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pedgito · 13 hours ago

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ORBIT YOU ⋆⭒˚.⋆ CHAPTER ONE: MOON

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summary — back in austin for an impromptu camping trip with your father and his best friend, you find that so much has changed, and not just in your relationship with your father, but with joel, too.

author's note — i've been missing my main dbf man and this started out as mainly smut but gained some plot. this man is exceptionally freaky and i love him

content warning — 18+ MDNI, dbf!joel, virgin!reader, age gap (20s/40s), camping trips, established dynamics, voyeurism, sexual activities in public, dry humping, inappropriate use of a sleeping bag, tent sharing, tension/angst, mutual masturbation, joel having copious inappropriate thoughts, this man loves eye contact

word count — 9.6k

It was as if speaking plainly was impossible.

“You know, the chickens have fled the roost so to speak,” Your father explains, slapping his sandwich together with an audible squelch as the mustard oozed out the side, “I ain’t dealing with your mother’s shit anymore either, there’s somethin’ for both of us to celebrate.”

“The girls moved out, just say that,” You translate, eyes rolling in tired amusement as you pick at your own sandwich and munch on the salty but mostly unflavoured chips, “ and it sounds like I’ll be intruding.”

“Couldn’t possibly, sweetheart,” He assures with a warm smile before taking a hefty bite out of the sandwich, sighing in delight.

He was laying it on thick right now.

“Don’t you ever think about how Joel is the catalyst to you and mom separating?” You ask curiously, “Or how you refused to believe me when I told you the first time?”

“I wasn’t being the best husband to your ma,” He admits, amongst other things, “I was tryin’ to make up for my own shortcomings, but with Joel—he was just wrong place, wrong time,”

“Or right time,” You counter, shrugging.

You hadn’t spoken to your mother since you left for college two years ago, making it through your entire freshman and sophomore year of school without a word and still, nothing. From one family to the next, the eventual expectancy that she would tire of the next one, but that wasn’t your business.

“I’m trying to make up for things,” He continues, ignoring your quip, “and I’m not wasting a week of nice weather inside.”

Things, you think with a flippant retort you bite your tongue over.

The countless days you had no one to rely on but yourself—but more obviously, Joel.

You watched Sarah and Ellie for months while he worked long hours, odd hours. It was like a sleepover, really. But, it lessened some of the burden knowing he had someone keeping a watchful eye on his girls and in turn, he picked up the slack where your dad had disappeared.

That was all it was—a genuine care for the well-being of one another and then when the situation between your parents grew more and more complicated, you disappeared.

He hadn’t spoken to you since you were seventeen, other than the few odd glimpses when he would catch you throwing out the trash while he was coming home from a long shift and an obvious absence of words or glances on your end.

Knock, knock, knock.

It’s so rhythmic and firm that you recognize it instantly.

“Joel,” You already knew, but your father confirms it.

You can hear the heavy step of his boots before you see him and your chest tightens, suddenly feeling claustrophobic as you pick at the flakes of bread on the napkin and listen to the quiet chatter of the two men before his voice creeps into the kitchen.

"Well, I'll be damned," he says softly. "Look who's back in town."

You force yourself to look up, meeting his weathered face and piercing eyes.

He looks older than you remember, more lines etched into his features and his hair more grey than the last time you saw him and extending toward the edges of his beard, but still unmistakably Joel.

He’s tanned from the kiss of sun, a slight sunburn to his nose from working outside as the grey fabric of his shirt stretches over his thick biceps, even thicker thighs filling out his jeans. And you realize as time drags on that you’ve never spent so much time examining so much of him, your gaze was lingering just as much as his own before your father tears the fleeting moment to shreds, clearing your throat to break the tension.

“I already packed my stuff in the car,” You tell your dad, before offering a dismissive, “Hey,” at Joel to mask how cornered you felt at the moment, avoiding his eyeline at all costs.

“Great,” He cheers, clapping his hands together once, “Joel, you ready?”

“Yeah ‘m all packed up in my truck and I’ll follow behind.”

“Oh, honey—did you wanna ride down in Joel’s truck? I know that little Nissan drives you crazy since you can’t sit still—”

“Well—he—he didn’t offer,”

He didn’t need to—you’d always been welcome. It had become a second home for a while.

“I don’t mind,” He shrugs, arms crossing over his chest as he shifts to lean against the open frame of the kitchen, “and I got the good music, no silly ass showtunes.”

Sweetening the deal, isn’t he?

Fine, since he was dangling the line so enticingly.

You’ll bite.

–

The summer heat hits you like a wall as you step outside. Joel's truck sits in the driveway, a hulking beast of metal and chrome that breathes an air of familiarity into your chest.

Late nights home from practices, missed buses on mornings when you were running late and Joel was on his way out the door for work and the many supplied meals when your parents were too busy arguing to cook dinner.

He opens the passenger door for you, and you climb in, the leather seat hot against your thighs.

Joel never forgot to be a gentleman. It was a stark difference from the empty-headed frat boys you’ve become used to, all honk and no help. You had one good date the entire year you were at college and it was with a professor in a diner out of town with the reality that you could both be spotted and reported to the dean, but he’d been careful. He cared.

But, it was once. No more.

Though, it has cemented your taste in men.

Unfortunately for Joel, he was a perfect match for you now.

You ignore the way the gesture makes your heart flutter against your ribcage.

As Joel settles into the driver's seat, you're acutely aware of his presence beside you. The cab of the truck feels smaller than it should, and you press yourself against the door, trying to put as much space between you as possible.

Wordlessly, he grabs the box of old cassettes and presses them into your lap as he starts the truck and it coughs and sputters to life, pulling slowly out of the driveway as he follows behind your dad, watching as you filter through the old tapes like you used to, picking your particular flavor of tune for the drive.

“So,” Joel beings after a long growing silence and a chunk of time on the road as your cross one leg over the other and stare quietly out the window, feeling lost on how to approach the situation as you’ve clearly grown and changed, a similar pinched expression that both his daughter’s carried when they were bothered or annoyed, all in the brow and drawn together, your fingers scratching absently where you were gripping your bicep, “how’s college been treatin’ you?”

Your last conversation had been the weekend before senior year of high school, something nonsensical and forgettable, but it was amongst your life imploding and Joel was tied up with work more often that he liked.

He had only tried to remind you that his house was home too, even if it was just for an hour or a night.

“Fine. I’m not gonna sit here and bore you to death with astrophysics so don’t ask,” You quip with a subtle smile, “If my dad can’t keep up I know you sure as hell can’t.”

“Is that an age joke?” Joel asks genuinely.

“I dunno, gramps,” You shrug, “is the moon round?”

It was rhetorical, right? Joel chuckles at how easily you fall back into your old banter.

“It’s not,” You tell him, “just so you know.”

Joel's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "The moon's not round? Since when?"

You can't help but laugh at his bewildered expression.

"It's actually slightly egg-shaped. Technically, it's an oblate spheroid."

"Well, I'll be damned," Joel mutters, shaking his head. "Learn something new every day. Guess they're teaching you all sorts of fancy things at that college of yours."

The tension in the truck eases a bit as you fall into a comfortable silence.

You can’t ignore how his rugged features entice like no other, facial hair freshly trimmed and his hair slightly longer than what you’re used to, noticing the natural curl to his ends, beautiful hues of brown mixed in with an aged grey.

You chew at your cheek and ignore how quickly things could go sideways if he caught you staring, forcing you to suffer through a weekend of awkwardness.

You fiddle with the cassettes, finally selecting one and popping it into the ancient tape deck. The opening chords of Mary Jane’s Last Dance fill the cab, and Joel taps his fingers on the steering wheel in time with the beat. Tom Petty was a staple of late night drives with Joel and it easily transports you back to moments souring down empty roads singing your lungs out alongside a man who had become like a second father to you back then.

