you were thrilled to find out that he wasn't very good at taking care of himself. While, yes, he was great at seeing to his family's and friends' needs, he neglected his own.

That's why you believed you were perfectly compatible. You looked after him and vice versa.

After everyone reapplied the lotion, you stuffed it back into your bag and laid back.

You wondered how Azriel was doing. If he was sleeping enough or- you shook your head. He was a grown male who was fully capable of taking care of himself. He didn't need you to constantly worry over him.

Unexpectedly, Rhys' voice filled your head.

"You need to come home,"

"Is everything alright?"

A pause. "Azriel collapsed."

You were on your feet instantly, heart pounding wildly in your chest like a drum. "Mor."

Mor quirked an eyebrow, clearly displeased at how you were blocking the sun.

"I need you to winnow me home. Azriel's hurt."

As hastily as you had jumped from your sunbathing chair, Mor had you in her arms, the world shifting under your feet until you appeared on the roof of the townhouse. Cassian stood a couple of feet away, leaning against the railing, no doubt waiting to fly you up to the house of wind.

"How is he?" you hurried to Cassian.

He smoothed his hands down your arms to calm you down. "Rhys and I didn't mean to scare you. Azriel is in stable condition but he collapsed on me this morning at training with a burning fever."

Of course the male would attempt to train while being sick. Yet, the worry in your stomach relaxed. You knew how to treat a fever. When Rhys had told you the news, your thoughts had turned to Azriel being seriously, deathly injured.

You took a deep breath in and blew it out. "Take me to him."

Mor called from behind you, "I'm going to head back to the summer court. Update us please."

You turned around and gave her a hug, thanking her for bringing you. "Drink a mojito for me. And don't forget sunscreen."

The blonde chuckled and squeezed you before leaving.

Not ten minutes later, you slipped into Azriel's room, a frowning Madja concocting a tonic at the vanity.

"Good thing you're here, child." She sighed, exasperated. "He's been moaning your name as if he were on his deathbed."

"It's a pleasure to see you too, Madja."

You walked to the bed, taking in the male under the sheets. Azriel looked worn. His skin was leeched of his usual sun-kissed color. Lips chapped and breath raspy.

Your fingers danced along his brow, concern furrowing your own at the heat emanating from his skin. How had he managed to even get to the rooftop this morning while burning this hot? Fevers this bad took time to build.

"Azriel?" you whispered gently, opening the top drawer of the nightstand to retrieve a lip salve and applying it to his lips. It was devastating seeing Azriel looking so sick; a stark difference to his usual strong, put-together appearance.

He hummed, eyelids shifting.

Madja walked to you, holding out a vial. The older fae probably wondered often herself how these males managed to survive this far with the way they managed to overlook their needs. "Have him drink this when he is awake. He'll need plenty of fluids and rest."

"Is there anything he could take to make him less dense?" you teased.

She muttered something under her breath, eyes turned heavenward as if praying for patience. "If there was, I'd have given it to them long ago. The high lord is practically paying for my existence at this point."

"Your work has probably made the biggest dent in his coffers."

Madja grinned, patting your hand. "I trust that you will manage him just fine. He's been one of the bats that I've tended to less ever since you entered his life."

A warmth filled your chest at her words. Madja's praise wasn't given often so you didn't think much when you wrapped the healer into your arms. She grunted softly, reaching around to tap your shoulder in reciprocation.

"Thank you Madja. For the compliment and being here for him. He worries me sick at times." You let go and turned to Azriel was still slept.

"That's how you know you love them, child. You continuously fret over their welfare and wish to take away their pain." A softness entered her eyes as she looked at Azriel too. "All the things he's endured, he never deserved"

It made you sick to think of his father and step-brothers. Of the things they had done to Azriel when he was only a child; small and vulnerable. "They defintely deserved what they got." Your voice was cold, not a tone you usually took up.

Madja nodded just as your name was raspily called from the bed.

You were sitting immediately, brushing the hair from his forehead. "Azriel?"

Hazel eyes blinked open, bleary from sleep. The corners of his mouth quirked up as he took you in before promptly falling. "You're-" he coughed, "you're not supposed to be here."

"Why not?"

"You were in the summer court... having fun."

Soft lips pressed to the crown of his head. "And I'm here now and I want to make sure you're healthy."

"I didn't want you to leave early. You were so excited."

"I wanted to leave early. I wasn't going to continue having fun while my stubborn boyfriend was sick and fainting in the training ring. Do you know how bad you scared me?"

Madja quietly slipped out of the room, giving you privacy.

"'m sorry," he rasped.

You sigh, "Let's get you into a cool bath, shall we? It will help to bring your temperature down."

He let you help him up, muscled arm across your shoulder as you led him into the bathing room and stripped him of his clothes. "For the record," you said softly, pulling off his socks, "I'm not angry at you. Only disappointed."

"Why?"

You stood, holding his face in between your hands, looking down at him from where he sat on the toilet. "Because I love you and I want you to feel that you can come to me whenever you're not feeling great. I hate knowing you were suffering alone."

He cast his eyes down to the floor, "You're always taking care of me."

"Do you not... not want me to?"

Did he think your constant attention was annoying? Sure, some people thought you were overbearing but you thought Azriel appreciated it. Wouldn't he tell you otherwise?

"No, my love," he pressed his forehead to your ribs, shaking hands gripping onto your thighs. "I didn't want to burden you."

"You could never, ever, burden me." It was said with finality.

Hot air blew across your exposed midriff. "Love you,"

"And I love you." You sank to your knees so you were eye-level. Despite his flushed face, his eyes were full of so much love and gratitude. "And I love taking care of you. There is nothing in this world I would rather be doing. So let's get you into this bath and into bed so you can feel better, hm?"

As he lounged in the tub, head thrown back against the lip as you soothed a rag across his chest and face, you laughed. You only now realized you still wore your bathing suit.

He cracked open one eye.

"You must be severely under the weather to not even notice my outfit."

His eyes scanned your body, tucked into the scanty blue bikini. "Is that color...?"

"The same color as your siphons? Yes."

The water disturbed as he lifted out a hand, bringing it to the nape of your neck where it was tied. You shivered at the cold of the water. Then you gasped as, with one expert flick, it became undone. You barely had time to catch the strings before you flashed Azriel. "Az!" you scolded, face pink.

"Can't a dying man admire his girlfriend's beautiful body?"

"You're not even dying." You tied the strings once more. "How about this? When you're fever breaks and you aren't falling asleep every five minutes, I'll let you admire me as much as you wish."

He smirked in reply, waving his hand haughtily. "Carry along with your ministrations then. I need to recover quickly."

You giggled as you continued to blot the cloth at his warm skin.

Later that night, when you were both tucked into bed, you smiled to yourself. Azriel was practically sunken into your skin with how his legs were intertwined with your own, arms wrapped tightly around your torso, and face tucked into your neck.

You truly did enjoy taking care of him.

[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.”

—

[kpop---scenarios]

The Hot Neighbour

Pairing: Chan/ Hyunjin/ Minho x Reader

Summary: Their hot neighbour keeps dressing and undressing in front of the window. One night, they decide to take control of the situation.

Warning: Smut [ Oral, f. receiving & m. receiving, unprotected sex, facial etc] 18+ ONLY. MDNI

Word Count: 2.1k

A/N: It sucks, but please don't hate lmfao I'm feeling rusty!

