#locker journal

[rotton-teeth]

Toralei Fearbbok after school activies that arent just ~Music~

[panthalassaunited]

I Stepped on a Hawk

I don’t think I’m ready for this kind of commitment

Sure when things are nice, they are very nice, as soothing as the breeze through the thatch palms and slash pines,

As wondrous as the hidden secrets of the rocklands. The gentle afternoon sun set against clear blue skies radiates the heat of many good days we had.

But those hurtful things you said.

That wild and crazed look in your eyes.

I know it was an accident, I know you didn’t mean it,

But now I have to check and re-check myself, Always.

I can’t be myself, I have to dump every ounce, every fiber of my being into making sure you don’t get upset.

And yet I fail you still.

Meaningless words to me, you took them as a directed attack.

I didn’t mean anything by that tone I had.

And now you won’t speak to me.

I can’t do this anymore.

My love for you is as that of the Gardner and their prized crops.

I want nothing but the best for you, to help you to grow and thrive and be truly you…

But I don’t think, for my sake and your’s, this will work out.

Why didn’t I know sooner?

I would have never taken a step had I known I wasn’t ready.

My therapist says “it sounds like you got more than you bargained for?”,

Maybe they’re right.

And that’s when I stepped on the hawk.

Your silence cuts deep, much like the hawk did later,

My brain feels clouded, I don’t want to work anymore.

I want to lie down and rot.

I’ve failed, again.

Even when I tried as best as I could not to, I failed again.

And you withdraw yourself from me.

I’ve done you great wrong.

My mind is squeezed between great and dismal bricks looking at the Pithecellobium,

When I felt something budge under my feet.

A lightning bolt, a spark, a sound of thunder, the hairs stand on the back of your neck,

I stumbled back in horror, as I peer down to see the turned-over hawk.

A large snake, a North American Racer, perhaps four feet long, once wrapped around the downed raptor, swiftly slinks away.

Everything goes into panic.

The mind, fragile, a Robin’s eggs, grasps at burning straws, gasps, reels.

Eyes meet the eyes of the hawk, blind fear and confusion in both.

I crouch down to examine, yes they’re still alive.

Grabbing a thatch palm I gently try to flip them over, onto their feet,

When talons deftly shoot out and sink down into the meat of my palm.

It hurts, the cuts are deep, but incomparable to the weight of the sin I had committed.

The garden gloves I had don’t work either, and one is ripped off my hand in fury.

They flash their wings, beak agape in fright.

The hoodie is called for, and I quickly throw it down upon them.

Instant relaxation.

Memory turns to muscle as routines of old are dredged from the depths of the psyche.

Gently unfolding the wings, watching primaries slide against secondaries,

A complex machine, tested against the mettle of life itself, whetted against the stone of trial and tribulation,

Moves and flexes like clockwork.

No broken bones in the right wing, none in the left, the scaly legs are warm and still functional.

Retrices fan out, the patterns put all together mark this one as a juvenile Broad-winged Hawk.

Everything checks out, all is well, no damage done.

Setting them in the shade on a clear platform of limestone, the hawk stands, confused, dazed.

Eventually, folding into themselves, they give their own self-assessment.

A gentle straightening of feathers, ruffled plumes relax.

I back off quickly.

Hours later, passing by the spot I had left them, a flash of movement from the pines directs my gaze skyward.

A relief, the hawk still flies. They got themselves up to the slash pine off to the right of the rock I had set them on, and now they are soaring through the canopy.

Communication is better then.

We come to an understanding.

Things mend, I still don’t think I can do this.

But I’m glad I can help to set things right.

[crnl-chicken-tots]

The first and last time Ushijima lets either one of them ride a horse with him.

BONUS:

[retr0-dayz]

early 2010s justice back to school supplies

[arolesbianism]

Times are getting desperate boys the sandbox tools suck so I'm hunting down other planetoids for more lore

[thepencilnerd]

sticky-notes and leftovers

thank you to everyone who voted in my last poll! ask and ye shall receive 🫶

summary: a glimpse into your daily notions with robby after moving in, a.k.a., literally just fluff to escape the reality that s1 finale is tomorrow

the first note appeared three days after you officially moved in.

It was stuck to the cabinet above the coffee maker, slightly crooked. Ballpoint blue. Classic. Robby’s handwriting—surprisingly neat for a doctor, dad-esque, deeply serious in a way that made you laugh.

Coffee’s ready. Don’t forget to eat something.

Below that, in smaller script:

p.s. you’re not as subtle about skipping meals as you think.

You’d rolled your eyes. Smiled. Made a mental note to write back. The next morning, you left one stuck to the fridge:

Thank you for the coffee. I'm still mad you beat me to it. Again.

And just like that, it began.

It wasn’t intentional, at first. The notes were mostly functional—reminders about groceries, schedules, patients one of you needed to follow up on. But they bled into softer territory quickly. Encouragement. Sarcasm. A shared language built in 3x3 squares of neon.

Good luck today. You're a miracle in scrubs. (check the leftover lasagna before you thank me. It’s kind of a war zone in there) I love when you sing along to the radio in the shower. I wasn’t singing. The shower was. Sure

By month two, there was an entire corner of the fridge reserved for them, layered like scales, curling at the edges.

Some mornings, he’d stumble out of bed to find his thermos with a note taped to the lid:

Be nicer to Whitaker. He’s trying.

Other nights, Robby would get home late and find one on his pillow:

Welcome home. You smell like hospital. I’m still glad you’re here. I love you.

He’d stand there for a moment, reading the words, the weight of the day falling off his shoulders. You’d be asleep by then, curled up on your side, hair slightly mussed from the pillow, the soft rise and fall of your breath the only sound in the room.

He’d lean down, brushing a kiss to your temple, careful not to wake you—but still, you’d smile, faint and sleepy, like your body knew he was near even before your mind did.

Sometimes, he’d whisper something only the walls could hear—missed you today or you’re everything—then set his phone to silent, take a shower, and crawl in beside you, the note tucked into his journal.

The ritual became a comfort. A constant. Something grounding when the days were long and the shifts were brutal. When you barely saw each other except in passing, there were always the notes.

Until the day you had the worst shift of the year.

It had been back-to-back traumas. A code blue that didn’t end well. A young patient who reminded you too much of someone you used to know. You didn’t cry, not in the moment. Not until you got home, peeled off your coat, and saw the Post-It on the inside of the fridge:

Soup’s in the fridge. Eat first. Then fall apart if you need to. I’ll be home before midnight – M.

You’d pressed your thumb over his name like it could hold you together. Ate the soup. Didn’t fall apart.

Not until you saw the follow-up note stuck to your pillow:

You don’t have to be strong for me. Just be.

You left your reply in the bathroom mirror, scribbled while brushing your teeth:

I love you. (also, we’re out of toothpaste)

He never brought it up. Just replaced the toothpaste. Kissed your forehead like it was all part of the same conversation.

One morning, months later, Langdon accidentally opened your lunch container in the fridge and found a note stuck inside:

Remember to eat. (yes, I know you will forget) This is me pretending to be surprised ~OoO~

Langdon had stared at it. Then took a picture. Then texted Dana, who texted McKay, who dragged Collins into it.

By the time your shift ended, the entire department was in on it.

You returned from rounds to find a Post-It stuck to your locker:

If he doesn’t marry you, I will. - Dana

Robby’s handwriting appeared below in green ink:

We’re taking applications for flower girls - Robby

Collins passed you in the hallway and grinned. “Power couple energy.”

McKay gave you a thumbs-up and said nothing. Langdon winked. Mel smiled shyly. 

You shook your head, embarrassed but smiling. Your heart full.

You never asked how they knew.

You didn’t need to.

It was a Wednesday night when Robby found you standing in front of the fridge, rereading the corner where you kept them. The notes were a riot of color—blue, yellow, green, pink—some faded, some brand new.

He stepped behind you, sliding his arms around your waist. Rested his chin on your shoulder.