Though, that was clearly not the case anymore. Still vehemently aware of the strain of his neck as he looked out the rearview mirror or the way his hand stretched over his denim-clad thigh when the ache in his fingers returned from gripping the steering wheel for too long.

“You know he’s only been camping once, right?” You ask Joel, his nod almost instantly.

“S’probably why he asked me to come along, that and he loves to remind me how lonely I am.”

“Are you?” Your eyes are wide and curious when you peer over, making him do a double-take.

Get your fuckin’ mind right, Joel.

He shrugs and turns away, eyeing the road again.

“It has to be weird, not having Ellie and Sarah around, those two are—”

“Handfuls,” He finishes for you, “It’s a different feelin’, I guess. I ain’t lonely, but it feels more like…”

“No purpose?”

You’d hit the nail on the head.

“Yeah, kiddo.”

The somberness of it is a shift you don’t like, staring down at the fabric of your dress resting midway between your thighs, running your fingers along the stitched edge before you hit him with a question that has been bothering you for a long, long time.

There was no better opportunity than now, cornered.

“How did you end up in the house that night anyways?” You ask, “My dad won’t tell me shit.”

Joel knows exactly what you’re talking about.

The comeuppance of your mother.

“I was grabbin’ some parts to work on that piece of shit mower I still got,” He explains, rolling with the punches of your hard hitting questions, “Ain’t much about it, found ‘em in the kitchen and your mom had a big meltdown, she clocked me pretty good, too.”

“She thought dad set her up, didn’t she?”

“I dunno,” He shrugs, “Made me feel like shit for a while—”

“Why?” You interact before he can finish, though most of it was a blur now.

“You got real quiet—I didn’t see you much after that and I’ll be honest, thought you hated me for a good while and then some,” He explains, the song nearing its end as the truck fades to silence.

“It’s not like you were fucking my mom or something,” You respond crudely and it was a strange way to hear you speak for a brief moment before Joel realizes he’s not sitting next to a young girl anymore—you were all grown-up and sure of yourself, confident in the way you spoke to him now that the initial awkwardness had fled, “were you?”

Joel balks at your question and shakes his head in amusement.

“‘Course fuckin’ not—the lady was a whole mess of issues I wouldn’t touch with a fifty foot pole.”

It took three years for them to fully finalize the divorce.

It brought you to now. Twenty and living on your own, crippled by abandonment issues and desperate attention seeking problems that even you wouldn’t address.

And Joel was always good at giving you his undivided attention.

At least, he used to be.

You nod, a wry smile tugging at your lips. "Yeah, I figured. Just had to ask, you know?"

“She did try, long…long time ago,” Joel slips in as the campsite comes into view after a long stretch of silence, “but I very politely declined and shut my mouth about it.”

The admission makes you grimace and Joel can only chuckle.

–

“I’m sorry,” You stress for the tenth time as your father rifles through his trunk, tossing his tent to the floor but yours was blatantly absent.

You could have sworn…

“I brought my double for more room,” Joel interrupts the very awkward stand-off between you and your father, unspoken and unresolved tension that he wasn’t trying to insert himself in, “I can take that one and you both are more than welcome to—”

“No,” You respond, a sudden decisiveness to your voice, “I’ll share with you.”

“I think it’d be easier if you and your dad—”

The idea of sharing a tent with your father and his insistent snoring.

Absolutely the fuck not.

“Or I’m sleeping in the truck,” You decide.

“I’m sorry ‘bout her,” Your dad apologizes as he drops another box into the dirt.

“Oh, she’s alright,” Joel assures, “I guess I don’t mind sharin’.”

“Perfect, problem fucking solved.” You gripe before plucking your swimsuit from your bag and disappearing into the outhouse building a couple minutes down the path and Joel watches you storm off.

"She's always been headstrong," your dad mutters, more to himself than to Joel. "Gets it from her mother, I reckon."

Joel nods, unsure of how to respond.

He busies himself with setting up the tent, stealing glances down the path where you disappeared. The tension in the air is palpable, and he can't help but feel caught in the middle of something he doesn't fully understand.

As he hammers the last stake into the ground, he hears your footsteps approaching. You've changed into your swimsuit, a towel draped over your shoulder. His throat swells at the sight as easily as his cock in his jeans, sweating worse than a sinner in church even under the sticky, summer sun.

It’s just a two-piece bikini, charcoal in color and clinging to your skin, the threads of string digging into your hips where they were tied in tight bows and Joel has to force his gaze away.

Your eyes are red-rimmed from crying, but your chin is lifted defiantly.

Joel fears he may have been the reason.

That and a mix of your father.

“I’m going for a swim,” You announce, slipping off your sandals and tossing your discarded clothes on the dirt floor next to the freshly constructed tent, a wordless and dry-mouthed Joel licking desperately at his lips as he realizes you aren’t talking to him, but your father, his eyes trailing now dangerously to your backside as the fabric digs into the plumpness of your ass and makes it crease, the subtle curve of your cheeks pinching as you lean to one hip, awaiting any type of response from your father.

It’s revealing, provocative, and nothing he’s seen you in before and if he was your father—

But, he’s not.

He’s not.

All you get is a huff of acknowledgement from your father as he’s buried himself into the trunk of the car again.

It was clear that even with your mother out of the picture that things wouldn’t change. Always talking through you, never at you, never concerned with school or your interests. It felt stupid, emotional over something so feeble and otherwise meaningless to most.

You glance over your shoulder and catch Joel’s quickly averting gaze, the heavy weight of his stare crawling up your spine and lingering on your ass a few seconds, his face reddens over you catching him in the act but brushes it off as him being nosey, like watching the exchange between you and your father for too long.

Joel watches you float for an hour, tearing through a few beers in the process alongside your father before he comendeers the grill for dinner, bothering Joel for a favor as your father nods toward you in the water.

It was peaceful, too. The soft hum of birds flying north for the summer and the smell of slowly cooking meat, suddenly disturbed by water being splashed at your face and your head snapping to the side out of annoyance, peeking through one eye under the sunset.

The culprit?

A foot, eyes dragging up toward the owner.

Joel stands there, ankle-deep in the cool water, his jeans rolled up halfway to his shins. He looks sheepish, a beer bottle dangling from his fingers. "Your dad asked me to come get you. Dinner's almost ready."

You consider splashing him back but decide against it. Instead, you start wading toward the shore with a sigh, water dripping from your skin. Joel's eyes widen slightly as he takes in your form, backlit by the setting sun. He quickly averts his gaze, clearing his throat.

"Here," he says, offering you a towel he'd brought down. You try to maintain your aloof demeanor, but your body betrays you with a shiver that has nothing to do with the cool water.

"I was enjoying the peace and quiet," you reply, attempting to sound annoyed.

“We’re fishin’ tomorrow, that’ll be plenty of quiet for you,” Joel supplies, nodding toward the growing pile of food on the picnic table, “I’m not gonna pry, s’not my business.”

“I’m not asking you to,” You defend, snatching the towel with your fingertips rubbing against his palm in the process, stretching the towel over your shoulders as it pushes your breasts out, silently amused as you careful examine the way Joel’s eyes squint under the summer sun and avert.

"You're not subtle either, Joel," you tease, a smugness playing at the corners of your mouth while you try to keep a straight face.

Joel's cheeks flush a deeper shade of pink, though he tries to play it cool.

"Don't know what you're talkin' about," he mumbles, taking a long swig of his beer.

You step closer, invading his personal space. The scent of his cologne mingles with the crisp lake air. "Oh, I think you do," you whisper, “it’s alright, you know—I don’t mind.”