Taglist: @wife2straykidss @piscesrising01 @baby-stay92 @kisses-too-the-moon @dwaekkiiracha @silly250 @rylea08 @imperfectlyperfectprincess1 @satosugu4l @tsunderelino @iovecb97 @1810cl @lordmaahes-nsc @sailorkoss @minh0scat @pixie0627 @50-husbands @jinnies-muse @yaorzu-blog @anskiiz @joyofbebbanburg @number1jeonginstan @skzooluvr @jisunglyricist @ambersnowxxx @ayyonoona @31maze13 @stay-tiny-things @thegingerthatwaited @hoesheez @stayatinykatsy @catlove83 @jeonginstulip @kaleigh-2002 @honeycombbaybee @hyuneyeon @flylis @kpop-choco @chloe-elise-2000 @hwangjoanna @stephanieeeyang @nightmarenyxx @0325tiny @m1nn1everse @igot7bulletproofmonstas @imeverycliche @cathyxhaddy @hodgepodge-musings

“So.” Chan begins, looking at his two best friends and roommates, all three of them sitting in the living room, doing their own things. “Have you guys seen it or am I the only one?” He asks.

“Are you talking about the window?” Minho smiles.

“More so the girl in the window?” Hyunjin pipes up, glancing between the two men.

“Yes to all of that, but more so the fact that she undresses in front of that window every day.” Chan says.

“It's multiple times a day.” Minho says. “She drives me fucking crazy.”

“I think she's driving us all crazy.” Hyunjin says. “She's so fucking hot.”

“Her name is Y/N.” Chan says. “I looked at the buzzer this morning when I came home from my run.” He sighs.

“I wonder if she's there right now.” Minho ponders.

All three men look at each other, and without saying a word, they all stand up, walking towards their kitchen window that happens to face your living room window. As the three of them walk up to it, they all stare into the empty living room across the way. Just for a second before turning away, heading back to the living room.

“We shouldn't watch her anymore.” Chan says.

“Yeah, you're right.” Hyunjin responds.

“What if she's doing it on purpose?” Minho asks.

“We still shouldn't watch.” Chan mumbles. “It's not right.”

“Okay.” Minho responds.

“Okay.” Hyunjin murmurs.

“Then it's settled. No more watching the hot neighbour.” Chan huffs, looking back at his phone.

It didn't last long. And they weren't trying to look. it all seemed to be when they were in the kitchen, cleaning, cooking or doing whatever. The amount of times the sink overflowed or food was burnt was ridiculous. One, or all would glance up, seeing you smiling as you slowly pulled your robe open. Sometimes you wore a bra and panties, sometimes you didn't. Sometimes you were wearing clothes and got undressed, or sometimes you were getting dressed. It really didn't matter. It was the fact that you were getting naked in front of them, and they wanted to fuck you. Hard.

They suffered. For weeks. And weeks. Watching you. Dreaming about you. Fantasizing about you and what they'd do to you if they got the chance, and one night, after the last guest of a little get together they had left, they all stood around in the kitchen, tidying up when you appeared, again. This time you were getting undressed. It was like you knew how to drive each of them insane. Rubbing your hands over your body, throwing your head back while you grabbed your tits. Each man was hard and horny as fuck. They watched you smile, motioning them to come with one finger, and that was really all they needed.

“Fuck it, I'm going.” Minho says, turning to walk towards the door.

“We can't just go over there.” Chan says.

“She just invited us.” Hyunjin half slurs. “She did the ‘come here’ motion.”

“What he said. I can't take the teasing anymore.” Minho groans.

“So what, we're all gonna fuck her?” Chan asks.

“Fuck yeah we are. Now let's go.” Minho says, walking away. Hyunjin walks past Chan, heading to the door with Minho.

“Well fuck, I'm not missing out.” He murmurs to himself, jogging to catch up with the two that had already left the apartment.

“Does anyone know which apartment?” Hyunjin asks as the three of them walk down the unfamiliar hallway.

“5B.” Chan murmurs.

Minho and Hyunjin look over at Chan who shrugs his shoulders. “It said it on the buzzer when I looked. She was the only new name on it.”

“You know all the people in the apartment building?” Minho asks.

“You don't?” Chan gasps, looking between both men who shrug and continue walking down the hallway. It doesn't take long to find your apartment, the three of them standing outside the door.

Minho raises his hand, knocking three times on the door. They're nervous as they hear the shuffling of feet coming towards them. The door is pulled open, and you're standing there in a silk robe, part is hanging off your shoulder showing some of your bra.

“Gentlemen.” You smile. “What can I do for you?”

“You keep undressing in front of your window.” Minho states. “You're doing it on purpose.”

“You're right. I am.” You giggle. “You boys like what you see?”

“Like you wouldn't believe, Y/N.” Hyunjin sighs.

“Would you guys like to come in for a drink?” You ask. Without looking at each other, they all nod their heads, while you open the door wider for them.

“I don't know any of your names but you know mine.” you murmur.

“I'm Chan, that's Minho, and Hyunjin.” Chan says, pointing to the two other men.

You walk into the kitchen, grabbing four glasses, pouring some whiskey into each glass. You turn around, seeing all three of them standing there, eyeing you up. You had been hoping this would happen. You'd been doing this for weeks, hoping they would show up at your door, and if they hadn't come tonight, you were going to opt for writing a sign asking them to come over but now you didn't need to.

You handed each of them their drinks, and they down them within a second, setting the cups onto the counter before you had even taken a sip.

“A little eager, are we?” You laugh. You set down your cup, walking towards the hallway to your bedroom. You turn your head to look back at the men who are still standing there. “You guys coming?” You ask, walking down the hallway, opening the door to your room. You stand in the middle of your room, slipping off your robe while they walk into your room, the door closes and there's hands all over you without a second thought. Hyunjin comes up to you, kissing you, his hands grabbing at your hair. His lips were soft as they gently moved against yours. You were pulled away from Hyunjin, Minho smiling as he pressed his lips to yours, slipping his tongue into your mouth to deepen the kiss. He backs away from you, Chan’s hand grabs the back of your head, moving in for a kiss of his own, leaving you breathless. Hyunjin moves behind you, peppering kisses against your neck before Chan pulls away from you. You let out quiet moans as their hands are all over your body, touching you in places that make your knees weak. Hyunjin unhooks your bra, you let it fall to the floor while Minho grabs your tits, wrapping his lips around your nipple, sucking and tugging at it. You throw your head back while Chan moves in, kneeling down, pulling your panties down your legs.

“On the bed.” Minho says, motioning towards your unmade bed.

“Legs spread.” Chan demands. You bite your lip, making your way to your bed, laying on your back with your legs spread wide open.

You watch each man as they all begin to undress. They pull their shirts over their heads, dropping them to the floor, before taking off their pants and boxers, each one of their thick, veiny cocks standing tall. You can see the precum seeping from their tips, making you lick your lips. You wanted each of them to ram their cocks down your throat.

Minho walks to the edge of the bed, dragging you closer to the edge before he places your ankles over his shoulders. He spreads your lips, leaning in to wrap his lips around your clit.

“Fuck.” You gasp, immediately feeling nothing but pleasure flowing through your body. You try to buck your hips, but Minho places his hand down onto your stomach, preventing you from grinding on his face.

Hyunjin and Chan crawl onto the bed, each one kneeling beside you. They were both grabbing your tits, playing with your nipples. Your head looks over at both of them, seeing their cocks standing tall, twitching, needing to be touched. You reach over, one hand on each cock. You rubbed your thumb over their tips, spreading the cum spilling out of them, all around their cock's before you slowly jerk them. Your moans increase, as both men start thrusting into your hand. “Oh my fucking god.” You cry out. “Fuck I'm gonna cum.”

With that, Minho moves his tongue faster. He pushes two fingers inside of you while he sucks on your clit. Hyunjin and Chan thrust harder into your hands, making you explode. You scream out as your orgasm pushes through your body, sending you into pure euphoric bliss.

Minho pulls away from you, licking his lips, lapping up your juices from his face.

“On all fours.” Hyunjin tells you. You roll over in your bed, getting onto your knees and hands, spreading your legs for whichever once was going to fuck you first.

Chan moves behind you, you can feel his hands on your hips as he pushes his cock inside of you. Minho moves in front of you, on his knees.

“Open wide.” He smiles, holding onto your cock. You open your mouth, letting Minho push himself into your mouth. You close your mouth around Minho's cock, your arms already shaking. Hyunjin strokes his cock while he watches you get fucked by Chan, and throat fucked by Minho.