"You keeping all of them?"

You nodded. "Even the one where you said the leftover stir fry was cursed."

"It was cursed."

You leaned back into him. "I like them. All of them."

"Even the stick figure one where I drew you doing a laparotomy with laser eyes?"

You laughed. "Especially that one."

He was quiet a moment longer. Then whispered, "I’ll keep writing them. For as long as you’ll let me."

You turned in his arms and kissed him, soft and slow.

"That better be a promise, Robinavitch."

"Sticky note vow," he whispered.

And when you pulled back, he was already reaching for the notepad.

[the-invisible-queer]

YO WAIT

The only way I'd ever part with my Camp Rock/Jonas Brothers shit - all authentic to the 2008/2009 era - is if it's in the hands of Joseph Adam Jonas, himself

FUCKING WAIT

LISTEN I WONT EVEN TAKE HIS MONEY

I'll literally give it to him for free just for a chance to finally meet him and get a hug

[vgna-wf]

met someone the night i arrived bc he got locked out of his room. tall nerdy guy with a shrek shirt on. hung out some of yesterday, followed him on his errands as he prepared to leave. went to the bookstore together. real sweet guy. very lefty, talked a lot. lots of niche interests. surface level very similar to my favorite ex, but also very much not so. not interested in him but ive now identified them as a Type of Dude. still texting bc i liked him

had breakfast with a woman who seems extremely accomplished and well connected and has all the right opinions yet is also very privileged. enjoyed talking to her and felt mostly open and honest but also found myself a little uncomfortable because i was worried about saying all the right things and coming off as honest and down to earth all at the same time. there was definitely a barrier to connecting.

had dinner in a tavern. sat at the bar. bartender asked about my book, talked about sci-fi. he was great and i wish i was more comfortable socially. im getting there. it was cool because this place (like the place i went to last night, although a bit more bougie) had a lot of regulars and it’s fun to watch them have their rapport with the bartender. found out he was going to the same concert tmrw (!!) so hopefully i can say hi then

in the evening, met a man in the smoking section from kentucky who lives in airbnbs with his dog and travels the country for his weed business. had a very open and honest and real conversation with him. felt like i met a good soul. attractive in a particular disheveled beardy millennial sort of way. he invited me to go find a rooftop bar with him. brought the dog. we went and he kind of became an ass. not to me, but his actions, even if funny, showed a disregard for other people, and his jokes became pretty offensive. he was fun and it felt nice to have his interest but oh boy. glad i had the experience but also disappointing

[demie90s]

All Dogs Go To Heaven

(Please Read Warning)

UConn!Team x Senior!Fem!Reader

MASTERLIST | MORE

Summary: She gave everything. Played through the heartbreak, the silence, the emptiness. Just to finish what she started.

Genre: Angst | Drama | Emotional Slow Burn

Warnings: Reader Passing On. Mental health themes, emotional withdrawal, ambiguous ending, implied depression, silent departure, strong emotional undertones

Word Count ~ 3.7k

My senior year started with a funeral. Not a literal one—nobody died. But something in me did. Quietly. Without ceremony. I remember waking up that first morning back on campus with my mouth dry, my eyes burning, and this hollow throb in my chest like I’d been grieving something all night in my sleep. And I didn’t know what for. Or maybe I did. I just didn’t want to say it. That I was tired. That I didn’t want to be here. That I was already counting the days until the season ended so I could stop pretending I was okay.

I brushed my teeth like a robot. Washed my face even though I didn’t look in the mirror. Couldn’t. I didn’t like the eyes staring back anymore. She looked like me but off—too still, too heavy, too drained. I pulled on my UConn hoodie, tied my shoes, forced down a granola bar I could barely taste, and walked to practice like I didn’t just want to curl up under the covers and never come out again.

I was a Husky. A captain. The example. So I played the part. Every damn day. Early to film. First on the court. Last to leave. Took charges. Dived for loose balls. Clapped loud. Smiled harder. I told myself if I could just keep up the act, it would become real again. That I’d eventually feel like myself. That I’d wake up one day and the emptiness would be gone. But it never was. And every day it got a little heavier.

Nobody noticed. I mean, why would they? I made sure they didn’t. I was so good at hiding it I started to forget where the lie ended and I began. The girls would joke in the locker room, laugh so loud the walls shook. I laughed too. Loudest of all. I cracked jokes. Pulled pranks. Learned how to change the subject when anyone got too close. You good? Always. You look tired. Long night watching film. You sure? Always.

Some days I showered twice just so I could cry without getting caught. Let the water mask the sobs, let the steam blur my face. I’d sit on the floor until my skin went numb and my fingers pruned. I’d come out smiling. Towel over my head. “Damn, girl, you were in there forever!” Yeah. Sorry. My bad. I just like the heat. I’m always cold.

But the truth is I hadn’t felt warm in months.

Classes were a blur. I stopped raising my hand. Stopped taking notes. Stopped showing up unless I had to. But my professors didn’t say anything—student-athletes get passes. Coaches vouched. Tutors covered. I was barely present. My thoughts kept wandering off to scary places. Like what it’d be like to just stop. To disappear. To vanish without making it anyone’s fault but mine.

I journaled in secret. Wrote letters I never meant to send. Some to the girls. Some to coach. Some to my mom. Some to myself. They all said the same thing in different words. I love you. I’m sorry. I don’t want you to blame yourselves. I’m just tired. I tried. I really did. One time I wrote twenty-seven pages without looking up. My hand cramped. I didn’t feel it.

People praised my composure. Commentators talked about my focus. My poise. My maturity. Geno called me the rock of the team. Said I kept everyone steady. But they didn’t see me walking back to my dorm after practice, taking the long way just so I wouldn’t have to talk to anyone. They didn’t see the way I kept my lights off when I got home. The way my phone stayed face down, unanswered. The way I sometimes sat on the floor by my bed just staring at nothing.

I stopped going home on weekends. Told my mom I had team stuff. Told my little brother I was too tired to FaceTime. Told my best friend from back home that I was “just busy.” I wasn’t. I just didn’t want anyone to see me like this. Didn’t want to explain what I couldn’t name. I kept thinking—if I can just make it to the end of the season, I’ll be fine. If I can just stick it out, I’ll get to walk away quietly.

It was like I was leaking—bit by bit, drop by drop—but I smiled through it. Nobody ever checks on the strong one. Nobody checks on the captain. I think that’s what really got to me. That I could be dying right in front of them and they’d still ask me to lead warmups.

But I didn’t blame them. I blamed me.

Because I let it get this far. Because I never said anything. Because I thought needing help meant I wasn’t strong enough to wear the jersey. Because I thought if I admitted it out loud, they’d look at me different. Like I was cracked. Weak. Like I didn’t deserve to be here.

So I held it. Every ache. Every scream. Every tear I didn’t let fall. I held it all.

And every day, it got harder to carry.

We made it to March. Barely.

My body hurt in places I stopped naming months ago. My knees screamed every time I sat, every time I got up, but I smiled through it like always. “You good?” someone asked while I limped toward the bus. “Yeah,” I grinned, “just old.” I wasn’t. I was twenty-two. But I felt ancient. Heavy. Like I’d lived three lives in this one season.

That morning, I woke up before the alarm. I laid there in the dark, flat on my back, staring at the ceiling like maybe it would crack open and swallow me whole. I wasn’t scared. I wasn’t even sad anymore. I was quiet. Numb. Not because I didn’t care—but because I had nothing left in me to give. This was it. The last game. The last promise I made myself: Make it through the season. Don’t quit. Don’t ruin it for everyone else.

So I got up. I brushed my teeth. Taped my ankles. Braided my hair tight, so it wouldn’t fall out of the bun mid-game like it always did. Slipped on my jersey like it meant something. Let the trainer crack my back like we weren’t both pretending I was okay. Put my headphones on. Looked in the mirror.

Smiled.