You were nothing like that young girl he used to know.

Joel swallows hard.

For a moment, you think he might admit that he’s noticed the differences about you; confrontational, confident, but still seeking something you couldn’t attain on your own.

Then your father's voice booms across the beach, shattering the moment.

"Food's gettin' cold! You two comin’?"

Assuredly, one of you would.

–

He’s thanking his lucky stars he picked a roomier tent, not out of benefit to you and the fact you were sleeping soundly beside him, but that he had enough room to keep a safe distance from your inability to stay still, wiggling and shifting in your sleep like a restless little weasel.

He can hear the rolling sounds of your father’s snores from the other tent as he leans up on his hand, attempting to shift the blanket back over your frame where it had slipped down before he’s carefully shoving the extra pillow he’d brought between you and him, punching the fabric into submission and molding his hand around it to shape before he feels the incidental touch of your ass against his knuckles.

Right, so much for space.

Even in the poor moonlight he can spot the shorts clinging so tightly to your skin that the side have shifted high enough up your hips that if he wanted to—and lord, he could—slip his fingers between your legs and along the fabric, assuring himself an immediate trip to the gates of hell.

Joel’s not sure where he lost his mind, whether it was the moment he spotted you back home or as you spoke to him so boldly earlier and called him out, or now, actively watching your legs separate as you rolled to your stomach and hiked your knee up slightly, shifting the blanket away again.

He's drawing the line here.

–

Though, he’s even more distracted as you’re perched on your knees in front of him the following morning, picking through the bait as you trade off between him and your father, forcing yourself to participate despite your distaste for the activity and the flashing NO SIGNAL on your phone every time you glanced at it.

You lean forward off the dock and rinse the dirt from your fingers and into the lake. Joel can't help but notice how your shirt rides up as you lean forward, exposing a sliver of skin at your lower back. His eyes trace the curve of your spine, lingering a moment too long before he forces himself to look away. Fearful that your father might catch his eyeline and see him ogling his daughter, but he pays neither of you any attention, eyes fixed on a spot out in the lake as you attempt to hand Joel another wriggling worm when the fish snaps the other off the line for the fifth time.

“Are you sure you’re putting it on there correctly?” You ask out of concern, watching him reel in the line with a frustrated grimace, glancing over at your absent-minded father once more.

“You wanna try?” He snips, quickly realizing how his voice came across and the way your shoulders sink, then he softens his tone, “Do you—wanna…”

“I don’t know how,” You admit, watching the worm wiggle in Joel’s palm.

“Your daddy never taught you?” He asks aloud, loud enough that it snags your father’s attention and he chuckles dismissively.

“Kid hates the outdoors,” You father adds insubstantially, your eyes dragging to his back as he leans forward in the creaky chair as he gets a bite, “it’s a wonder she said yes to any of this.”

It didn’t matter that he was wrong, because he was always wrong.

Joel knew how much you loved being outside, how often he would find you laying in the grass with Sarah and Ellie, staring up at the stars and pointing out the different constellations, a never-ending faucet of information that had bled into your interests at college,

“I gotcha,” Joel quips, attempting to pull your attention back to him.

You're focused intently on the task at hand, your nose scrunched up in slight disgust as you handle the slimy bait. He finds it oddly endearing, the way you're pushing through your discomfort to be part of this bonding activity that you could clearly give less of a shit about.

You were trying and your father didn’t care, but Joel noticed.

"Here," he says, reaching out to guide your hands. "If you hook it like this, it'll stay on better."

You grimace at the squelch as it slices through the worm, “Alright—I think I’m good for the day.”

Joel chuckles at your face, his hands lingering against your own despite their descent, rested gently in the palm that was settled against his knee, wholly inappropriate given the situation.

You turn your hand on his thigh, using the leverage to push yourself up and squeeze down at the same time, earning a quiet grunt and a look of pure annoyance from Joel as you smile all fresh-faced and innocent.

Your father chuckles from his chair, not bothering to turn around. "Giving up already? Figures."

You bite back a retort, reminding yourself it's not worth the argument. Your father waves dismissively, attention fixed on the water. Your eyes land on Joel again, who seems to be collecting just how detached you were from your father, but doesn’t find it the right time to play savior or make the trip any more insufferable than it was becoming.

When Joel finds you later, you’re half naked and sunbathing beside your shared tent, far enough out of view that he can’t see your father’s tent as he pushes his sunglasses up into his hair and shakes the nylon wall beside your head, your bare back on display as you make a noise of acknowledgment but don’t turn.

“We’re done,” He says plainly, squinting and averting his eyes as you raise up slightly, arm conveniently blocking the full view of your naked chest as you nod toward your swim top tangled by your feet.

Joel’s beginning to think you’re doing it on purpose.

He pulls at his jeans while he kneels, right at his thighs, picking up the fabric and passing it into your waiting hand as you finally turn on your backside, arm tucked over your chest as you slip the tied part of your top over you head, shifting the fabric over your breasts in one fluid motion before you peer up at Joel who’s decidedly avoiding all interaction suddenly.

“Catch anything good?”

“Yup,” He tells you, sounding forced.

You both move at the same time, rising to your feet but holding your hand out expectantly, Joel’s hand slipping into your own without a word, like a trained gesture.

“Ask it,” You tell him, subtly shifting the top more firmly into place as you exchange a brief look with Joel.

“I’m curious why you came - ‘cause your daddy or if it was for me, if you got some type of my plan I’m not privy to?”

“No plan,” You admit truthfully, “not for him—or you, actually. But, it’s sweet that you think I’m trying to trick you or something. I figured you knew me better.”

“I know you jus’ fine,” Joel grumbles, pulling his hand from your grip as you step away.

“Do you?” You challenge, “I mean, how well do you actually know me, Joel?”

“This ain’t the time for—“

“No, I mean—you’re obviously trying to give me the attention my dad won’t, right? It’s what you’ve always done. Is it guilt? Do you think you owe me?”

“You ain’t my kid,” He says decisively, “but I’ve known your dad a real long time, longer than you’ve been on this earth and you’re lookin’ at him like you wished he didn’t exist, I’ve seen those looks too, from my girls—“

And he notices the look appearing on your face now, that similar distaste that makes him feel helpless.

“He’s helpless, kiddo. You won’t even set that time aside to have a talk with him, all the animosity towards him about your mother, but you’re expecting his attention, seeking it out like this, from me—it ain’t right,”

“Neither is staring at me like you wanna split me over your lap,” You retort, “but you know he’s too preoccupied to notice, so you do it. And you’ll do it again, and again,”

“Watch yourself,” He warns, an authoritative warmth wrapping around his vocal cords that is the complete opposite of what he wants.

“You don’t get to play the victim here,” you fire back, the heat rising in your cheeks, not just from the sun.

The warm air around you feels suddenly suffocating, thick with unsaid words and unresolved issues, “You were there when it mattered, and now you’re acting like I’m the problem? I didn’t ask you to be that person for me, you did it yourself—”

Your accusation hangs heavy in the air between you.

Joel shifts his weight, grounding himself against the sudden intensity of your gaze. The way you stand, defiant and angry, claws at his insides.

He can feel the swell of frustration rising, a tide threatening to crash over both of you and consume you whole.

“I never said anything about you bein’ a problem,” he says quietly, but his voice carries an edge you’re not familiar with, “I was giving you what I thought was right in the moment, someone to talk to—you always did right by my girls, you’re a good kid—”

You nod at the utterance of those words, lips pulling into a tight line as you make a sound of disapproval and stare at him with a gaze that could make any man shrink with fear.

“You keep calling me a kid,” you call him out, “but, I don’t think you see it that way anymore.”