You try to moan, but it's muffled by Minho's cock, he thrusts his cock into your mouth, doing his best to shove it as deep down your throat as he can.

Just before you were going to cum again, they all switched positions, this time Hyunjin is behind you, stretching out your cunt while he pushes his cock into you, Chan kneeling in front of you, letting you wrap your mouth around his cock, sucking your juices off of him.

Hyunjin digs his fingers into your hips, ramming into you as hard as he can. “You're pussy's so fucking tight.” Hyunjin groans.

You're panting, Chan grabs a clump of your hair, holding your head, throwing his own head back as you suck his cock. “Holy fuck, I'm not going to last much longer.” Chan breathes, trying to hold back his orgasm.

“Me neither.” Hyunjin grunts, smacking your ass.

“Lemme fuck her.” Minho groans. Hyunjin pulls out of your pussy, and you drop onto your stomach, rolling over onto your back.

“Mhmm, that's a good view.” Minho murmurs, holding up your legs, sliding his cock into you. Chan and Hyunjin are on either side of you, your hands once again wrapped around their cocks, stroking them. They watch your tits bounce as Minho plows his cock into you. Minho places his fingers on your clit, rubbing your sensitive and swollen clit, making you scream.

“Oh my god.” You pant, squirming beneath him, while still letting Chan and Hyunjin fuck your hand.

It felt so fucking good, you couldnt control it, your orgasm hit you like a ton of bricks, making you scream out as you came all over his cock.

“Fuck, Y/N.” Chan groans. “I'm gonna cum.” He grunts.

“Shit, so am I.” Hyunjin moans.

“Cum all over me.” You gasp, opening your mouth, sticking your tongue out, waiting for them to cover you with their juices.

“Oh fuck.” Minho groans, watching you lay there with your tongue out, mouth open, jerking off Hyunjin and Chan. It didn't take long, Chan was first, missing your mouth, hitting your tits and neck. Hyunjin came next, getting some in your mouth, but mostly covering your face.

Minho pulls out of you, stroking his cock, spilling his load all over your stomach.

“Where's the bathroom?” Chan asks, getting off the bed.

“There's one right through that door.” You heave, pointing across the room.

Chan goes in there, grabbing four towels. He throws one at Minho and one to Hyunjin before wiping himself down. When he is done, he walks to you, where you were still trying to catch your breath. He wipes all the cum from your body, throwing the towels into the laundry room.

“That was so fun.” You mumble, your eyes closed. All three men begin to get dressed, while you lay there naked and raw, pussy throbbing.

“Going already?” You laugh.

“No.” Chan laughs with you. “Hyunjin is going to grab some food. Minho is going to start your shower, and I'm going to find a movie for us to watch.”

“Do you guys do this alot? Fuck a girl together and then do all this extra stuff? Especially a one night stand.” You ask.

“Actually, this is the first time we've ever done this.” Chan laughs. “And you're definitely not a one night stand.”

“Not even close.” Minho says, wiping his hands from starting the shower. “I think it's safe to say we all wanna get to know you and see where things go.” He adds. “I mean, if that's something you'd want.”

“I think that's something I'd definitely want.” You smile. “Let's see where things go.”

[iceysnow]

going through my docs and found this half-baked slop. for reference, I read a whole lot of identity reveal fics when I made this. He was the mightiest mortal alive. Within him resided the wisdom of Solomon, the legendary strength of Hercules, the inexhaustible stamina of Atlas, the potent powers of Zeus, the unwavering courage of Achilles, and the swift speed of Mercury. He bordered on the divine.

Yet, No god was a frail ten-year-old boy. At least, no one would expect a god to be as such. 

This wasn't supposed to happen, they weren't supposed to know. But now, the knowledge lay bare between them.

Their gazes fixed onto his diminutive stature, struggling hard to compare the boy to the imposing figure they had known. Hard to believe. Even Batman had been stunned by his appearance. The villain responsible for this sat unconscious, fell the instant the forced transformation took hold. All that remained was a disheveled child.

“I-I can explain… “ Explain what, what was he supposed to explain!? ‘Oh yeah, I tricked you guys for a whole year into thinking I was a functional adult. The thing is, I’m actually a ten-year-old orphan who was forced to protect all of magic by six gods and a wizard. Oopsie daisy! Please don't kick me out!’ There was no way that would work. 

And even if, by some miracle, they were receptive, this was the Justice League. Sure, Batman had Robin, and Superman had Superboy (almost every top-ranking hero has a mini-me and yet he’s the outlier)—but they operated under intense supervision. Billy seriously doubted his pantheon would qualify as "responsible adults" in their eyes.

"I don't think there's any explaining you can do." Supermans arms crossed, a clear frustration etched upon his face. 

"I know, but—!" his voice cracked. Crap, I'm terrible at this.

“You look seven.” Batman chimes in, remaining stoic. 

“I’m ten!” he wasn't even that small. Granted, he was on the shorter side, but that's the best you can get when you’re a malnourished street rat. Yeah, he got an apartment with Uncle Dudley’s help last month (the gods had kept complaining, and complaining, and they wouldn’t stop), that still didn’t erase his time in the gutter.

They frowned at his outburst. Was he being too loud? Or was it something else? It was probably the latter, a disquieting feeling settling in his gut. The wave of sympathy and pity washing over their faces confirmed his fears. Honestly, was it so unbelievable?

Superman speaks up again, breaking the silence."See, that's the problem. This is unhealthy—especially for someone your age." he reprimanded in that familiar, condescending tone that always grated Billy's nerves. It felt belittling, oppressive, inherently dismissive.

He hated it. 

"You were all perfectly fine with me on the mission last week!!" He knew that their concern stemmed from a place of care, that they would likely react this way to any child in his situation. None of these words of acknowledgement equaled words of acceptance.

"We didn’t know last week." Superman countered

“I didn’t want you to know!” 

"What we're trying to say is—you shouldn't have lied about something like this. If you wanted to join a hero team…" Hal slowed down, pausing his words. (Even behind his mask, Billy could sense the pity radiating off him) "Young Justice is too old for you…but…"

"That's exactly the problem! It doesn't matter about the team; you're too young to be dealing with these kinds of threats!" Barry swung his arms around, snarling when words couldn’t be spoken through tongue, instead communicating through half-baked gestures.  "If you're ten now, that means you became a hero when you were barely eight! Nightwing hardly passed for Batman, and he was nine!”

And at that, those words, Billy lost it.

 “Do you think I wanted to do this! Do you really think EVERYONE gets to choose!?”

This was stupid, they were stupid! What was even stupider was he could already see the turning cogs in their heads.

[c4tluver02]

full machine

wc: 1.3k

summary: Steve is finding it hard to make it up to you, seemingly making things worse. What could he do to make it up to you?

warnings: none! angst , hurt , slow burn ;)

a/n: eee i am so glad u guys liked the first fic !!!! i am also doing a tag list so pls lmk if u want to be tagged for the third part :D

part 1, part 2, part 3

I'll heal eventually, but faster if you're next to me. ♫

Two weeks have come and gone since Steve had last seen you. Normally you take a week and a half to two weeks to return the film… Not that Steve kept track or anything. But he was waiting for you. He needed to talk to you about your last visit and hopefully explain himself. 

A few days after it all happened Robin was back with Steve at Family Video and he told her everything that had happened. The way you so graciously offered to help him, to the way you left like there was some bomb that Steve didn’t know about. It was just another thing he had to deal with, one more dent in his beat up armor. Which when he really took time to think about it maybe he was saving you. It felt like a waste of a charity case for you to spend all this time to get to know him when there's nothing to stay for. You were worth more than that– you deserve more than having to deal with all the trauma he has or listening to how hard it is putting on a brave face for the kids. 