We played our hearts out. I played like I had nothing left to lose because I didn’t. Four quarters of grit. Of breathless sprints and aching legs and a throat raw from calling switches and picks. I shot until my arms burned. I bled—literally—elbow to the floor, skin split open, and I didn’t even flinch. Someone handed me a towel. I wiped it off like it was sweat. Tossed it. Kept going.

The crowd was loud. But I couldn’t hear them. Everything around me felt distant. Fuzzy. Like I was moving underwater. Like I was already fading.

We lost by four.

That’s the part nobody saw coming. UConn doesn’t lose in March. Not like that. Not with me. I was supposed to be the one to carry us through. I was supposed to be the one to leave with a net around my neck, confetti in my hair, and the W etched in my last chapter.

Instead, I walked off the court in silence. The buzzer still ringing in my bones. Hands on my hips. Staring at the scoreboard like if I looked hard enough, the numbers would change. They didn’t.

We lined up. Shook hands. Posed for cameras with hollow eyes. Someone shoved a mic in my face.

“How do you feel?”

And I smiled.

I fucking smiled.

Because what else was I supposed to do?

“I’m just happy,” I said. Like I wasn’t dying inside. Like that hadn’t been the last thread. Like I hadn’t just crossed the finish line of something I never wanted to start in the first place. My voice was steady. My eyes were dry. I had practiced this. Knew how to keep my chin up. Knew how to say what they needed to hear.

Then I walked to the locker room. Peeled off my jersey like I was taking off a costume. Took one last look at my name on the tag. Folded it. Placed it on the bench. Sat there in silence while the girls cried, while the cameras waited outside, while the season collapsed around us.

I didn’t say much.

Told them I was proud. Told them I loved them. Told Coach thank you. Hugged him a little too long, but he didn’t notice. Told my roommate I’d see her back at the dorm. I wouldn’t.

That night, I went home. Quietly. No fanfare. I skipped the team dinner. Said I was tired. Nobody pushed. I got in the Uber. Played music that didn’t sound like anything. Kept the window cracked.

When I got back to my dorm, I sat on the edge of the bed, still in my warmup pants. Took my shoes off. One by one. My socks were damp. I didn’t care. I didn’t even move.

I didn’t sleep that night.

I wrote, and wrote, and wrote—my hands cramped, my eyes burned, my heart… numb. But even then, I couldn’t bring myself to just go. Not yet. Not without saying goodbye, even if I couldn’t say the real thing out loud.

So I got up before sunrise.

Put on the gray UConn hoodie I wore my freshman year. Pulled the drawstrings tight so no one could really see my face. No makeup. No jewelry. Just me. Plain. Small. Already fading.

I had places to be.

I started with Caroline. She was always up early, always reading outside her dorm with her AirPods in. I found her exactly where I knew she’d be—on that little bench near the north quad, still in her bonnet, legs tucked under her hoodie. I didn’t say anything. Just walked up, held out my arms. She didn’t ask why. She just stood up and hugged me back. Tightly.

“You okay?” she whispered.

I nodded. “Just needed a hug.”

I left before she could say anything else.

KK was in the study hall, earbuds in, muttering lines under her breath for her speech class. She looked surprised to see me. “Girl, what you doing here this early?” she laughed.

I sat next to her. Leaned my head on her shoulder for a second. “I missed you.”

“Missed me?” she scoffed. “You saw me yesterday.”

“I know,” I said, “but still.”

I hugged her. Long. She held on tighter than I expected.

“You good?” she asked, and I smiled.

“Always.”

I knocked on Aubrey’s door around 8:15. She opened in a bonnet and a tank top, face all soft from sleep. “What’s wrong?” she said immediately, rubbing her eyes.

I shook my head. “Nothing. I just wanted to tell you I love you.”

That got her. Her face crumpled for a second like she didn’t know what to do with it. Then she hugged me like her arms could fix whatever was broken inside me. I let her. I let all of them.

I passed by Ice in the hallway and caught her off guard. “Yo,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “What’s up?”

“Come here.”

“Why?”

“Just come here.”

She didn’t ask again. We hugged in the middle of the hallway while people passed us, laughing, yelling, dragging backpacks. None of it touched me.

I went to Coach Geno’s office last. It was empty at first, but the door was unlocked like always. I sat in the chair I always used, the cushion still indented with my weight. I looked around at the old pictures on the wall, the signed balls, the framed newspaper clippings. He’d given his life to this place. So had I.

He walked in ten minutes later, surprised but not suspicious.

“Hey, kid,” he said, sitting across from me. “You didn’t have to come in today. I figured you’d be wiped.”

I nodded. “I just wanted to say thank you.”

He blinked, then frowned. “For what?”

“For believing in me. Even when I didn’t.”

He stared at me for a beat. “You sure you’re alright?”

I smiled again. The same tired, practiced one. “I’m always alright, Coach.”

He didn’t believe me. I could see it in his eyes. But he didn’t push.

I hugged him before I left. And I meant it. That hug was real.

I went back to my dorm one last time. Placed the letters neatly. Labels written in all caps, taped to the front. One on each bed. One slid under each door. Geno’s I left on his desk. The janitor’s I taped to the vending machine.

Then I sat on the floor by my bed, where the carpet was worn and the wall was cold. I curled up small. I held the last note against my chest.

And I closed my eyes. But I didn’t stay. Because the thought of them finding me like that? My girls?

Seeing me on the floor, cold and gone, nothing left but letters and a limp hoodie?

That shit made me sick.

I knew what it would do to Caroline. She’s sensitive, she pretends she’s not. She’d walk in joking and find me and never be the same. Azzi would blame herself. She already does—for stuff that ain’t hers. And Coach? Coach would sit with it like it was his failure. Replay every practice. Every timeout. Try to find where he went wrong.

No. I couldn’t do that to them.

I got up. Shaking. Heart pounding. That kind of panic that flutters in your chest like a trapped bird. My fingers were ice. I grabbed the notes. All of them. Threw them in my backpack. Slipped on slides. Didn’t even change.

I walked right out the dorm at 2:04 AM. Didn’t look back. Got in my car. Started driving.

Didn’t know where I was going. Didn’t care. I just needed to be far. I needed the trees to look different. I needed the sky to shift. I needed miles between me and that locker room. Me and that gym. Me and those people who loved me so hard I forgot how to hold it.

At first, I told myself I’d come back. That I just needed air. A weekend. A reset. That I’d find a quiet place, sleep, maybe cry. Then drive home and say, my bad, I just needed space.

But the farther I drove, the quieter everything got.

By sunrise, I’d crossed state lines. Somewhere in Pennsylvania. Mist rolling low over the hills. Fog coating the windshield. My eyes felt dry but heavy. My body was on autopilot. The world was still. Still in a way I hadn’t been in months. Maybe years.

I didn’t play music. Just let the tires hum and the wind rush. My phone buzzed. Once. Then again. Group chat. I didn’t check it. Didn’t want to.

I stopped at a gas station around 11. Got coffee. Black. Hot. I sipped it like it would fix something. Wrote another note on the back of a receipt with a pen from my glove box.

“It’s not your fault. It was never your fault. I just didn’t want to make it yours.”

Tucked it in my pocket like maybe someone would find it one day. I kept driving. Three states. Eight hours. Ten gas stations.

I pulled over at a rest stop once and just… screamed.

Loud. Ugly. Guttural.

No one heard. Nobody cared.

And that made it easier.

At some point, I ended up by the water. Not sure where. Lake? Ocean? Didn’t matter. Just wide and endless and blue. I parked the car. Took off my shoes. Walked to the edge and sat in the sand. Let the wind burn my cheeks.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t some movie moment.

It was just… quiet. The kind of quiet I’d been begging for since October. No plays to memorize. No weights at six. No eyes on me. Just me and the sky. Me and the ache.

I curled up in the front seat that night. Hugged my knees. Let the letters stay in the back seat like ghosts. Staring.