Joel doesn’t even know what to say, feeling cornered. You’ve always been able to read him so clearly, like you knew him better than he did. His heart races, nostrils flaring as he steadies his emotions and his face goes stoic, caught between the urge to defend himself and the undeniable truth that hangs in the space between you.

“Things change, alright?” Joel finally responds, his voice low but firm, waving his hand around casually between you and him, “I know you’re not a kid anymore. You’ve grown into—”

“Into what?” you cut him off, a bite to your tone that sets the tension even higher as you cross your arms, shifting on your hip as you step closer, eyebrows raised expectantly.

You feel it bubbling up inside you, a mix of anger and pent-up frustration that has been simmering for too long, laced with a dangerous edge of desire now that you had him so close, that things had undeniably changed.

“I think we both know my dad is just going through the motions, doing the absolute bare minimum. He’d be much happier with a son, but he got me—a spitting image of my fucking mother. He cares enough to keep me around, but he’s never been someone to give a shit about anything I have going on in my life, now or before,”

It spills out without trying, unexpectedly choked up as you utter the last few words.

You wouldn’t cry in front of Joel, you refused.

You sniff once, hard, and quickly blink away the burn of tears.

The silence stretches uncomfortably.

Joel runs a hand over his face, fingers threading through his hair in frustration. It wasn’t supposed to go like this. You were supposed to just enjoy the weekend together, catch up, and with some hope, go your separate ways on a positive note.

Instead, he was clueless.

He steps back, forcing distance between you, though it feels more like a pit. “I don’t know what you want from me,” he admits finally, his voice low and rough, “You’ve grown up, sure. But I still see that girl who used to come to me in the middle of the night sobbin’—

“Stop it,” you snap, your chin lifting defiantly. “Stop doing that—”

The silence lingered again, but it was tangible.

“I don’t need a lecture right now,” you continue, biting back as your blood rushes hot at the way his words twist in your gut to remind you of all the indecipherable emotions of your past, your heart pounding against your ribcage wildly. “Not from you.”

“Whattya lookin’ for then?” Joel challenges, the words undoing you completely, “Because you’ve toeing a line, real fuckin’ thin—”

He feels your hands first, curling around his neck.

His own hands are set at his hips, blinking once, twice, watching the way your eyes linger on his lips before you make the decision in your mind and push forward, pressing your lips against his own without thinking.

His mouth is soft but firm against yours, and more importantly, moving.

A hesitant exploration that quickly deepens as you angle your head to fit him better.

He releases a soft grunt at the force of the kiss, trading the angle of your head swiftly, lips parting briefly before you’re consuming him once more, your eagerness shifting you further behind the tent, into the large stump that your bags were resting against.

“I want you to fuck me,” you tell him boldly, breathless against his mouth, “Right—right here,”

It was like a bucket of ice water over him, ripping away with the sound of your voice.

He’d forgotten where he was, who he was, who you were—he’d slipped, misjudged, and completely underestimated you.

“I’m not,” He replies disjointed, his mind elsewhere, “we’re not doin’ this—”

Joel doesn’t give you time to argue, hand clasping over his mouth with a deep regret as he squeezed at his cheeks with his fingers, a self-inflicting pain to drag him back to reality, hands throwing back over his head as they ran through his hair.

He’s gone before you can speak, trailing away from the camp with an unknown end in sight.

–

When your dad asks where Joel was, you shrug.

You didn’t have a clue, it was the truth.

Eventually, he does return, but he won’t look at you.

You peel apart the peach in your hand quietly, face scrunching as the juices spray upwards and Joel takes the beer your father offers in silence, sitting in the only space of the picnic table that was open, across from you.

The two men carry on a meaningless conversation that you tune out, focusing on the fruit in your hand, aware of his eyes that lingered when you weren’t focused on them.

You can feel his gaze on you, watching the way your tongue catches the sticky sweetness that spreads down your palm, chewing quietly at the fruit.

The juice dribbles down your chin, your eyes dart toward him over the table, purely accidental.

Joel is trying to focus on your father, but his muscles are tense and neither of you ignore that force of the string that had you two bound together, though clearly at odds.

Your tongue dips out of your mouth to clean your face, hearing the conversation continue but focused on him, the clear strain in his throat as he swallows and brings his beer to his mouth.

“I’m gonna shower,” you speak suddenly, abrasively, as you toss the discarded fruit aside, not to any particular man, rather a blatant announcement that you were leaving.

When you’re gone, your father speaks, “She’s just like her mother,” he says candidly to Joel, your words ringing in his ears, “I’m sorry if she’s bein’ rude to you,”

“She’s always been a good kid,” Joel responds dismissively, eyes trailing toward your fading figure, “ain’t nothing I can’t handle or haven’t before,”

Your father nods like he knows, but even Joel sees right through it.

When you returned the fire at camp was already out, lights dimmed to nothing, and Joel’s tent door hung open enough that you could slip through quietly, like he’d prepared it that way.

You were halfway convinced sleeping in his truck was a better alternative.

The faint outline of Joel’s form is silhouetted against the small sliver of moonlight sneaking through the fabric—he wasn’t lying down just yet, rather resting, his foot planted into the ground while the other lay stretched out, his eyes only briefly acknowledging you as you step inside the tent.

“Jeez, you’re worse than the boys at school,” you complain, adjusting your shorts as you kneel your sleeping bag and Joel notices the distinct lack of fabric underneath, the material scrunching high up on your hip as you turn away from him on your stomach, annoyed, “you kissed me back, you know? I didn’t imagine that.”

“It’s inappropriate,” Joel says and you snort at his decision to take the moral high road over the situation, wiping your head to look at him suddenly, “should be worryin’ about boys your own age.”

“I do,” you retort, “they suck.”

“You’ve barely lived,” Joel retorts, “dated what—a couple of ‘em? You’ve always been careful, I dunno why you’re bein’ so reckless all the sudden, specially with your dad around and thinkin’ that I was—”

“Was what?” You inquire, pushing up suddenly to your knees, resting back on your calves

“Was gonna fuck you right here,” Joel cuts you off, his voice low and tight, eyes averting outside.

You don’t back down, your chin lifting defiantly. “I think you’re too pussy anyways.”

His gaze narrows on you, the suppressed desire in his eyes flickering like a flame. “You don’t know what I’d do,” he shoots back, his voice gravelly with restraint, “fix your fuckin’ tone.”

“You know, there was this guy,” you begin with a fond smile, but your eyes are speaking something different, “it was dangerous and stupid, but he was honest about how he was feeling.”

Joel speaks your name, stresses it, but you ignore him.

“He was my professor, actually,” You giggle softly, “and we both knew it was a terrible idea, but fuck—I just couldn’t say no and well, niether could he—he took me out, he treated me right,”

“What are you tryin’ to prove?” Joel asks suddenly.

“He didn’t fuck me, though—no one has,” you admit, “but I know what I want and who deserves me, it, and,” you scoff, “god, you can’t even look at me now,”

“That ain’t what this is,” Joel argues, staring you down with a challenge.

You scoff again, ducking your head to hide a smirk.

“Then what is it, Joel? Was that you bein’ there for me?” You tease the thickness of his southern drawl and pout for good measure.

His silence is enough of an answer and you shake your head in amusement, finally giving up.

You move with urgency, rolling up your sleeping bag out of frustration to flee toward his truck, snatching the keys at his side before he can grab them, but in your effort to run, his hand wraps around your ankle, the lantern at his side flicking on with the use of his other hand.

“Now, hold on,” Joel demands, releasing your ankle to wrap around the string of the sleeping bag holding the fabric where it was rolled together and tugs you back inside, zipping the tent closed in the process.

“Make it good,” you argue and he growls softly, the tone gruff and demanding.