So a rehearsed speech is what felt safe. A simple way of telling you to run and don't look back but in a way that wouldn't hurt you any further. It was killing two birds with one stone really, you wouldn't be stuck with him and he wouldn't feel devastated when you left. A full proof plan. 

– 

Although Steve would have appreciated a day or two more to think over his plan but here you were the next day. Waiting at the counter in the prettiest sundress Steve thinks he's ever seen. Your hair is curled perfectly and the closer he gets to the counter the more he can smell your perfume– so sweet and warm. 

“Hi, you're back!” It comes out casual but Steve's heart is thumping so loud he worries if you could hear it. 

“Yeah I have a movie to return.” You say sliding it across the counter to him. The barely there smile you gave did nothing to heal him. 

Steve wants to blame the lack of time he had to prepare for how he stands there just looking at you. The day he normally waits for is now here and it isn't going how it's supposed to. Your big smile is nowhere to be found and the laugh that makes his dreaded thoughts go away isn't heard.

“Y’look real pretty.” He's typing the movie into the system, not even looking at you as he says it but you know it's sincere. Everything about Steve is sincere, you've never known him to think too little about someone. 

You’re unable to stop your cheeks flushing at the complement. “Thanks, I’m about to go on a date.” 

Steve thinks he could have gotten whiplash at how fast he just turned his head to look at you. Here you are in his store all dolled up for someone else. He must have done something dreadfully awful in his past life to deserve this. 

“A date huh? With who?” The tape is long forgotten and Steve has his arms holding himself up on the counter in case the answer wipes him out completely. 

“A guy I met at the pool.” You feel like you're in the police station with a bright light on you. The interrogation feeling completely uncalled for after he was the one who turned you down. 

Steves thankful he was holding himself up, the thought of you in a bathing suit and some guy snatching you up was good enough to make him feel sick. He knows how men work. He's a man for crying out loud. He’ll use you for a hook up and you’ll feel even worse and because of Steve's stupid screw up you won't come to him for help. 

“Y’sure that he's not some douche that wants a hookup?” Steve asks, tilting his head to the side. He just wants you to rethink this, maybe stay with him and talk things through. You’ll leave happier and Steve will feel better. 

But if looks could kill he’d be dead on spot. “Thanks for your concern Steve but despite what you may think, guys actually like me and want to go out with me. So if I'm all good I've gotta go.” You grab your bag and head towards the door before he even has time to respond. It's quick and painful like someone shot him, the wound would be felt for weeks. 

–

And Steve was right. He had gotten no sleep, his nightmares were long and horrific. Nothing was helping him and there was no one he could turn to. The dark bags under his eyes were matching evidence of it. Robin came over one day to try to help but nothing came of it. If he could talk to you now he’d explain everything. That the kids come crying to him 6 out of 7 days of the week, Jonathan and Nancy use him as a dating advice counselor more than a friend, Robin needs reassurance that she's not messing Vickie up with her night terrors. It's all too much and Steve doesn't know where you’d fit into it. Why’d you even want to fit into it? He’s been doing it for years and still doesn't have a hang of it, the notion of you leaving from the first sight of wreckage would be the thing that ends Steve.�� 

An idea Robin had was to take all the kids to get ice cream to ‘get his mind right’ as she put it. So he made it happen, sure it was 11pm on a Saturday night but if anyone knows that no one sleeps it’s Steve. All the kids were down to come out and enjoy a nice free ice cream night. It was getting hotter and even though the sun was long gone the ice cream still melted fast. 

“You look awful.” Mike says licking his ice cream from the cone. Steve asked for them all to get cups in hopes his car isn't ruined but none of them did so they are finishing it outside. 

“I know. I haven't left my place in days.” Normally Steve wouldn't let the kids even see him like this let alone tell them how depressed he's been. 

“You ever think about just going to her place and saying you're sorry?” Now it’s Dustin asking but the ice cream is leaking through the bottom of the cone getting all over his shoes. 

“Where do you think between all this I just got her address?” Steve asks, rolling his eyes. Maybe children wasn't the best to bring this up to. 

“Well you have her address in your system, you have it for anyone who rents movies.” Max adds. 

“That sounds very stalkerish.” Okay yeah this definitely isn't something he should be talking about with the kids. 

“What you need is a big gesture to show her you care. Going out of your way to her is the type of thing that will at the very least get you a conversation with her.” Dustin says. He’s not wrong. Unless you pretend to not hear the doorbell ring or the knock on the door a conversation would definitely be in order. 

The conversion ends there and Steve drops each kid off at their house. Not wanting them to be out too late, there's still hope to save their sleep schedule. 

He wants to call Rob to see if this is just a case of Steve being around kids too much or if she thinks this could actually work. Either way he knows she won't judge him for it but it's too late to ask now. Just something that will have to be held off for tomorrow when she finally sees him at work. Maybe, hopefully, tonight instead of seeing the Creel house in his dreams, he'll see you.

tag list: @ahead-fullofdreams

[chahnniesroom]

the way home

pairing: none (platonic ot8 & female reader)

summary: a peaceful walk home takes a turn for the worst when you notice there's someone following you.

word count: 0.8k

tags/warnings: 9th member au, sasaeng/creepy fan

a/n: i am currently working on a longer fic for this collection, but i wrote this super quickly over the weekend inspired by this clip that i randomly saw on ig.

where the heart is collection | read it on ao3 | masterlist

You notice the person about halfway between the company and home. You'd decided to walk back since the weather was nice, but now regret your decision.

In general, you try not to be too paranoid when you’re out in public, after all, Seoul is a big city and there are a lot of people going to a lot of places. It's a humbling experience to worry about being spotted by a fan and then realise they just happened to be heading to the same area as you.

You walk past the man first, then notice he's behind you a couple streets later when you happen to turn around. You make a few strategic turns, bringing you back into the direction of the company, alternating between more popular streets and quieter ones. Each time you look back, he's still training behind you and you know it's no coincidence.

His pace isn't particularly fast, he's stayed about half a block behind you this whole time, and his gait is casual. Large but even steps, you would think that he's just taking an evening stroll if he didn't match you every time that you deliberately sped up or slowed down.

You feel hunted.

You call the guys immediately, blindly hitting the call button for your group chat.

“I think I'm being followed,” you say, the second the call connects. You don't even know which of the members picked up.

“Where are you?” Chan replies back, his tone urgent.

“I was walking home, but now I'm heading back to the company. I'll send my location now.”

“Do you have any details?”

“I think he's a fan. He looks young, early 20s and it seemed like he recognised me. I didn't realise until later that he had turned around and was still behind me.”

“Try to stick to a busy street,” Chan urges you. “Y/n-ah, do you think he's dangerous?”

“He doesn't seem dangerous, per se,” you say slowly. Your voice barely comes out as a whisper. “But I’m scared, oppa. I don't feel safe.”

“We're on our way,” Minho replies. You have no idea when he joined the call or who else is listening in, but you already feel a bit better knowing that they're there. “We'll be there soon and security is sending a team too.”

“Can you stay on the call until then?” you ask with a tremulous voice. “I don't want to be alone.”

“Of course.” It's Chan again. “I promise, we won't hang up until you're in our arms.”

“I'm close to the cafe we went to last week,” you tell them. “The one with the green grape ade and the sweet potato cake that I liked. I think they're still open. I'm going to go in."

“Got it,” Han confirms. “I know the place, we'll send everyone that way.”

You don't want to run or do anything that might set off the person following you. It feels like forever until you finally reach the cafe's entrance and make it in. The jingle of the bell has never seemed so welcoming.

You nod to the worker at the counter and head to a table further into the cafe. You’ve visited enough times that they don't question you since you sometimes meet up with the boys and wait until they arrive before ordering.

“I'm inside,” you update the boys. “Sitting at a table. He’s out there just- he's just standing there. Why won't he leave me alone?!”

Even though you feel significantly safer now that you're inside with other people, your heart is still racing and adrenaline has filled your body. The hand that's not holding your phone is shaking.