I didn’t cry. I’d already used every tear.

I just whispered, “I’m sorry.”

To nobody.

To everybody.

To myself.

They said it took two days before someone noticed I was gone. Not panicked. Just noticed. I’d already stopped showing up to class here and there. Said I needed to rest my knees. Said I was catching up on work. Said a lot of things.

But I was consistent with love.

That’s what made them worry. When I didn’t send a dumb meme to the group chat. When I didn’t like Paige’s story. When I didn’t repost the highlight. When I didn’t show up to lift. That’s what cracked something open in them.

Azzi knocked first. Said she stood at my door with her forehead against the frame for a long time before she opened it. Said the air in the room felt still. Too still. Like it had been holding its breath.

My bed was made. Lights off. Drawers mostly empty. And the letters—stacked neatly on the desk. Names written in black Sharpie. In my handwriting.

There were fifteen.

⸻

To Caroline

She read hers in the stairwell. Alone. She read it once, then again, then dropped it. It fluttered down three steps before she scrambled after it, breathless. Shaking.

“I used to watch how soft you were with everyone and wish I could be that brave. Thank you for making this place warmer. I don’t know if you ever noticed, but every time you hugged me, I held on longer than I should’ve. I needed that. You were my safe place.”

She cried for hours.

She called her mom and said she didn’t know how to live with the fact that someone had died needing her and she hadn’t even noticed.

⸻

To Coach Geno

They said he read it once, then locked his door and didn’t come out until morning.

“You gave me purpose when I was breaking. You demanded more from me when all I wanted to do was disappear. I used to think you saw something in me that wasn’t really there, but now I realize you just saw me whole—before I started falling apart. Thank you for letting me feel like I mattered. I’m sorry I couldn’t keep being your example.”

He didn’t talk much after that. He didn’t yell at practice. Didn’t say her name, either.

Just kept a folded piece of paper in his wallet and touched it during timeouts.

⸻

To Azzi

She didn’t read hers right away. Held it like it was going to shatter. Like it was alive and breathing and bleeding. When she finally opened it, she curled up in a ball on her bed and rocked herself.

“You always asked how I was. And I always lied. I’m sorry for that. I didn’t want you to carry me. You already carry so much. I loved watching you play. You made the court feel like a sanctuary. Like church. And when I didn’t believe in much anymore, I still believed in you.”

Azzi didn’t sleep for days. Her roommate said she started wearing her hoodie like armor. Said she only spoke when she had to. Said she took a walk every night to the bench outside the gym and just sat there, clutching the letter to her chest like prayer.

⸻

To Paige

She opened hers in the hallway. Leaned against the vending machine. Didn’t speak for ten minutes.

“I think if I had told anyone, it would’ve been you. But I didn’t. And that’s not your fault. You were sunshine to me. That sharp kind of light that stings when you’ve been in the dark too long. I loved you. In my own quiet way. I hope you felt it, even if I never said it.”

She didn’t cry in public. But people said they could hear her throwing up in the locker room after. Said she punched the mirror in the bathroom.

Said her hand was bleeding for an hour before she let the trainer see.

⸻

To the janitor, Mr. Elroy

The note was simple.

“Thank you for always waving. For saying ‘Hey champ’ even when I didn’t win. That meant more than you’ll ever know.”

He kept it folded in his back pocket. Every day. Still says hey champ when he turns the hallway corner, even if no one’s there.

⸻

To Me (To Herself)

They found this one last. Folded in a notebook. Scrawled across both sides of the paper.

“You made it. I know you’re scared. I know you don’t think this is brave. But you tried. God, you tried. For so long. Longer than anyone knows. You carried silence like it was your jersey number. You smiled with a breaking jaw. And I’m proud of you. I love you. Even if they never understand why, I understand. I forgive you. Rest, baby girl. You did good.”

The trainer framed it.

Hung it in the player’s lounge.

Didn’t ask for permission.

Said it was hers now too.

⸻

They held a vigil. Lit candles. Hung her jersey over the railing.

Sat in silence for nine minutes and thirty-three seconds—one for every win that season. No one spoke.

Then Caroline stood up and said:

“She wasn’t loud. But she mattered. She mattered so fucking much.”

⸻

When they play that final clip now— That last three-pointer. That last smile.

That moment when the mic picked up her voice and she said “I’m just happy”—

Nobody believes it anymore. But they keep playing it anyway. Because it’s all they have left. And because somewhere deep down, they wish it had been true.

Heaven. I don’t know if I’ll move on from here. Don’t know if I want to. I like the stillness. I like the echoes of their love. But if I had one wish—just one—it wouldn’t be to go back.

It would be to hold them one more time. To tell them I didn’t leave because they failed me.

I left because I didn’t know how to ask them to stay.

Now I stay in the light. Now I rest. And when they say my name in the gym, in the huddle, in the silence— I’m there.

I’m always there. Because all dogs go to heaven.

And I was a Husky.

@xxsnowxx213 @draculara-vonvamp @kcannon-1436-blog @let-zizi-yap @perksofbeingatrex @soapyonaropey @julieluvspb @non3ofurbusiness @kcannon-1436-blog @kaliblazin @liloandstitchstan

[justcruisingaroundrevived]

What if all the boys fight for reader’s affection?????

Seven Minutes in Heaven is all I Need When I get With You

Summary: Yandere TEC are fighting for your affection. Things will get ugly

TW/CW: Yandere behavior, obsessive behavior, stalking, harassment, cyberbullying, trolling, mentions of self harm, implied murder, mentions of stabbing

A/N: Thank you so much for the request! I hope you realize how utterly insane this would be and I hope you have witness protection on your side <3

* Pookie…do you have a death wish? Like, there are much more humane ways to kill yourself than having these 4 yandere incels after you

* The first to crush was Josh. He saw you holding a Star Wars comic and was about dismiss you, until he heard you talking to your friend about the franchise in general. It was weird seeing someone other than him this passionate about one of his favorite franchises, and the way you looked while talking about it…

* He tells Jerry about this, cause he really has no one else to tell, and absolutely can’t deal with these feelings. His description of you is almost erotic (especially the way he’s breathing heavily and getting giddy talking about you)

* Jerry looks at you while you’re going through your locker, and “hubba bubba buck!” You’re the real deal! He can even see your “Akira” and “Dungeon and Dragon” posters in your locker! He’ll be staring at you while you chat with your friends, and looking so pretty while doing so

* Jerry’s immediately stalking your profile and trying to gain as much information as he can on you. He’ll feel absolutely elated if you posted pictures of yourself, and would zoom in to get every little detail about you and make sure it’s seer in his brain.

* Meanwhile, Josh’s writing down all of the possible “love letters” he thinks of giving you in his journal. These letters often consist of graphic details about his fantasies and how you check all the boxes of them.

* For Pete, it was during the school’s movie club. He pulled out “Carrie” as his intro film and you were so intrigued about the film. You came up to him later and gushed about the film itself. He probably dismissed it, thinking you were a fake horror fan because “Everyone knows about Carrie”

* However, let him follow you to your locker and show off your reviews to the goriest films. Maybe talk about “Cannibal Holocaust” “Rosemary’s Baby” “Evil Dead” “Suspiria”, all the likes, and he’ll be sitting on the edge of the bed, thinking about you like his final girls

* (Fuck, he probably started to carve your name in his wrist, but got caught and pretended it was an accident)

* At this point, Bill’s pissed. The club members are starting to actively avoid each other (mainly because most know that they would absolutely kill one another if it came down to it) and is going to confront you, in hopes you “Leave the club alone” and “Not destroy fandoms like the normies have”

* …he starts to get it almost immediately, and is going feral at the thought of you

* The club has officially disbanded. If they were hunting for the affection of the same person, being in the same presence of them will result in a full on fist fight

* They will absolutely sabotage each other. Jerry will dig up any dirt he can on the other members. Pete’s about to send very disturbing “gifts” to their residence and non stop calling the members so they’ll be distracted. Fuck, he may even stab them outside of school. Bill will use his status of the club and threaten any embarrassing moment they have done throughout their decade friendship will be exposed if they do much as be in the same direction as you

* Josh would be the most passive. He has so much to loose, and shockingly would focus on being more of a “secret admirer” (stalker) than anything. It doesn’t work cause the other three will target Josh the most

* Could they team up? Maybe in pairs. Particularly Pete and Jerry I can see. Pete would work with the real life stuff and Jerry would do the online bullying. This is one of they were interested in sharing a darling. If not, the other can go fuck himself.