Your heart races at the authority in his grip, the way he moves you so close there's barely any space left between your bodies. There’s a taste of fear, mixed with excitement, only our tongue.

Joel’s gaze darkens, his expression shifting as he studies you, “I’m not fuckin’ you—m’not,”

“I thought we already established that,” you reply monotone and bored, tugging back against the sleeping bag, “so, we’re done here?”

“You forget those on purpose?” Joel asks suddenly, unsure what he was referring to until his hand is guiding between your legs and beyond, to the clean pile of what used to be the clothes you were currently wearing, a distinct article left behind.

He’s got the fabric bunched in his grip, an opaque white cotton with faded blue flowers sprinkled in a distinct pattern.

“Is this how you want to play?” he asks, your gaze slowly dropping to the panties held between his fingers, presented to you like a prize, “Because I guarantee you can’t handle whatever you’re askin’ for, kiddo,”

Your lips part like you want to answer, but you can’t.

Joel seems beyond his resolve now, for the time being, at least.

He’s annoyed, irritated, mad, even.

It was a situation that desperately needed to be rectified, but instead, he gives in.

“Take your shorts off,” he leaves no room for argument, not that you would.

You nod hastily and comply as he pulls the sleeping bag from your grip briefly as you slid the nylon fabric down your hips, his eyes clearly avoidant as they focus on your face, the stuttering breath you release as you slid the fabric down your leg and off, feeling them pulled from your hands as he shoves the sleeping back back, but further, between your thighs.

“You’re all talk, sweetheart,”

He uses the endearment in a pointed manner, never demeaning until now.

“I’ll prove you wrong,” you argue back, meeting his eyes with a hunger you had no idea you could feel for another person until now.

“Use it,” Joel responds casually, “get off on it,”

It was the equivalent to a pillow, embarrassing that he was stripping you down to such a vulnerable state, arms balanced on his knees now with a look so fierce in his eyes that you had no choice but to listen, slowly rocking your hips against the rolled fabric as your hands fumbled to meet the floor in front of you, forcing you far enough forward that you’re only a handful of inches from Joel’s face.

Joel's gaze sharpens, eyes darkened with something primal that sends shivers down your spine. As you begin to rock against the sleeping bag, a wave of heat washes over you, bordering embarrassment, but there’s something lingering behind his eyes, empowering you.

“Just like that,” he murmurs, eyebrow twitching slightly, easily missed if you weren’t so close to his face, but your lips part and he can feel your shaky breath against his face, his voice wrapping around you like a serpent, “don’t even need me touchin’ you, do you? Is it that easy?”

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip, struggling to maintain eye contact as the fabric rolls against you, the pressure building in delicious waves, hips canting in desperation. You let out a soft whimper, feeling the way your body responds instinctively to the friction, each movement like a shock to your core.

“I think you can do better,” Joel offers, “that right?”

You nod eagerly, bound by his words, you shift your weight more firmly against the fabric until it feels different, stronger, more enticing. Your breath hitches at the sudden friction, the pressure heavy against your clit as you drag your hips back and forth hurriedly.

Joel’s gaze seems to wander then, from your face to the shake of your breasts under your shirt, to your bare hips and down to your thighs where they hugged the fabric, the smallest peek of your bare ass as your head finally falls, moaning softly with how fucking good it feels to get yourself off in front of him, even it was equally humiliating.

With the slightest bit of courage, your hand wanders forward in his obvious distraction.

It wasn’t hard to believe that he was enjoying this, but the physical reaction beneath the denim of his jeans is still surprising, your hand curling over the tent of denim, his cock hot and heavy underneath your palm.

His eyes snap to your face and your react immediately, half-expecting him to shove your hand away and snap himself back to reality, but he doesn’t.

“Can I see it?” you ask with a raw innocence, pure curiosity.

“This ain’t ‘bout me,” it was an excuse, but you weren’t buying it.

When you curl your fingers tighter around the bulge in his jeans—it’s a risk.

The way his breath hitches almost makes you chuckle with delight, “What’s wrong? Are you scared of me?” you tease him.

You moan again, softer, but through a laugh, head tilting to the side as your other hand presses against your thigh, angling your body so Joel can get a clear view of the way your cunt hugs the sleeping bag, slick smearing against the water-proof fabric, the feeling it creates in him is animalistic.

“Ain’t never been scared of you,” Joel admits, but the flicker of hesitation in his face tells a different story, still, he gives in. Again.

He’s leisurely about it, too.

He shifts, resting back on his palm as he makes slow work of his jeans, unbuttoning and unzipping as he watches your trading gaze, eyes fluttering shut occasionally.

When you catch the first glimpse of him, it was through his underwear, fabric straining against the thickness—it was the only part of the process Joel didn’t waste time with, pulling the fabric down far enough that he can scoop his balls up in his grip, every part of him larger than the next.

“Fuck,” you exhale, your hips stilling momentarily as you stare before resuming the frantic pace, “You’re so—”

“Big?” he finishes, with a cocky smirk that makes you roll your eyes—you’ve heard it countless times before, always feigning the truth for the benefit of the other, but with Joel, you couldn’t even lie.

You nod openly, tongue wetting your bottom lip as your eyes pull to his hand as it grips his cock.

His grip on his dick tightens, tugging at the base as you pick up the pace, your hips rocking faster against the fabric that turns slick with your arousal.

“This what you want?” Joel growls, voice much deeper than before and thick with arousal, “Can’t help but wanna be watched, huh?”

You nod again, frantically, staring between the way his dick swells and how he spreads his legs, tugging his cock firmly, eyes locked on the urgency of your movement and the devastating look on your face.

“Fuck!” you gasp quietly, aware that you two were never quite alone, back arching as you feel the muscles in your core clench around nothing, eyes closing as your orgasm washes over, gasping at the sudden loss of friction where Joel has seemingly pulled it away, cock tucked back in his jeans but still unfastened.

“What—what was that for?” you ask, panting.

“For thinkin’ you know everything,” he replies calmly, he tosses the sleeping bag aside, the fabric unrolling with the force and you try desperately to ignore how easily he had encourage you to deface yourself in front of him, “get some damn sleep,”

You dress quietly, watching as he relaxed on his back, blindly reaching over his head to dim the light inside the tent before tossing you your blanket it had strewn across the length of the tent, ignoring the way his hands follow up to cover your thighs with soft fabric, a similar gesture he had done before in your sleep but unbeknownst to you, almost like a reflex.

“You’re too fuckin’ reckless,” He tells you eventually, the quiet having lingered, “that shit you told me, coulda got you kicked out of college, what’s it all for?”

“I don’t know,” you answer honestly, tucking your pillow up under your head as you turn to him, ignoring the lingering ache between your legs and how Joel absentmindedly palmed his cock, visible even within the darkness, the soft rustle of fabric, “he was nice—seemed it, anyways.”

“Lotta kindness don’t come without a price,” Joel tells you, “you ever end up makin’ a decision like that again, you call me first—then I can talk some damn sense into you seein’ as I’m the only fuckin’ person you’ll listen to,”

Joel huffs out a bitter laugh, quieter than his words.

“Don’t know why,” He mutters, barely above a whisper.

“I can help,” you tell him, turning his head to look at you and where your eyes lingered, watching his hand shuffle underneath the blanket and up, flattening against his chest, “seems fair since—”

“No—no, kiddo,” He shakes his head, “you don’t owe me shit,”

He was wrong, astronomically.

But, you couldn't find the energy to argue.

��

You spent the next couple days switching between sunbathing, occasional dips into the lake, and tagging along for fishing trips that are some of the least exciting ways you’ve spent your life, but you were stuck here regardless of how much you wanted to flee now.