“It's okay if you feel scared,” Seungmin soothes you. “We're almost there. He won't bother you again.”

“Okay,” you say shakily, trying to compose yourself.

“Security is close,” Chan says. “What does this person look like? What are they wearing?”

“He's average height, slim. Wearing a baseball cap, big black jacket, baggy jeans. He's right at the window beside the door.”

“Got it,” Chan replies.

You watch, moments later as a couple of men approach the guy. They talk to him for a second before they lead him away with a firm grip on each shoulder.

The second after he disappears from your view, the members burst into the cafe, frantically scanning the room.

You stand up and meet them in the middle.

“Thank you.” Is all you can say, before you burst into tears of relief. The boys waste no time surrounding you and wrapping you in their arms murmuring reassurances, uncaring of how it must look to the cafe patrons.

where the heart is collection | read it on ao3 | masterlist

[princessofghosts-posts]

I kinda wished we saw the demigods more in the mortal world than the mythological one. Most of them go to school and some of them live with their parents in the winter,but other than a couple of moments with Percy at the start of a school year (that goes wrong) we never saw anything. I'm not talking about the time he got attacked while in school or in pubblich places,I'm referring to seeing them having mortal friends and everything,while trying not to blow up half of their existence to them.

Percy during lunch period: So,do you guys have plans for this summer?

Dude n.1: Me and my family are going to the beach,mom rented an house for a bit there.

Dude n.2: Cool! I'm going to travel for a couple of days in Europe,dad wanted to see some monuments there so we are all going together.

Dude n.1: Remember to buy souvenirs for us too! Percy,what about you? What are you plans?

Percy: I'm going to my usual summer camp this year too. Hoping it will go better than the others time.

Dude n2: Why? Something bad happened last time you went?

Percy: Not really. One of my acquaintances there pushed me off the climbing wall last time,my arm kinda....broke? But another guy fixed my bones right after so it wasn't a problem. I just hope she doesn't try to do that again,it's starting to get annoying.

Dude n.1:....Did you just say that she pushed you off a wall? And did that multiple times-?

Dude n.2: And that a guy fixed your bones? You need a surgery for a broken arm–

Percy: Nah don't worry,he got it covered,trust me. You know how a summer camps are.

Dude n1: I went to those a couple of times and I don't remember ever having a climbing wall?? You sure it's safe?

Percy: Pretty much,beside,the climbing wall isn't that bad. We also have horse stables,an arena and–

Dude n.2: A what now–

Percy: An arena. You know,those where you go and– *stopping abruptly because he realized he started to say to much*

You can't tell me this didn't happend at least twice,and not only for Percy. They are so immersed in their demigods life that sometimes they forgot that there are normal mortals (not like Rachel that can see through the mist or think/know that something is up) too and they can't talk too much and freely around them.

I can totally see Percy and Annabeth hanging out with some non-demigod friends and while they are all in the middle of a conversation those two start to to divert from the main topic,totally forgetting about their friends and talking about the time they were in trouble. And those people are concerned and a bit spoken because they can't understand and didn't know half of what they are talking about.

Annabeth did you just said you got stabbed a couple of weeks before school? Percy,did you just said that a crazy aunt of your kidnapped you for almost the whole summer? And you had amnesia half of the time?? What do you mean your mother sent you on a trip Rome's undergrounds?? And she also disowned you??

There is so much potential here that's hilarious. And this can be applied to any demigod in the books.

[cleolinda]

Weekend links, May 4, 2025

My posts

I am still struggling with the fifth Silent Hill 2 commentary; the video I recorded last week (4/30) also isn't usable. Like, maybe I'll post it on Patreon as an extra at some point, but it is not the level of excellence we strive for here at Cleolinda Industries. Within hours of that, April's parting shot was to knock me down with another head cold, BUT, now that I have escaped its grip (April's, not the cold's. I'm still sick), I may have solved my OBS problems. I DON'T KNOW. WE LIVE IN HOPE. 

Meanwhile, Ian's off in fuckin' Brookhaven Hospital. IT'S. FINE. (I'm in the chat, we figure out some good stuff about the lore, it's a good time.) Also, at the top of his stream, he had sound engineer Andy Sudol on to talk about the differences between the 2001 and 2024 soundtracks. 

Signal boost while we're talking about games: I'm doing really well on light combat in SH2, except for when my neuropathy acts up and my fingers just decide they don't want to participate anymore (it's a good bet this has happened if I start screaming "JAMES WHAT ARE YOU DOING??"), so these mods and resources for disabled gamers caught my eye.  

Reblogs of interest

@mamoru looking out for us on the food safety front

Y'all, I don't know what's going on with Pinterest, but don't breathe too hard right now. An update from Reddit: More news outlets are reporting the sudden mass ban wave these last two weeks

My personal question: how does it actually BENEFIT companies to make their product unusable, though? I understand the answer, and yet, as a person who can think more than five seconds ahead into the future, I completely do not understand the answer.  

This question was also partly inspired by Polygon getting sold/gutted, in the sense of this Reddit reply.

Oh, I wasn't even thinking of Duolingo asserting itself as an "AI-first" company even as people complain that the quality of the app has plunged, so fuck them too I guess

PSA about some scam call techniques

I had to tell my therapist that I was facetiously done with life and everything in it, so I get this post

Good (and cute) news: "you can sponsor your own big beautiful TB- or landmine-detecting rat through APOPO HeroRATS"; "First-of-its-kind lab breeds bumblebee babies to save species from extinction"

Zines: I Am Not Your Asian American Doll

Speaking of Silent Hill 2: "this is how tag searches feel"

"askjeeves how to smuggle 30 naked prisoners (assorted genders) out of vampire mansion time sensitive."

"no, you’re thinking of fusion and fission. Bisexuals result in two nuclei that are identical to the original nucleus. Pansexuals result in four nuclei with half the number of chromosomes of the original cell"

"oh to be the black blob of a cat in vanessa stockard's paintings"

In tough times, there is one thing thou must always remember

All of these are horses

"Goblin learns they have a racist sword": some fantasy ideas

Flip the Frog gets restored

I'm particularly amused by these Vanillary reviews because I have it as a solid perfume and it's fine. 

I agree with all of these expletive/accent pairings.

A feline boo ghost to go with last week's ghost dog photoshoot

"The tribes of Tumblr appeared to worship Apollo as their primary patron deity, most often under the epithet Apollo Spairahemon ('Apollo the Ball-Thrower')"

Video

Wet beast Wednesday: "MOVE IDIOT"

Blumineck has a new approach to the three-arrow trick shot

"i know this is a predator. like a hardened killing machine. tempered by hundreds of years of evolutionary prowess to fine tune him into a living weapon. but"

Finsync

Good guy who talks like a bad guy

I honestly was not prepared for anything in this anecdote about buying a printer

The sacred texts

The iconic "girl… what were YOU doing at the devils sacrament 👀"

Personal tags of the week

I will be adding to "with mama" as often as possible. (You know what? I also need to add to dragons.)

[seaofreverie]

I knew about the post concert depression but no one told me about the post concert constant feeling of AAAAAAAAAHHH that lasts days and makes everything much more bearable and beautiful and some sort of ethereal type of hope is restored into the world, or maybe it's just the "seeing your favourite band after first thinking that it would never happen and later spending many months waiting for it all the while fearing that it wouldn't happen after all because of circumstances outside my control or feeling like it was too beautiful and wonderful to be true so ofc it wouldn't come true" part of it all

[cassmouse]

Absolutely fuck Ghostbusters Frozen Empire for being such a bad film but containing such a good sapphic plotline because it's literally been living in my head rent free since I saw the film and that's horrendously confusing because I DIDNT ENJOY THE FILM ITSELF BUT JUST THE LESBIANS THE STAR CROSSED LOVER-NESS OF IT ALL JUST AUGH

[tardis--dreams]

Some of those doctors make hating oat milk their entire personality. I hate them. Cannot pretend to find them funny or like i give a shit. Fucking pretentious assholes

[inbabylontheywept]

The Motherfucking Lizard King

No one at work trusts my boss. 