* They will never confront you in school, but would stuff your locker with gifts and letters. You have to get a new one cause it’s getting to the point where the amount of gifts and the nature of them is disturbing you (don’t worry! They’ll find out the new location soon enough)

* Stalking would be the worst. They would take four corners of the sidewalk and follow you around (especially to important locations) (invest in body guards)

* I can see this ending in them in an actual brawl to the death. Whoever kills the others can have your affection (the police will arrest them)

* Move to another state; you won’t survive this ordeal

[panthalassaunited]

Trying to figure out why I feel like shit after camping in a seabird colony for a few days and then going back to a more modern setting.

[wileys-russo]

sleepless nights II a.putellas

sleepless nights II a.putellas

your eyes fluttered open as a sudden chill whipped through the bedroom, curtain waving madly with the howling wind which had just set in through the window which was cracked open, the low angry growl of thunder in the distance indicating a storm was almost upon you.

squinting tiredly in the dark you saw from the alarm clock on your bedside table it was just past three in the morning, the blaring green numbers a little blurry as you wiped at the sleep which had crusted over in the corner of your eyes.

reaching out groggily for your girlfriend you hoped to bury yourself in her embrace and steal her body warmth, though you frowned feeling only cold empty sheets beside you, signalling wherever the blonde had gone she'd been gone for awhile.

With a heave you pulled yourself into a sitting position, wrapping your arms tightly around yourself as goosebumps began to form on your bare legs at the temperature change.

it was rare for barcelona to be so cool this time of year but the weather had been all over the place lately, and there had been storms forecast all week long and now it seemed for once they had finally predicted correctly as the grumble of thunder grew ever closer.

swinging yourself out of bed you shuffled over to the open window, forcing it closed with a grunt and a small bang as the curtains fell deathly still once again, a small sigh of relief sounding as the room was quiet again.

you could have sworn either yourself or alexia had closed the window once your movie finished, the two of you curled up in bed watching as the couch just wasn't as comfortable and disallowed you from sprawling out on top of your girlfriend like you so adored to.

though when the movie finished and alexia had long fallen soundly asleep beneath you it was well after midnight, and so the chances of you simply turning off the television and passing out with the window still open was not unlikely.

burying your chin within the collar of your girlfriends hoodie drowning your body you made your way over to the bedroom door, letting out a yelp of pain when you stubbed your toe on the corner of the wooden storage trunk which sat at the end of the bed.

"maldita caja estúpida!" you cursed, hopping up and down and grimacing, wishing away the pain which was throbbing through your left foot. the brief pause allowing your eyes to adjust a little more to the dark you exhaled with a huff and grabbed the door handle, gently pulling it open with a small creak.

the hallway light was off though you could see a gentle blue hue radiating out from the closed door which connected to the living room, a frown creasing into your eyebrows at the sight.

your girlfriend being the superstar footballer she was, was obviously quite a busy woman and didn't technically live with you just yet, though there was no doubt she spent much more time here than at her own apartment.

you'd discussed moving in officially, but agreeing you both owned far too much stuff between you you'd taken inspiration from your girlfriends best friend and really alexia's apartment now existed as a huge storage locker, with her spending most nights a week in your bed with you.

it was really only training, meetings, international breaks or away matches in which alexia was called away from the domestic bubble of bliss she existed in within the four walls of your apartment.

as far as you were both concerned, it may as well have been much her home as it was yours, because after all really, to alexia you were her home.

the two of you had met a few years ago, and started officially dating almost two years ago after months of dancing around your true feelings for one another, with your anniversary set to be next month.

in among struggling your way through a journalism degree at university you worked nights at a small tapas restaurant on the outskirts of barcelona.

it hardly covered your bills between tuition and rent, and meant you still had to spend countless hours of your weekends tutoring to make ends meet. but you'd worked there nearly four years now and had grown rather attached to the place and all the people who came with it, it was like a little family.

the girls of the barcelona womens team were far from a stranger to the residents of barcelona, many were yet to forget the way she'd lead both club and country to countless trophies and victories over the years.

in turn one maria león and her family and friends were frequented visitors to the small tapas bar, its obscure location and mostly repeat elderly clientele making it an ideal place for the defender to blend in, well as much as she could.

you weren't stupid you knew exactly who she was, and her girlfriend ingrid, though you never held it against them and made sure to treat them the same as you would any other customer, feeling quite sorry for them when ever so occasionally their meal would be interrupted with someone wanting a photo or a moment of their time.

you grew accustomed to the couples presence as they had with yours and everyone else who worked there, until one day they didn't come with family.

instead you were jolted from your daydreams as maria burst in followed by at least ten other boisterous girls, most of which you recognized to be her teammates.

you were quick to make your way over to take their order as you caught ingrids eye and she gave a soft smile and a small nod, starting at one end of the table and gradually making your way down.

"the usual for you two?" you spoke as you arrived before ingrid and maria, recounting what you knew they always ordered, first looking to maria with a smile who nodded her head with an appreciative wink, then fell to ingrid who smiled, shaking her head slightly at how predictable they had seemingly become.

"-and I don't know your order because I haven't seen you here before." your eyes fell to the brunette sat on maria's other side with a friendly smile, the girl averting her own gaze to the menu in front of her.

of course even if you didn't know her order, you knew who she was, you'd have to live under a rock now to know who she was, but you were determined to treat them all with the same respect and sense of humility that had drawn the couple to suggest the bar for the team night out in the first place.

"this is alexia, el capitána." maria grinned as alexia gave her a look and bumped her shoulder into hers as you smiled, rocking back and forth on your heels awaiting her order.

when finally she did order you quickly ran through the whole docket with the table to make sure you didn't miss anything. "eh and some bread? for the table." alexia spoke up quietly but kindly as you send the girl a warm smile with a nod, scribbling it down on your notepad.

"gracias guapa." the brunette returned your smile as you tried not to let your cheeks heat up at the compliment, maria digging her elbow into her friends side with a cheeky grin when you weren't looking as the older girl gave her a fierce glare and shoved her away.

"i-uh lo siento." alexia apologised quickly as you assured it was more than fine, though still maybe a little flustered your pen slipped from your grasp, clattering to the floor as you wiped your hand on your pants, small beads of sweat having formed on your palms.

what was happening to you?

mumbling an apology you bent down to pick it up, though as you reached for it a hand had already settled beneath your own.

a small spark seemed to shoot up your arm at the contact and as you glanced up you were met with a pair of bright hazel eyes staring right back at you.

at the time weren't sure why, but your stomach flipped at the sight.

alexia was quick to withdraw her hand as you stood to your feet, slender fingers offering you the pen and a small smile.

"gracias." you forced out as you took it from her grasp, ingrid and mapi watching on amused at the awkward interaction unfolding before them, nobody else paying you any attention.

"food will be done soon." you rambled out flashing a shy smile in her direction, your cheeks flushed red with colour as you turned on heel and hurried off back to the kitchen, heart pounding in your chest as alexia watched you go.

and from then, the rest was a story you still loved to tease the blushy catalan about.

you jumped slightly as a crack of lightning hit the sky and the hallway lit up around you like a christmas tree before plunging back into darkness.

a loud roar of thunder let you know the storm had now arrived, and you heard the awaited noise of raindrops sloshing against the window panes.

the torrential downpour having begun you pulled open the door stepping out into the living room, the sound of the storm somewhat drowned out by the noise of the tv.

you instantly noticed your girlfriend curled up on the corner of the couch, her head turning quickly toward you having heard the door open.