You’ve barely spoken to Joel or your father, though Joel can’t help but look over his shoulder every thirty seconds, just to make sure you aren’t going to disappear.

It feels like a collosal fuck-up, trying to prove yourself to Joel.

He’s never seen you as anything more than a surrogate daughter, whining about situations out of your control, and seeking approval from him in a way that could never be answered.

There had always been that underlying attraction, an innocent school yard crush—Joel was attractive, devastatingly so, but you had made the mistake of acting on a dream, a desire that should have remained just that—not…whatever your situation with him had turned into.

Your father was already several feet ahead on your nightwalk back from fishing on the dock, cooler in your grip as Joel walked ahead but stayed near, fishing poles locked in his grip.

Your silence unsettles him, knowing he had crossed a line himself, too.

Joel was never good with emotion or feeling, repressing everything for the benefit of everyone around him, but he would be lying if said he didn’t feel the same thing you had.

It was fleeting, a spark, but it was strong.

It lingered.

“We’ll pack everything up to head out earlier,” Joel says suddenly, grabbing your attention as you look up, calling out to your father, “go on ahead,”

Your father waves in response over his shoulder as he disappears into his tent and you walk straight past Joel, tossing the cooler into the dirt carelessly, annoyed that Joel had signed you up for something you didn’t really care to do when all you wanted to do was curl up in your sleeping bag and count the hours until you would be out of here.

Joel packs most of the truck and car up on his own, watching as you tuck away your own belongings in silence and eventually, he can’t handle it anymore.

He tugs you away without a word, a small noise of protest that he ignores until you’re a decent distance from the campsite, the back of your thighs hitting the empty picnic table, the area dead silent and empty and Joel’s gaze is the only thing you have to focus on.

“I don’t need another lecture,” you interrupt him before he can speak, but Joel smirks slightly, shaking his head.

Suddenly, he’s in your space, hands curling around the back of your thighs until you’re scooting back against the surface of the table, crowding in by his broad shoulders, eyes widening at his forwardness but not adverse to it.

Silently, he pulls at his belt, the metal clanging together deafeningly before his hands press down against the table on either side of you, nodding pointedly.

You can’t help but stare at the nonchalant twitch of his lips, leaning back slightly at his proximity as your heart hammers wildly against your ribs, fingers wrapped tightly around the edge of the table.

“What’s the catch?” you ask cautiously, though your tension eases with his laugh.

“It’s all you,” he explains, “you’re off-limits, kiddo,”

You pause at his words, brow furrowing.

“But, if you want it that bad, you can have it,” Joel explains.

You stare him down for a moment, attempting to read his expression, but you can’t.

“I’m not touchin’ you,” he elaborates further, “ain’t because I don’t want—I fuckin’....it’s just how it is, alright?”

You tilt your head, looking at him for a long, lingering moment before your hands drift toward his face, feeling how easy he melts into your touch, even if he tries to ignore it.

“I guess that is the only way to keep you from feeling guilty about fucking around with me,” you tell him plainly, “you can face my dad after watching me the other night, but touching me is where you draw the line? Okay,” there’s a tone of finality with it, like he was about to be checkmated.

You work open the button on his jeans, feeling his stomach flex against the brush of your knuckles, wasting little time as you unzip his jeans and quickly fit your hand under the waistband of his boxers, welcomed by the soft, velvety warmth of his cock, hardening instantly under your touch.

He exhales at your touch, using your other hand to pull his clothing down enough that it doesn’t hinder your actions, his fingers curling around the wood at either side of you until it creaks.

“Yup,” he relents, taking a shaky breath as your grip becomes firmer around him, tugging his cock at a devastatingly slow place, “fuck—you always were a quick learner,” he couldn’t help but add, followed by your soft laughter.

You stroke him from base to tip, your thumb rubbing over the bit of precum that had collected at the slit, watching the way his muscles tense in his neck, knowing there was plenty of time to admire his cock but right now, you were focused on him.

Joel had never been one to rush things, so you took your time with him.

His eyes never leave yours, either.

It was an intimate dance, a silent battle.

He swallows hard, glancing briefly at the distant tents before he leans in closer, his breath hot against your skin but not touching. Never touching.

You can feel the pulse of his cock as he grows closer, your opposite hands rolling his balls gently under your touch, his pathetic moan disguised by a poor attempt at a grunt.

“Don’t look over there,” you tell him, “look at me,”

Joel listens, surprisingly.

“Ain’t no way you’ve never—”

“Had sex?” you inquire, “Oh, I swear. Completely un-deflowered, I promise.”

“Shut the fuck up,” he swears, an empty threat that makes you giggle.

His lips are parted, close enough to your own that you feel the faint tickle of touch every so often, but completely of your own doing, although the rock of his hips into your tight fist are all him.

You can see the battle waging within him, his resolve waning with every glide of your hand against his cock, the heat radiating off him making you ache for him.

“Relax,” you whisper, your voice like honey as you lean in a fraction closer, teasingly brushing your lips against his. “Just let it happen.”

His eyes darken, a mix of lust and longing that only spurs you on.

You tighten your grip, stroking him slowly, relishing the way his brows knit together in pleasure while he fights to maintain control.

“Oh, you’re right there,” you tease playfully, voice soft, “you gonna come?”

Joel clears his throat and nods jerkily, “Ye—fuck, yeah.”

“Yeah,” you twist your wrist in a way that steals the air from his chest, “you gonna come for me, Joel?”

He nods, eyes set on your own, almost pleading.

You’d never seen him so vulnerable, yet there he was—caught in a moment of pure need.

When he does, it happens over a strung out “Fuuuuuuck,” that tumbles from his lips as he spills over your fist, grinning triumphantly at the way he falls apart without fear, his hips jerking forward into your hand.

Without thinking, you bring your hand to your mouth, licking around the mess he had left.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” he groans, tucking his flagging erection back into his jeans with a modicum of guilt at how greedily you lick up every last drop, “ain’t a damn thing innocent about you, is there?”

“Yeah, I’m sure there is…maybe,” you answer honestly, “you know—just because I haven’t had sex doesn’t mean I’m inexperienced, jus’....means I’m waiting for the right time…right person,”

Your words linger and Joel looks away in an instant, checking out toward the tents as he fastens his jeans, watching you wipe your damn hand against your own jeans.

“Fix your face,” you warn him, smile full of amusement, “you look like you just blew your load.”

“I did,” he retorts, “jesus—you never stopped being a little shit, did ‘ya?”

No, you hadn’t. And Joel knows it.

–

No one has to convince or coerce you into Joel’s truck the following morning.

Joel huffs out a chuckle of disbelief when he finds you more than chipper and bright-eyed about the fact you were finally leaving—he had already pre-negotiated about dropping you off back at college before bringing back your father’s supplies, since you had left your car back at your dorms and Joel wasn’t willing to let you cab ride there or force you to endure the ride back with your father, he was your only option.

You really didn’t mind. Not anymore.

“Seatbelt,” he orders, snapping his fingers as you continue to stare, arm resting against the top of the seat as you hold out your hand expectantly while he pulls onto the main road, “go on.”

“Phone,” you order in the same snapping tone, “you said I should call you if I feel like makin’ anymore stupid decision,”

He’d hoped you just…wouldn’t.

Joel sighs, taking one hand off the wheel to fish into his pocket for his phone before handing it over.

There’s a picture of him with Sarah and Ellie on his lockscreen, both girls squished into frame below him, his hand on either side of their heads as if forcing them together, their laughter clear and loud through the photo.

Joel notices you looking, the memory of it making him smile.

“They miss you,” he tells you, “should come down and visit ‘em during your next break, when they’re in town—your daddy told me you don’t come down for stuff like that but…you know Tommy and I don’t mind,”

“Tommy still lives with you?”