He's smart. He works hard. He's not trustworthy. He hasn't actually fucked anyone at work over, but he's ruined his last two marriages with affairs, and got dumped by his third fiance when he wouldn't sign a prenup. The fact that we all know this is just a hazard of working in a small town. 

Anyway: The thought process of the people in the lab is that if he screwed over his first wife, and his second wife, and was probably planning on screwing over his third wife, it would be insane for him not to screw us over. After all, what kind of idiot treats their employees better than their spouse? 

I dunno. His kind, I guess? He's had a few chances to fuck us over, and he hasn't taken them. Opposite really. When our parent company was doing furloughs, he stayed in the office almost a hundred hours, talking and talking and talking his way up the corporate ladder. And in the end, no one at our site got furloughed. 

He's pulled strings like that before. And it baffles me, right? Because it really does make zero sense. He'll move the heavens and the earth for us, but his wife and kids are afterthoughts. It feels like any moment, he's going to look into the mirror and realize how stupid that is. It feels like I'm betting on him making the same stupid mistake again, and again, and again - like it would be less cynical to believe he was, eventually, going to stab me in the back. But he hasn't yet, and as far as I can tell he's been making that mistake for close to fifteen years, and it's already cost him everything it can. If he was going to learn, he would have by now. 

So my position on him is that if he wanted to date someone I cared about, I'd warn them off. I don't trust him there. But I tentatively trust him to be my boss. Maybe one day he'll stick the knife in and twist, and everyone will say Ah, Babs, we warned you, but for now, I accept that he's doing a very predictable, very irrational thing, and I've made my peace with it. 

---

My job has glue traps. 

No one likes the glue traps, but we don't have a lot of options. Poison's banned by state law, spring traps are banned by company safety, and several non-lethal options tried in the past failed to work. The mouse problem can get pretty bad if it's ignored, and there's some real health hazards in that. Our site has never had a positive hantavirus test, thank God, but the big base about a half hour away has. That guy's gonna be on oxygen the rest of his life. 

If a mouse gets caught, we just euthanize it. But more than mice get stuck. Lizards can wander into those traps too, and the people working there have different feelings about the lizards. They don't pose nearly the same kind of risk mice do. They're chill little guys, and they keep the moths away, and they're just 

You know. They're friendly. There's something to be said about walking into a room, and hitting the light switch, and seeing two little guys on the wall start to do pushups as soon as they see you. 

People used to just euthanize the lizards too, but I had pet leopard geckos as a kid and I couldn't take that so I wound up googling how to free animals from glue traps. Now, when a lizard gets stuck in a trap - which happens once or twice a week - I get some vegetable oil from the breakroom, and a little plastic fork, and I'll spend fifteen to twenty minutes just kind of gently prying the little guys out. 

I have a team of technicians that help me operate one of the larger machines. They're real blue collar guys, ex-airforce, and they make me look like a little kid. Being an engineer means they'll look to me as a leader sometimes, which is a wild experience. And I started helping the lizards for my own conscience, but one of the crazier consequences of it has been that it seriously boosted my leadership cred. Because those guys see me, and they go: Hey. If he's willing to fight for a lizard, he's gotta be willing to fight for me. 

I cannot overstate how nice that is. Most engineers that want to make a change to a maintenance practice, or try an upgrade, they have to work their asses off to get the techs to buy in. But I can just ask. They already trust me to do good. They know I'm new, and they know I'm not the smartest engineer in the building, but they also know I'm the one who gets lizards out of the glue traps. 

And just because of that, they're willing to follow me. 

---

My boss has a meeting every month or two. It's typically basic house cleaning stuff - reminders about routines we've gotten lazy on, and updates on future projects. Maybe some warnings about problems coming from higher up in the company.

People are, in my opinion, a bit too cynical about the meetings. It stems from people not trusting our boss, which again, I understand, because it would make so much more sense if he wasn't trustworthy. It's a testament to the man's incredibly unhealthy priorities that he is. But as we made it to the end of the meeting, one of bullet points was: 

Do NOT mess with animals in the building. 

So I looked at my techs, and they looked at me, and when he got to the point, he was so scathing I actually just wanted to crawl under a rock and die. He said basically that he'd heard some reports about someone in the building handling animals that found their way in and got stuck, and that he just wanted to emphasize how insanely inappropriate that was, not to mention dangerous, and that if he needed to speak to anyone about it again, there would be severe consequences. 

I was willing to just take the shame and move on. I was. But one of my techs is old. Old enough he could've retired two years ago. And his actual literal goal is to one day get angry, yell at someone, and storm out. That's how he wants to retire. So instead of biting his tongue like everyone else, he stood up and said: I hate the glue traps. You hate the glue traps. We all hate glue traps. But we've all sat here for years, ignoring the little things that get stuck in them, watching them die, and then Bab's comes in, and he is the first person in decades to give enough of a shit to start pulling the lizards out. And I don't want him to stop. 

Get humane traps or shut up but we are not going back to the old way of just letting things starve. 

And my boss actually froze up. He got all wide eyed and stared at Marc, and then the other techs jumped in, and there was a very small but intense rebellion in the meeting and my boss kept trying to interrupt while getting absolutely bowled over by this gang of angry middle aged air force vets, and eventually he just went 

I will speak with Babylon about this afterwards! After! And then he will speak with everyone else, but I have more points to cover. 

So they went silent, and my boss rushed through the last five minutes, and we all adjounred. The techs really didn't like that I was going in alone - they thought our boss was going to try and shout me into compliance. Marc in particular was like, Look, if he tries bullying you, stand your ground, and if he threatens anything, just come get us, and we'll give him hell. 

So armed with that, I went to my boss's office. I sat in the chair across from him, and he kept his composure for maybe five seconds before just flopping back into his chair. 

I had no idea you were saving lizards, he said, but I'm glad you are. I always hated seeing them die in the glue.  

I wasn't expecting that. I was about to ask him what the comment from the meeting was about then, but he answered that before I even got the chance.

A snake got into the building last week, and - someone picked it up and chased a coworker around. Turns out that coworker was severely afraid of snakes, and now it's a shitshow. We're a small site, and now I can't ask those two to work together anymore, to say nothing about how the snake fared after all that. Being upset about that is a reasonable thing, right? 

And he gave me a look like he actually wanted an answer, so I said Yeah, totally, chasing a coworker around with a snake is a dick move. Especially if that coworker is already afraid of snakes. 

And he said Exactly! and then we sat there a few moments longer. He looked so incredibly tired that I did, actually, feel kind of bad for him. And then he somehow managed to sink even further into his chair, and said

Look, I know I'm not a good guy. But I'm not evil. I'm not some sort of crazy asshole that's going to demand that everyone watch lizards starve to death. When you go back downstairs, could you try to pass that on? That I'm not evil? 

I said Sure because it wasn't a hard request, and he looked relieved. I actually made it halfway out before I realized I had a question. 

Who grabbed the snake? I asked. 

Not supposed to talk about it, he said. But whoever comes to mind first is probably right. 

ThatGuy? I asked. And he looked me in the face, nodded his head yes, and said No. 

---

The techs seemed a little disappointed that they didn't get to storm the boss's office, but were otherwise in good spirits. They were actually a little bit embarrassed to hear about the snake story - apparently, it wasn't much of a secret. It'd just slipped their minds because it happened three weeks ago. 

We did maintenance after that, the same basic repairs we did every week. The meeting had been stressful and it was a relief to work with my hands. When the parts were reinstalled, everything cleaned and smooth and ready to go, Marc found me again. 

You know what the lesson of today is? he asked. And there were quite a few answers to that that I could have taken - from don't assume the worst of people to be careful with how you spend your trust - we all need it more than we think. 

But instead I said what? because I wanted to hear what his answer was going to be. 