"hola cari." you greeted with a soft smile, arriving before her. you knew the older girl well enough to know something was bothering her without even needing to ask, the nights spent watching old barcelona games a coping mechanism of sorts for her when she was battling with something.

"mi amor." the blonde greeted you returning your smile, and even after how much time had passed the terms of endearment which often fell from her lips never failed to make you go all warm and fuzzy.

"did I wake you?" alexia asked worriedly as you straddled her lap, knees resting either side of her hips, large strong her hands falling to your bare thighs.

"no amor, the storm did." you reassured her quickly, placing your hands on her cheeks and gently pecking her lips. "i promise." you spoke again, a little more firmly this time as she opened her mouth, no doubt to question again if she'd woken you.

her body vibrated beneath you with a small chuckle at how well you knew her. "estás bien?"  you asked curiously, head tilted slightly to the side as your eyes searched the midfielders eyes for signs of discomfort or sadness.

the older girl nodded wordlessly, pressing a gentle kiss to the pad of your thumb as it ghosted tenderly over her bottom lip. "promise." alexia spoke before you could, her tone mocking your earlier words as her nose scrunched up with an amused smile.

"ha ha." you droned sarcastically with a roll of your eyes, hands moving from where they cupped her cheeks to wrap around her neck, arms settled comfortably on her shoulders as hers wrapped around your waist, pulling your body even closer into hers.

you knew better than to push her for answers on why she was really up, the stubborn blonde she would tell you when she was ready.

"you are thinking very loudly preciosa." alexia chuckled, pressing her forehead against yours, practically able to hear the cogs turning as you tried to think back to what might be bothering her.

"cannot be as loud as you snore querida." you teased lightly, watching her mouth form a small o of surprise and she pulled away. "oye tonta i do not snore!" she protested with a frown, crease in her eyebrows strengthening as her annoyance grew.

"you do snore. amor would i lie to you?" you grinned, the smile spreading wider across your face as the older girl huffed, exhaling a small puff of air from her flared nostrils.

"sí, mentiroso." alexia poked her fingers into your side eliciting a small squeal from you as you batted away her hands.

the smile not dropping from either of your faces you leant in and connected your lips to your girlfriends, her arms wrapping back around your waist before you pulled away.

"i love you." you whispered sincerely, pressing your forehead back to hers. "i love you." alexia echoed back, tilting her head up to sweetly kiss your nose making you grin and peck her lips a few more times.

"which game is this one?" you asked, turning your neck to glance at the tv behind you. "the 2011 champions league semi final first leg, barça and real madrid." alexia answered as you slid gently off of her, taking up the seat beside her instead and stretching your bare legs over her lap.

"go to bed cariño, you have been out working all day." alexia rasped with a smile, catching your eyes drooping slightly as she gently nudged your knee, eyes shining with concern which you waved off.

"no i am awake now, i have tomorrow off amor. you train in the morning, sí? " you questioned as the girl nodded her head, she had training and then nothing on for the next two days, and she intended to spend both with you.

"i was looking for this cari."  the girl tugged at the bottom of your hoodie, the over sized grey and now slightly faded material had the logo of your old university draped across the front, it had always been your favorite.

"ale i have had it on all afternoon since we showered, you did not notice?" you laughed with a curious raise of your eyebrows.

"mm no princesa i was a little busy thinking about what we did in the shower." alexia smiled suggestively, your cheeks flushing with warmth at the memory of her staring up at you from between your thighs, eyes glowing with lust.

"bueno, no puedes tenerlo." you remarked as you bit back a smile, wrapping your arms around yourself stubbornly. "amor you know i could get it off, sí?" the older girl smirked defiantly, and you rolled your eyes but couldn't argue she was stronger than you.

"alexia no por favor i only have a t-shirt on and i do not have pants, there is a whole room of clothes you can go get if you are cold!" you kicked her lightly as her smirk grew and she chuckled.

"bien. so go get pants and give me the hoodie!" alexia countered, just as stubborn as you if not more.

"no! i asked you before we went to bed to get me pants and you pretended to be sleeping." you huffed at the memory, your girlfriend was a terrible actress with her over dramatic breathing and inability not to smile when you called her out on it.

"no. i want this one!" your girlfriend frowned, poking your stomach as you squealed and kicked her. "tonta you have so many, go get one!" you shooed your hands at her and turned back toward the tv.

"but this one smells like you and is more comfortable." alexia's hands bunched around the soft grey material, pulling you into a sitting position, your legs still draped over her lap.

"ale!" you couldn't help but laugh as her nose tucked into your neck, gentle pleadings mumbled against your skin, hands sneaking up the inside of said hoodie, goosebumps prickling beneath her touch.

"bien, tú ganas! go get me one of yours and we can trade." you bargained with a groan, nodding over her shoulder to the bedroom, the closet overflowing with articles of clothing belonging to the both of you even if it had started off as yours.

"you do not need my hoodie cariño, i am here." alexia grinned as you scoffed, opening and closing your mouth trying to find the right words to continue arguing with her.

"do not bother amor, i always win." alexia whispered against your lips with a smirk, pressing hers against them and swallowing any protest you attempted.

"stop pouting bebita." alexia chuckled as you stood up with a huff, pulling the hoodie off of your body and glaring down at her, hauling the article of clothing at her face.

"sí maybe you should go back to bed, tan gruñón." alexia teased again as she pulled on your hoodie over her tank top, reaching out to quickly grab your hand as you scoffed turned to head toward the bedroom.

"ven aquí." the older girl laughed, pulling you to lay down between her legs as she stretched out down the length of the couch, pulling the blanket which was draped across the back of the couch on top of the two of you.

"mi niña gruñona." alexia teased quietly as you lazily swatted her, body relaxing in her hold as her now hoodie clad arms wrapped around you, bare legs intertwining with hers beneath the blankets as the two of you tuned into the game.

"alba hates storms, she would always wake me up when the thunder started." alexia spoke up quietly after awhile.

"when we were little, we would always make a big fort in her room and our papi...he somehow always knew, would come and lay with us." alexia confessed and your heart panged at the reveal of maybe the real reason she had gotten up.

"storms remind me of him." alexia added on as gently you reached out and slipped your hand into hers with a soft squeeze. "you miss him." you spoke quietly, knowing the last thing she would want to hear was some sort of grief advice or statement he was always with her, she hated pity, especially from you.

"sí, but i know he would be proud of alba and i." alexia smiled sadly as you brought your intertwined fingers closer, tenderly kissing her knuckles and then craning your head up a little to peck her lips before settling back down.

and that's how the two of you spent the next few hours, wrapped up in one another's embrace, limbs intertwined, swapping and recounting many stories of your childhoods, the downpour of rained drowned out by the roar of the crowd on the tv before you.

just another sleepless night.

[cigsaftersuh]

polaroid love ⭑ pics he keeps of you <3

gender neutral reader + idol niki

৻ꪆ heeseung carries a photo of you from your anniversary dinner. it was taken right after he slipped the necklace around your neck, the one he spent weeks choosing with you in mind. in the picture, you’re gazing at him with that soft, loving smile as your fingers gently brush the pendant like it’s the most precious thing. he remembers how you whispered, “i love you,” right after the photo was snapped, and how everything felt so perfect in that moment. whenever he pulls it out, he runs his thumb over the edges, thinking of how lucky he is to have you in his life.

৻ꪆ jay keeps a framed photo of you on his desk at the office, taken on your birthday right after you blew out your candles. the warm glow of the remnants of the flames flickering against your face, your smile wide as you looked at him. your wish already granted just by having him there. whenever he gets lost in his work, his eyes drift to the picture, and a heat of warmth spreads through his chest. it reminds him of what truly matters, of how much he wants to work hard — not just for himself, but for the future he’s building with you.