“Loosely,” Joel offers, “he’s in and out—works for me, he helps pay for shit so I’m not complaining.”

You hum in response as you watch him blindly put in his passcode, six zeros in rapid succession. Somehow, you’re not surprised. You input your number quietly and call your phone, doing the same with your own phone before handing it back to him.

“Don’t abuse it,” Joel warns you, placing the phone between his thighs,

“Me?” you feign innocence, “Never.”

Joel taps his thumb quietly against the steering wheel, deciding carefully on his next words but unable to keep them in, feeling the boil over.

“That stuff—it doesn’t leave there,” Joel says pointedly, “whatever it was, it happened, but that—that can’t happen anymore, understood?”

Your gaze flicks down to your lap, tongue swirling over your teeth as you nod, unable to look at him as he glares over at you, awaiting a verbal response.

“I gotta hear it, kiddo,” he presses.

“Already forgotten,” you promise, though your voice is hollow, “can we listen to something?”

Joel shoves the box of cassettes into your lap, knowing that this was a tactic to switch subjects, but he didn’t have it in him to argue.

The damage between you had already been done.

divider credit: @/saradika-graphics

#joel miller #pedro pascal #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #the last of us #tlou #joel miller smut #joel miller fic #x reader #reader fic #fic: orbit you #my writing #tlou fic #the last of us fic #dbf!joel

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81pastrys · 24 hours ago

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Favorites

Summary— Juliette starts disliking her favorite things and Charles figures out why

Warnings— bullying? ; upset toddler

A/N— I’m back for now 👀

Dad Charles List

Dividers @bernardsbendystraws @dollywons

Request— Can u do a Charles dad to a toddler mabye she has a favourite food and one day she just says she doesn’t like its anymore mabye somebody at a her playgroup said something

It was hard to find things Juliette liked, the picky girl refusing nearly everything and anything offered to her. So when Charles found anything she liked he would buy a whole lot of it. Snacks, juices, ingredients to food he could make that she liked.

It was a relief when he found something she liked, considering it a parenting win. Now, she was in a daycare and Charles knew other little kids were not the same. Juliette was 3 and that age can be explorative in emotions or eliciting emotions from others.

Charles would pack the same lunch and snack for her everyday. Comfort foods and familiarity. Usually the lunch box would come back empty and the snack would be gone, sometimes unfinished but depleted.

Around the middle of the year, Charles begins noticing that the lunchbox and snack come home seemingly untouched. He looks to his little girl playing in the living room with her toys and sighs.

The next day he decides to fill it with different comfort foods of hers. Thinking that maybe she didn’t want the same thing everyday. Sure enough the lunchbox and snack were gone. He started mixing up what she would get for lunch or snack and she would return happily now.

Her food wasn’t the only thing he noticed a change in. She also was picky with certain clothes and wore certain outfits, repeating them often. She started fighting him in the morning when getting dressed if she had already wore the outfit that week- not caring that it had been washed and clean.

“Non papa!” She screamed. She was angry, her arms crossed while she stood in her pajamas. “I wore that Monday!” She told him. He was utterly confused.

“Oui, but it’s your favorite dress?” He said. She huffed and stomped a foot in protest. He sighed and picked a different dress she liked- and hadn’t worn that week. He didn’t have time to argue with her at the moment. Her hair was also an issue according to her mum, but Charles didn’t reflect that towards the same issue.

After her recent school day Juliette seemed upset. Charles was driving home and she sat in her car seat, looking out the window with a slight pout. He sighed and made it home. He unbuckled her and she stomped her way inside.

He followed with her bag and lunchbox. She preoccupied herself with toys while he went through his own emotions- she hadn’t eaten her lunch. He sat on the couch by her and she gave him a look.

“Juliette.” He said giving her a stern look, he only did that when she was in trouble or not expressing feelings like she should. Her lip quivered and tears formed in her eyes. He pulled her to his lap and she clung to him. “Qu'est-ce qui ne va pas?” (What’s wrong?) she sobbed harder in his hold.

He rocked her for little, she obviously didn’t know how to communicate why she was upset. He sat with her until she calmed down and looked up at him. His heart broke then and there. Her face was bright red and tear stained.

“Can you tell papa what’s bothering you?” He asked. She sniffled and crawled off his lap. He was confused, where is she going? She walked to the counter and grabbed her lunchbox. She gave it to him. “Are you hungry?” He asked.

While she was in fact hungry that was not what she meant. She shook her head and he gave her a confused look. He opened the lunchbox and she stared at the food. “Weird food.” She said. Charles looked even more confused.

“Weird food? Who said that?” He asked. She slumped and sat on the floor in front of him. He closed the lunchbox and picked her up into his lap again. “Mon cœur, I pack what you eat.”

“Mes amis disent que c'est bizarre.” (My friends say it’s weird) She said quietly. “My clothes too.” She added. “And my hair.”

“Mon bébé, don’t listen to them. You like these things, there’s nothing wrong with that.” He assured her. “The food you eat is not weird, it’s what you like.” She nodded her head, taking in what he was saying.

Charles made it a point to remind her everyday before school that she was unique in her own way and that she was perfect. He would compliment her hair, her outfit, and he would ask her what she wanted for lunch. It worked, she was happy again in no time. Back to her usual bubbly self.

Dad Charles for you all 🫶🏻

@il0vereadingstuff @angelluv16 @itznotsophia @pandabiiissh @kallanfiona @chertik-007vvv

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reidscherrygirl · 2 days ago

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೯⁺ 𖥻 𝓗 𝗢𝗠𝗘 𝗜𝗦 𝗪𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗘𝗩𝗘𝗥 𝗜'𝗠 𝗪𝗜𝗧𝗛 𝗬𝗢𝗨 ! ᰋ

ꨄ︎ 𝒫 airing : : 𝒮pencer reid x female!reader

ꨄ︎ 𝒮 ynopsis : : you get drunk on a night out and gush about your boyfriend━━SPENCER REID. he picks you up, takes care of you, and reminds you that you're deeply loved.

ꨄ︎ 𝓒ontents : : drunk!reader. female!reader. jj and reader are friends since high school. fluff. spencer being the most boyfriendest boyfriend ever & ever. both are down bad for each other. mentions of having sex. boys of tommen quote mentioned!! johnnyshannon quote mentioned!! cringe. cheesy. grammatical errors. ooc(?). reader wears a dress and heels. reader is part of the bau but isn't mentioned. english isn't viana's first language. not proofread.

ꨄ︎ 𝓦ord count : : 1.4k

ꨄ︎ 𝓒ase file shelf.

ꨄ︎ 𝒲hispers of viana : : so... it's always drunk! spencer,, what about drunk!reader, chat!?!?( joksies, i love love love love your works sososo much,, i haven't read the nsfw ones but i love them because yes. they're definitely good. ) going back to my oldoldold writing style because i miss it. anyways, this is probably like, my first , first, first s.reid fic in months. the ones i've posted yesterday were made in,,, february-ish,, so this is probably bad-bad-bad. i'm vv sorry in advance!! + how do you guys make friends here lawd. oh, oh, and again, english isn't my first language,, so forgive me !!

the dress you chose wasn't exactly comfortable, and the heels were the type that made you wonder every step of the way. they were cute in the mirror━━of course, but after standing for about ten minutes, it seemed like your feet were dying. nonetheless, you'd promised jj you'd attend. and when she mentioned that some of your old high school friends would be there━━the ones she still kept in contact with━━you thought it couldn't hurt. it had been an eternity since you let loose, and jj promised you'd be home before midnight. besides, SPENCER said he didn't mind.