That I got your back, he said. Then he clapped one very, very large hand on my shoulder, gave it a good squeeze, and walked back to dosimetry lab.

---

The next day, Marc gave me a package and told me to open it in my office. I was suspicious, but I followed the request.

Cardboard gave way to a small baggie, obviously full of fabric, which opened to reveal a t-shirt that read

"I Am the Motherfucking Lizard King."

I looked at it, I loved it, and then I got an idea. I went to my boss's office and knocked on the door. When he opened it, I asked him if he would be willing to allow something very unprofessional to happen for morale building purposes.

How unprofessional? he asked. I held the shirt up in answer. He gave the shirt a short look over and snorted.

You can wear it on weeks without customers, he said. Which just so happened to include that week.

I'll pass on that it came with your blessing, I replied, and he looked oddly relieved.

Thanks, he said. And then I went downstairs.

---

The techs were very, very happy to see the shirt. And while my boss's reputation remains in tatters, and probably will be until he moves (or dies), the next time there was a meeting, there was quite a bit less complaining about how mere presence. Which is, I guess, a start.

We'll see if he squanders it.

[infamousbrad]

I warned you.

About 15 years ago, I had a minor moment of Internet fame when I wrote a lengthy essay series on LiveJournal called "Christians in the Hand of an Angry God." In it, I argued that right-wing evangelical "Christianity" was literally Satanic by scriptural standards, was literally the cult of anti-Christ that Jesus prophesied in Matthew 25:31-46, that they were literally worshiping a made-up guy with the same name to justify cruelty, just like Jesus predicted they would the week before the crucifixion.

And at least half of the people who read it and praised it called it excellent satire. They saw my point, thought I was onto something, but couldn't take seriously that I literally meant what I literally said.

"Do not commit the sin of empathy."

Jesus' prophesy that these people were coming was not especially miraculous, in hindsight. No philosophy or theological movement becomes a large organized church, let alone a majority faith of a nation, without needing rich people's money, and/or government funding, to pay for it all.

And rich people in general, and right-wing governments in general, get to be the way they are by believing that the poor and the down-trodden can never be shown anything but cruelty, should never be rewarded, or else they'll lose all motivation to obey, to work hard, to be good. (By contrast, they believe that the same thing would happen to rich, powerful, popular people if they were ever punished in any way, if they were ever anything but rewarded.)

And rich people and governments are not going to subsidize your church foundation funds, your church repair funds, et cetera if you tell them that they're evil. But someone definitely will come along and offer to take that money. The people who take that money and conform won't even all be lying psychopaths; if you truly believe that your organization matters, is doing irreplaceable good in the world, you'll sacrifice any principle of your faith to keep the bills paid, you'll look away from or excuse any sin. It's that or see it all shrink and crumble into irrelevance.

I've come to the conclusion that it may not actually be possible to be a good person while practicing the majority faith of the land you live in. Or, if it is possible, well, like the man said, "straight is the gate and narrow is the way, and few there be that find it."

The Episcopal Church has its own legacy of sin, they've long overlooked a laundry list of crimes to pay their own bills, so don't rush to congratulate a mainline bishop for preaching mainline Christianity or take too much pleasure from Trump and his fascist followers being surprised that that happened. But do remember this:

From the mid-1970s to the present, right-wing billionaires have poured a LOT of money into church expansion and maintenance conditional on them distorting the Bible's teachings to make it appear that Jesus was pro-fascist. "To deceive, if it were possible, the very elect." So when honest theologians tell you that this is literally anti-Christ, literally checks every box in the Bible's description of the future cult of anti-Christ, you need to hear us.

The modern book and movie image of "the Antichrist" was a well-funded propaganda campaign to distract you from the plain language of the scriptures. The biblical anti-Christ is not some socialist liberal peacenik. The biblical anti-Christ is everyone who tells you that Jesus wants you to be cruel to "the least of these, my brethren" so that they'll straighten up and fly right.

[yuquinzel]

atsumu who goes above and beyond to impress you, his crush and classmate of four years, in all definitions of “impress.”

honestly how the fuck isn't it obvious to you by now, he might as well be walking around with “i like y/n” tattooed on his forehead.

you mention you like guys that can cook once and holy fuck atsumu who still doesn't know how to use the microwave without quite literally burning the food, who's never chopped onions before without ending up with enough cuts to bandage his whole hand— that atsumu practices for weeks and stays up till 2 am to prepare for the lunch he'll make for himself, because osamu said said no and then because you bring homemade lunch to stay and eat in class with your friends— he'll casually just plop down on the seat next to you, his friends will then very obviously willingly talk loudly about his lunch and he'll just throw in a, “yeah, made it maself, 'm a solid chef, who do ya think taught 'samu?”

okay if that didn't get your attention, no worries, what are his friends there for?

if atsumu gets lucky in a day and catches you chatting away with your friends in the hallway, then he instructs his friends to walk past you, hover in the corner, just within your earshot— “'kay, so when we pass her by, ya gotta speak ma name real loud, loud enough so she can hear it, but don't annoy her”

and so for the time you stand there, trying to hold a conversation with your friends, all your mind can really focus on is the, “atsumu was so fucking good in practice today, if we're gonna win, then it'll be all him”

and then you hear the subject of the conversation speak, “nah, we're a team, every time we win, it's all thanks ta you guys,” because you also mentioned you like modest, humble guys.

god forbid the days you're absent in class.

atsumu who's sulking all day, doesn't know what the fuck is going on in classes, he's half in and half not in every conversation, even his passes are sloppy and weak. to the point osamu and suna are concerned, well, in their own ways, “are ya constipated or something, yer missin’ your spikes and yer passes as clumsy,” osamu says off-handedly.

“i heard y/n didn't come today, i think her friends said she's sick.” suna chips in, and atsumu shrinks in his spot like a grumpy cat.

“i already know that, wouldn't have come today if i knew she wasn't comin’.”

“you'd miss practice then.”

“don't care, don't talk to me, don't wanna do anything, what's the point.”

“down fucking bad,” suna muses, and atsumu glares at him.

atsumu's day is ruined and his disappointment is immeasurable. why did you get sick? how could you get sick? now he's worried and half of himself and his passes are shit and god, he wants to see you. he feels like he could die.

then when you finally show up the next day after what felt like eternity to atsumu, you find on your desk a pile of snacks with a little note— banana milk, everyone knows it's your favourite, the bar of chocolate they only sell down the convenience store near the school, the glazed donuts that you're always eating in class, and a lot of bubblegums that only one person in class knows you like— atsumu's handwriting is rushed and barely comprehensive but you know it by heart because he doesn't know you saw him slip the note you found in your locker this morning, and countless other mornings—

“i hope you smile because of this”

atsumu as a secret admirer is... not so secret because he's still unaware that you see him every morning, and let him giggle to himself as he slips the notes and the strips of bubblegums in your locker— you don't even like that flavor.

but he gave them, so you think they might just be your favourite.

then again, maybe atsumu doesn't want to be a secret admirer.

atsumu has a crush on you and you know that— he's very obvious. but he's also very dense and doesn't realise that everyone besides him can see you like him too. he doesn't know the only reason you bring homemade lunch is because he had started to eat lunch in class with his friends. you stand in the hallways with your friends pretending to talk so that when atsumu's walking past you, his friends will practically yell his name and you'll see him blushing shyly. he still doesn't know you come to his every match, cheering for him and scream with joy at every one of his scores.

atsumu makes it obvious he has a crush on you but is stupidly dense that you reciprocate all the same :'))))

© yuquinzel 2024 [ plagiarism is a violation of moral rights ! ]

POSTING BECAUSE WHY TF NOT HUH HUHHHHHHHHH

@kyoghurts hi bbg

[rin-may-1103]

Aspiring Escape Artist (part two)

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"Why don't we all head inside, yes?" Mr. Wayne suggested, waving his arm in the doors general direction.