৻ꪆ jake keeps a photo of you tucked safely in the back of his phone case, taken on a summer evening when the two of you snuck onto the rooftop of his apartment to watch the sunset. you were sitting with your knees pulled to your chest, the golden light casting a soft glow over your skin, eyes half-lidded as you looked out over the city. he remembers just how peaceful the moment was and how you had leaned your head against his shoulder, fingers brushing against his without a word, as if the whole world had stopped just for the two of you. now, whenever he pulls out his phone, he catches a glimpse of the photo and feels that same warmth spread through his chest, a reminder that no matter where he is, you’re his favorite view.

৻ꪆ sunghoon keeps a photo of you from first your ice skating date tucked inside the clear pocket of his bag, where he knows it won’t get bent. it’s a candid picture he took with your cheeks flushed from the cold, a determined pout on your lips as you wobbled on the ice, reaching for him without hesitation. he remembers how tightly you had clung to his hands, how you trusted him completely to keep you steady. every time he sees the photo, his heart aches in the softest way, a reminder of the way you look at him: with absolute, unwavering trust.

৻ꪆ sunoo keeps a photo of you inside his journal, pressed between the pages like a delicate secret. it was taken on the night of the lantern festival, right when you looked up at the sky, eyes full of wonder as the lights flickered above you. he remembers how you had squeezed his hand, whispering that you’d never seen anything so beautiful, completely unaware that he had been thinking the same thing about you. sometimes, when he’s alone, he flips open his journal just to see that picture, tracing the edges with his fingers and reliving the moment over and over again.

৻ꪆ jungwon keeps a photo of you on his nightstand, framed neatly beside his lamp so it’s the first thing he sees in the morning when he wakes up and the last thing he sees before bed. it was taken during a picnic on a perfect spring afternoon, the wind catching your hair as you laughed, eyes crinkling in the way he’s come to love. he remembers how you had looked at him that day, how peaceful and happy you had been, and how all he wanted was to keep you in that moment forever. sometimes, on nights when the world feels too heavy, he reaches for the frame, holding it close, letting the warmth of the memory lull him to sleep.

৻ꪆ niki keeps a photo of you taped inside his locker at the practice room, carefully placed where only he can see it. it was taken after one of his late-night practices, when you showed up with his favorite snacks and sat patiently on the floor, waiting for him with the softest smile. he remembers how you had held out a drink for him the second he walked over, telling him he worked too hard, and that he needed to take care of himself too. he had snapped the picture right then, as your eyes were full of concern, the way you always looked at him like he was worth slowing down for. now, whenever he’s drained from endless rehearsals, he glances at the photo and feels that same warmth, a silent reminder that no matter how tough it gets, he’s never alone.

with love,

© cigsaftersuh

[squipa]

pro athlete!jason but he tries being all cool and nonchalant or whatever (“this one’s for you!” *completely misses*, gets upset whenever they interview/insinuate the other team has a chance of winning, and his team definitely fucks with him by flirting w/ reader) w sports journalist!reader

I see your vision nonnie

———

can’t think right, too tongue tied

aka collegehockeyplayer!jason x studentjournalist!reader fluff

———

collegehockeyplayer!jason who becomes utterly distracted when he sees you behind the bench for the first time, so much so that he completely misses his pass, giving up the puck. you’re brand new, an impossibly pretty girl sitting where some snotty journalism major normally takes notes and loudly complains to the team about their distaste for sports. your eyes are what capture him so completely, wide and determined glimpses of starlight following the puck with haste, all the while your gentle hands scribble on the notepad in your lap. apparently you’re replacing the other guy, who got moved to the advice column. not that he would have actually asked you, but his buddy noticed the way he couldn’t tear his gaze away from you.

collegehockeyplayer!jason who ignores you at first. it’s not out of malice or contempt, but because he has no idea what to say to you. you’re so perfect, gentle and kind and remarkably gorgeous— he can’t fathom you wanting to speak with someone like him. someone with a nose that healed crooked and giant scars covering his face.

he grows irrationally angry when he sees his horrible, meathead teammates dare speak to you. you look so nervous around them, your eyes shifting away in discomfort while you maintain a meek, respectful smile. you chit-chat, maybe even give a fake laugh, but he never sees your smile reach your eyes. of course, he fails to notice how he’s the only player you seem to look at when he’s on the ice, and how much you seem to grin whenever his name is brought up in conversation.

collegehockeyplayer!jason who is enchanted from the moment you tap on his shoulder, an entire head shorter than him. you meet his eyes with confidence, clutching your pen and paper tightly entirely out of place inside the men’s locker room, requesting an interview for the school’s paper. he doesn’t even have a chance to refuse, you’ve somehow talked him into an appointment tomorrow after practice all without him realizing. he spends the evening unsure of why he is so nervous at the thought of you asking him a few measly questions about his sport, and why he can’t get the way you looked when you smiled at him out of his head.

collegehockeyplayer!jason who slowly falls in love with you. slow, as in it takes him over half the season to realize how bewitched he is by you, but his affections are yours from the beginning. it’s his teammates fault he becomes aware of his overwhelming crush on you, for they knew long before he did and began flirting with you as a subtle way to fuck with him. he’d stare them down in a quiet rage whenever they dared bother you, breaking up the moment whenever you would laugh at their neanderthal jokes with a quiet request you would always oblige. he’s never been much of a flirt, there’s never been a soul he has wanted to be with as much as you. he had no idea how to go about it.

days when he can’t stop the excessive flirting, it really gets to him and his gloves always thud against the ice. he may not be good at talking to the girl he’s absolutely enamored with, but he knows how to throw a good punch. he wonders if you know he’s doing it for you.

collegehockeyplayer!jason who reads about every single one of your articles. it gets almost stalker-ish at certain points, he finds himself six paragraphs into an article you wrote about your highschool homecoming court at two in the morning. he can’t help the pink that dusts his cheeks when he reads his name in one of your papers. he can’t get the image out of his head, you, maybe at home, or in some corner of the newsroom, transcribing those little notes you’re always jotting down, thinking about him.

collegehockeyplayer!jason who ended up bothering you every minute he had off of the ice once he worked up the courage. would always leave the bench with a “this one’s for you.” and drop the puck within seconds of having it. he ended up having both the worst home game record and the best away game record of the season.

collegehockeyplayer!jason who would ask you a thousand questions before he asked you out. i mean, a thousand, none of which were all that interesting. from “so why are you doing the sports section,” to “do you like any other sports,” to “you think we’re a shoo in for the championship, right?” (the moment you imply that jump city’s team has better odds, he scoffs and you don’t see him for the rest of the game)

collegehockeyplayer!jason who refuses to act on his feelings. he’s not the right guy for someone like you. you’re soft, trusting, your lips spill endless kindnesses and your eyes search for the good instead of considering the bad. he’s rough around the edges, he’s got a temper fit for his sport and he looks at the world like it’s against him— because for so long, it has been.

collegehockeyplayer!jason who is on the second line, painfully aware of your eyes digging into his back. it’s seventeen minutes into the second overtime round of game seven of the NCAA finals, the final moments before the end of the championship. he’s been on the ice for over two minutes, he can hear the screams of the crowd pounding against his ears, the scraping of skates on the ice, the sound of the puck slapping against different sticks.

it could all be over now. metropolis is one good shot away from breaking the tie and sending him home empty handed. he should be off the ice, his legs are burning and no doubt his team is screaming his name— but all he can think about is you.

you’re the reason he’s here, the reason he scored two goals this game and the reason he’s played well enough to push his team to the finals. maybe he can’t tell you he loves you, but he’ll fight like hell to make himself someone worth loving. the other team is passing the puck around, dancing around the goalie while he eyes the trajectory of the disc.

for a moment, barely a second, his eyes meet yours— and you’re right there, looking back at him, eyes wide, lips parted with anticipation. you nod. he looks down. the puck slaps against his stick and he takes it.

he swirls it around the ice until his teammates aren’t off-sides, breaking away from a metropolis defenseman and shoving him against the glass. he’s faster than he’s ever been, pushing himself harder and harder, barely taking a second to breathe before he hits the puck right past the goalie’s knees.

for a second, it’s silent, still, like the world forgot to take a breath.

then the stadium erupts, he can feel his teammates hands on his back, he can feel himself slide off his helmet to shake off the sweat, he can feel the laugh escape his lips.

he doesn’t stop to celebrate with his team, he doesn’t cheer with the staff or the coach when he’s back by the bench— no. he finds you, eyes wide, and it’s the first time you’ve seen him smile.

“jason!” you exclaim, but he isn’t listening. he wraps his arms around you, pulling you close, crashing his lips against yours.

collegehockeyplayer!jason who, after a season of yearning, now has a proud girlfriend cheering from the front row louder than anyone, and he doesn’t think he could be in love anymore than he is now.

———

1. finished this after seeing the stars avs game last night which is why it’s SOOOO hockey intense. so happy to be back in playoff season.

2. literally don’t know jack abt ncaa hockey so i just went with nhl rules don’t hate me but i felt like college hockey js went better w the rq. had SO much fun writing this i loooove hockey.

[a-griffin-in-the-sky]

SCUM Feathered

If you think SCUM is too much, you’ve never sat still while someone unmade you and smiled

People get so hung up on the shock factor of the SCUM Manifesto they forget to read it for what it is. Valerie wasn’t just ranting she was also reversing the gaze. She wrote about men the way men have written about women for centuries: cold, cruel, disposable, beneath.

It’s satire. It's weaponized perspective. It’s the sound of centuries of objectification slammed back into the face of the oppressor.

You wanna know how it feels to be spoken about like a category? Like a disease? Like something subhuman? Read SCUM. That’s how men have written about women in medical journals, courtrooms, locker rooms, and textbooks. Solanas just flipped the script.

It’s not a guidebook, it’s a scream. A rage-text. A feminist nuke dropped on a world that kept stepping on women and laughing. Solanas was pissed, poor, and had been deeply hurt. She wrote SCUM with venom because nice wasn’t getting anyone free.

Some people misread it as literal. Others dismiss it entirely. But if you’ve ever wanted to burn it all down because no one listens when you cry for help? You’ll get it. You’ll feel it in your ribs.

Yeah, Valerie Solanas shot Andy Warhol. And I’m not here to sanitize that. It happened. But let’s not pretend it came out of nowhere or that he was some innocent art angel caught in the crossfire.

He exploited her. He strung her along. Took her script, ghosted her, laughed at her rage. Like too many powerful men do when a woman’s desperate and inconvenient. He made her feel invisible. Like her work didn’t matter. Like she didn’t matter. And she snapped.

Women don’t usually shoot people. That’s the whole point. Society teaches us to swallow the rage, not act on it. To self-destruct quietly. Valerie turned that rage outward, and suddenly the world cared. cause a man got hurt.

And let’s be real if Solanas had been a man with a manifesto, he’d be called a revolutionary. A genius. Another tortured visionary in the museum of white male madness. But she was a woman, poor and "unhinged", so they called her a lunatic and locked her up.

I’m not a feminist in the soft, palatable, “I do this for me” kind of way. I’m not singing dainty empowerment songs in a gilded cage. I’m a molting, wild-eyed thing with blood on my beak. I’m SCUM-type. Feathered fury. Talons out. I don’t want equality in a broken system—I want the nest torched. Men, leave me alone. Don’t try to clip my wings. Don’t perch too close. Your approval means nothing to me. Your opinions fall like fledglings from the tree. This isn’t empowerment in a pink cage—it’s survival with bones in the nest. I’m not here to be tame. I’m here to scream loud enough to split the sky.

“In actual fact, the female function is to explore, discover, invent, solve problems crack jokes, make music -- all with love. In other words, create a magic world.” ― Valerie Solanas, SCUM Manifesto

[demie90s]

Written in Ink, Not If

꒰ 🍒 ꒱ PAIGE BUECKERS X READER ꒰ 🍒 ꒱

MASTERLIST MORE

⭑ pairing: Paige Bueckers x reader (calm, confident!fem!reader)

⭑ summary: Before every game, you write Paige’s stat predictions on your forearm in black Sharpie. Points. Rebounds. Assists. Quiet ritual—until she notices. What starts as a smirk-worthy superstition turns into something softer, heavier, and harder to ignore. Especially when you’re never wrong.

⭑ genre: Slow-burn, mutual pining, soft superstition, silent love

⭑ warnings: Flirty tension, quiet obsession, visible devotion

⭑ word count: ~ 0.7k

You don’t tell anyone what the numbers mean.

You never have.

You sit on the same bench in the same corner of the locker room every game day—back leaned against cold tile, headphones resting around your neck, warm-up hoodie unzipped halfway. Calm. Focused. A Sharpie in your hand, cap already off.

Everyone else is still loud—someone blasting music, someone else walking around with one sock on. You’re quiet. Legs stretched out. Eyes down.

And on your forearm, you write it:

24 pts

6 ast

3 reb

#5

Paige Bueckers.

You always save her for last. You don’t write your own numbers. Never have. No superstition. No show. Just hers.

Sometimes it’s higher. Sometimes lower. But it’s never wrong.

She doesn’t know. Except… she probably does.

⸻

The first time she caught you was back in January. You’d finished writing just as she came around the corner, fixing her bun, mouth full of whatever gummy candy she lived on pre-game.

She stopped. Didn’t say anything. Just stared for a second too long at your arm.

You’d pulled your sleeve down without blinking. Not embarrassed. Just private. She didn’t bring it up. And you never stopped.

⸻

Now it’s March.

You’re deep into the season. The rhythm is muscle memory now.

You write her stats before every game. Left forearm, right under the crease. The team thinks you’re journaling plays. One of the trainers thought it was your own goals.

But you know what it is. It’s how you say “I believe in you” without saying anything. It’s how you love her from the seat beside hers. You’re halfway through today’s line when someone sits beside you. Too close to be casual.

You glance over. Paige.

Her warmup hoodie’s off. Braided hair tucked into a loose bun. She’s leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes on your arm.

“Are you writing about me again?” she asks, soft. You pause.

“You want me to stop?”

She shakes her head once. “No. I want to know what you wrote.”

You let the Sharpie hover in the air a second longer. Then you finish it:

22 pts

7 ast

2 reb

#5

You cap the marker. Stretch your wrist.

Her eyes flicker over it slowly. Like she’s reading a message written in another language but already memorized the translation.

She swallows.

“Why do you do that?”

You glance at her.

“Because you live up to it.”

⸻

Pregame warmups are hot under the lights. You move like nothing happened. She misses two shots in a row, eyes on the rim but brain somewhere else.

You catch her staring at your arm again mid-shootaround.

She doesn’t stop.

⸻

Second Half. 4 Minutes Left.

Paige has 21 points. She’s at the line.

You watch from the key.

She glances at you before she takes the shot. Swish. Ties it up.

Timeout. Coach calls the huddle. You sit beside her. She’s breathing heavy, towel over her knees. Her hand brushes your thigh and stays there.

No one says a word.

⸻

Postgame Locker Room

You’re back in the same corner. Wiped down. Clean hoodie on. Hair damp.

She walks up with her duffle slung over her shoulder. She squats beside you, balancing herself with one hand on your bench.

You look up. She’s already staring.

“I hit 23.”

You nod. “I was one off.”

“You’re never off.”

Silence.

She looks at your arm again. “Can I write something next time?”

You raise an eyebrow. “What would you write?”

She leans in closer, so close you smell her citrus sweat, the sugar from her drink, the shampoo she stole from your locker.

She says, “Ask me before next game. I’ll show you.”

She walks out.

You don’t move. You just stare at your arm.

And think: maybe next time, you’ll write “mine”