"Yes, that sounds great," Ms. Clance agreed, turning to Danny like she was debating whether or not she should drag him inside. Danny was very against that idea and glared at her. She huffed but turned and started making her way up the stairs.

The other, he can't really say kids because he's pretty sure half the people standing in front of him were over the age of eighteen, but they still lived with Mr. Wayne, apparently, so kids it was. The other kids continued to try to stealthily watch him as they made their way into the building. (He refused to call this place a house; it was bigger than Sam's manor for Ancients' sake.)

The gray-eyed girl waited for him, the not-so-happy but happy sparkle back as she watched him approach. Pausing for a moment, Danny turned and gently patted the bush closest to him, it had been practically begging for attention for the past ten minutes and Sam would have throttled him if he had just ignored it.

She treated them like demented puppies, and it's against every unspoken law (in danny's books, atleast) to ignore a puppy.

The gray-eyed girl (man, he was going to have to learn their names, Ancients, why were there so many people here?) tilted her head curiously, eyeing the plant he just patted.

"My friend has plant powers," Danny huffed, which was true. Sam still had lingering plant control and a connection to the green because of Undergrowth. Danny was just leaving out the fact that he also had plant powers. He wasn't sure why he always got new powers after beating new powerful ghosts, but it happens, and now he needs to pet the plants because they get sad if he doesn't.

(Jazz theorized once that the new powers were due to his half-a nature, but then they looked at Vlad and decided it was probably something else.) (Also, why in the world did he get ice powers and then almost immediately plant powers? like, seriously, why?)

"Close friend?" Gray asked, turning to follow Danny inside.

"One of my best friends," Danny agreed. Man, he missed them. He'd have to figure out how to get out of here soon; there was no way he was going to just not see his friends on Tucker's birthday. Which meant he had about a week to bust out of here and get back to Amity. Oh, and stay under the radar so Vlad doesn't find him.

Glancing around the entry hall, or was the term foyer? like, the place was fancier then most five star hotels he's seen (which he wants to make clear, was against his dying wishes. fuck vlad and his not hard earned money.) like, sure, it wasn't all white modern minimalist like the hotels, but he's pretty sure the vase just sitting a little too close to the edge of a table was worth more then a human heart on the black market.

"Welcome to Wayne Manor," Mr. Pennyworth started, closing the doors with a heavy thud. He didn't lock it, though, Danny noted. Probably because Ms. Clance still needed to leave.

"may I have your coats?" he asked, holding out his arm to Ms. Clance and looking over to Danny. Ms. Clance immediately started to shrug off her jacket and dropped it onto his arm without a second glance, trying to talk to Mr. Wayne about an office or something.

Danny shook his head, "No thanks. I prefer to keep my things with me." especially in a new place, who knows what they'd do to his stuff. last time he handed anything over it had been locked up and never returned. (or well, not returned until he stole it back right before leaving, but that's getting into semantics.)

"So, Daniel was it?" the older guy from the first three asked, smiling brightly and trying to act casual. He was failing.

"It's Danny," Danny huffed, glancing around to study the others.

Gray was nice, he had a feeling they'd get a long fine. she was like an open book, all her opinions and emotions right there for him to see. Though that just meant she was awear of them and could easily hide them.

The others not so much.

Eyebags looked tired but alert, watching Danny like he was a new puzzle. Which was fine, Danny could deal with that. He probably wasn't as bad as Jazz or his parents were when obsessed with new things, so he goes lower on the list but not off.

Mr. Casual over here was watching him AND the others, which meant he was probably the peacekeeper. That or he was the one who antagonized the others into acting without them noticing. Same as eyebags, then.

Blondie looked like she was planning how to prank him right then and there, but also like she was evaluating him for something. Like he thought earlier, she'll probably stick around until she gets bored. So, hmmm. Keep an eye on more than eyebags, but probably not a problem.

there was a kid maybe two-three years younger than him trying to hide on the stairs out of view, he looked pissed off and annoyed. Something was telling Danny he should stay away from him. So, definitely going to the top of his list right next to butler man.

And finally, Mr. Wayne. He was smiling and chatting with Ms. Clance like he didn't have a care in the world. And it would have been believable if it wasn't for the fact that the man was easily steering the conversation away from the stuff Ms. Clance wanted to talk about, without Danny around, before leaving. Which means Mr. Wayne wanted Danny to be part of the conversation, probably to get both sides of the story.

He was smart and knew how to manipulate situations without people catching on.

Also, top of the list, then.

"Only people who want to kill me call me Daniel," Danny added, watching as Ms. Clance tried to bring up his file and fell for another diversion.

"Really?" Eyebags asked, actually surprised for some reason.

Oh, wait, murder isn't normal. Ha, to live a normal life. It must be boring. Couldn't be him, even if he wanted it. There was nothing normal about growing up with mad scientists, and nothing normal about being half dead and a vigilante.

"Yeah, my friends and I made a chart and everything. Granted, we didn't have many people to add to the list to compare with, but it's checked out so far." Danny admitted, turning to face Eyebags.

Honestly, it was just Vlad, his parents, a few GIW agents, and those very few times his friends almost killed him. But come on, they all called him Daniel at some point. Therefore, it totally checks out.

"Huh," Mr. Casual blinked, glancing at his siblings before shaking his head. "Right, so uh, why do people want to kill you?"

"Because they're Fruit Loops," Danny grumbled, finally deciding to approach Ms. Clance. Might as well get this done and over with. The longer she stayed, the less time Danny would have to scout the place by himself later, after all the introductions.

Next (to be written)

[justmylvr]

everlasting.

new dad!katsuki bakugo x fem reader.

a/n: aaaAH! i know i might have mistyped his personality a little bit but i got so excited.

despite the pain you were in, this was heaven. it was a dream come true when you saw your husband holding your little baby, when he carried her carseat out, and how tender he was with her.

she was perfect. she had the prettiest blonde hair, thick and curly which hadn't been expected. your eyes were practically glued to her during the hospital stay. though katsuki already kicked in protectiveness into gear, not allowing her to leave the room unless he accompanied them. he's heard too many stories about babies being switched or just taken.

it was a week after and you two were so, very confused. she had slept through every. single. night. without an issue. the doctor you guys had visited to check on both you and her found nothing to be wrong. she was perfectly healthy, she just found her perfect rhythm. of course you had to make a bottle up and feed her every few hours, though not being extremely sleep deprived was really beneficial.

katsuki took wonderful care of both you and hayami. he was terribly stubborn in everything, especially with you getting up. he wanted to make sure you were as comfortable as you could be. he would pick you up half the time you needed anything, grumbling something about 'don't be an idiot'.

some of your favorite moments of the day are when the three of you woke up a little earlier than normal. it had been cloudy the past 3 days so you guys would spend the morning outside. this morning was no different.

katsuki had brought out a cup of tea and a bottle for hayami, quickly going inside to grab what remained. he returned with two plates of food, the smell absolutely divine. he set them on the table infront of you, motioning to give him the baby. with a small rag settled against his shoulder, he sat down carefully with the little one in his hands.

"eat before it gets cold, baby." he mumbled, giving you a look before his attention shifted. he looked down at the small baby nestled in the crook of his arm, nothing but love in his eyes.

he grabbed the bottle, giving it a quick shake before angling it into her mouth. once she took to it, he nodded and hummed.

"look, great eater like her mama." he said proudly, nodding at your already half eaten plate. he chuckled as you swatted a hand at him, knowing he was right.

"she gets it from you too. you cook great and eat just as good." you hummed, trying to defend yourself playfully. he simply rolled his eyes at you and focused back on the baby.

once the little one had finished, he held her again his chest, patting her back gently. as he did this, he leaned forward slightly, looking between you and his food. you got the idea as you started to feed him, quiet thanks coming through each bite.

eventually everybody had eaten, katsuki holding your hand as he leaned back. he held hayami against his chest, his right hand settled on her back. she slept peacefully as you two talked quietly. the sight before you was one the would be everlasting.