"go," he said to you that morning, stroking his thumb over your knuckles the way he always did. "you need a break. and besides, you're with jj, so i'm not concerned.

you weren't even going to drink. really. that wasn't the intention. but then more and more drinks would come and there would be low lights and everyone would laugh and laugh and laugh like it was time machines and it was senior year once more and there were no bills to pay or the need to procrastinate school projects or heartbreak or anything like that. only music and giggles and sparkly eyeshadow and glossy lips.

jj laughed next to you, her wedding ring glinting in the bar lights like a miniature disco ball. they were congratulating the girl for getting married and having kids.

one of the girls leaned in, already a little drunk, her voice teasing. "so what about you?" she said. "you dating anyone?"

you blinked at her, wobbling a bit in your seat, your drink halfway to your lips. "mmhmn," you hummed contentedly. "boyfren. beautiful. so, so intelligent. like, utterly intelligent. my spencer."

jj gagged on her drink. "oh boy."

your friends leaned in, curious now. "wait, that's his name? spencer? is he cute?"

you breathed in sharply, eyes wide. "cute? noooo. he's celestial. like.. a star. with a phd. and fluffy hair. and cheekbones. and when he speaks, it's like... sexy wikipedia."

you laughed, tugging jj's arm for support. "he knows everything. and remember everything i say. even the stupid things. like one time i said birds don't have knees? and he said they do, but he said it all soft and sweet like i hadn't just said the most wrong thing ever."

"he has, like, eighteen phds! it's insane. but it's spencer, so it's not insane."

jj snorted. "he's got three phds."

you brushed her away. "three is basically the same as eighteen. he totally has eighteen."

everyone at the table burst into laughter. jj leaned over and whispered, "you're so gone."

“mhmn. 'm so gonna marry him.”

soon, the heels became your worst enemies. you dropped your chin dramatically onto jj's shoulder and groaned, "jayjjjeey. my feetsies hurt. the heels are murdering me. it's, like, medieval battles down there."

“maybe remove them?" jj suggested, raising an eyebrow.

"then i'll be short," you huffed, offended.

jj rolled her eyes and got out her phone. "i should probably call your boygenius before you start rambling about his hands again."

"his hands are so nice though!"

"yeah, yeah. i know." she began dialing.

spencer answered on the first ring. "jj?"

"hey━━" she began, but didn't get a chance to finish.

"spencer!" you yelled into the phone. saying the “e” in his name longer than it should be.

he stopped in his tracks. "is she━━?"

"she's drunk," jj answered, half-sorry, half-amused. "she's fine, though. just. ridiculously drunk. here."

you pulled the phone away from her like it was your personal offender. "hi, hi. hi again" you drawled, stretching it out like the best song. "guess who?"

"hmm," spencer muttered, tone gentle. "i'm going to go say the love of my life?"

you squealed. loudly. "oh my god, you're so cute. spencer. your voice is like.. silk. but, like, smart silk. is that a thing?"

he was grinning into the phone now, though he was already getting up to grab his jacket. "did you have fun tonight?"

"mhm. so much fun. they asked if i have a boyfren and i was like 'duh' and they were like 'is he cute?' and i was like 'no. he's an actual greek god with brown eyes and a brain that could take over the world.'"

you were slurring more now. even over the phone, he could hear how your words tangled together.

"do you want me to come get you?"

you stopped as if you needed to think very hard. then you spoke softly but loud enough, "yes. yes. come and get me. please. i want to see your face. want to touch your hair. want━━to━━wait. jj! jj, he's coming!"

behind him, he heard jj say, "alright, just sit down and don't trip over, please."

twenty minutes later, spencer entered the bar, eyes sweeping until they found jj and the table of your old friends. he nodded at jj as greeting.

one of the girls blinked. "oh wow. you didn't say he looked like that."

"he's like a hot professor," another whispered.

you saw him. stood up way too fast. stumbled right into his chest.

"spence!" you cried, arms flinging around his neck.

he caught you quickly, his arms tight at your waist. "careful," he breathed, his nose buried in your hair.

you whirled away to your friends as if you'd just won a prize. "he's taken! so taken. all mine. back off."

they all erupted into laughter. jj put her hand across her face, trying so hard to prevent herself from losing it. "okay, casanova. let him breathe."

you didn't listen. your lips began leaving kisses on his cheek, his jaw, the edge of his neck, and his face flushed deep red.

"let's get you home," he said softly, scooping you up into his arms like you were nothing.

"bye guys!" you waved extravagantly. "jj i love you! and you're all so pretty!"

you wrapped both of your arms around his neck even as he attempted to put you into the car.

"baby," you mumbled, holding on. "don't go."

"i'm not leaving. i'm just buckling you in."

"you sing," you commanded as he removed your heels.

he hesitated. "sing what?"

"science lullaby."

"you want me to sing. the laws of thermodynamics?"

you nodded seriously. "yes. they comfort me." his voice did. but the same thing.

when you did finally get home━━well, technically his place but now it felt like your home as well━━spencer attempted to get you to put on your heels again so that you wouldn't dirty your feet and so he could lock the car. you complained but wore it anyway.

once inside, you kicked them off like they'd personally offended you. "they betrayed me."

he stooped to put them down tidily beside the door. when he stood up, you were propped against the wall, bottom lip protruding.

"come on," he groaned lovingly, sweeping you up into his arms.

you breathed onto his shoulder. "you're so strong. do you work out? or are you just. spencer-y?"

he chuckled, carrying you into the bathroom. "let's get you cleaned up."

he sat you down on the side of the tub and picked up your makeup wipes. "close your eyes."

you did, scrunching up your lips. "kiss me."

"after i remove the mascara," he grumbled.

his hands were soft, tracing slow, gentle circles. "you always get this little smudge right here," he said, swiping under your left eye. "you never see it. but i do."

"you notice everything," you sighed, in awe.

"i do," he said again, softer.

he handed you your toothbrush then and stood over you like a hawk. "don't swallow it."

"you're like a sexy dentist," you said, toothpaste running down your chin.

he wiped it away. "you're going to regret all the things you said tonight."

after brushing, he put you into one of his large shirts and carried you to bed.( after making you urinate ). you held onto him like a koala, burying your face in the crook of his neck.

"love you," you breathed.

"love you too," he whispered, sweeping your hair aside.

you kissed him, slowly and deep, your hands fumbling with his shirt.

"baby," you muttered on his lips. "i want you."

he pulled away, his breathing ragged. "you're drunk."

"so?"

"so i'm not doing anything until you're sober."

you pouted. "but i want to."

"i know. and i love you. all of you. not drunk-you. tomorrow, okay?"

you scowled but nodded. "for keeps?"

"for keeps."

you wrapped into his chest, exhaling as your body relaxed into the blankets.

and even when your breaths grew slower and your hand remained tucked over his heart, spencer didn't sleep━━not yet. he simply watched you, drawing invisible shapes on your back, committing to memory the precise curve of your smile even in sleep.

even drunk, you loved him.

and god, did he love you too.

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luviestarz · 2 days ago

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lee haechan fic recs! part 3 ❤︎

❤︎ #1: meandom!haechan who's still weak for his gf - @hyuckmov

❤︎ Touch me - @byuntrash101 (with lots of love and patience haechan was able to heal your soul. with him it feels right and you are ready to take the next big leap)

❤︎ she’s quiet (s,f) - @ijuliet (although you were not looking to make new friends, the ones you had tried their hardest to push you out of your comfort zone to find something abnormal for you. which is why you’re at a frat party on a thursday night, watching as lee donghyuck observes you from afar.)

❤︎ falling in love with haechan - @ooshu

❤︎ stalker!haechan x fem!reader - @neocentral

❤︎ flustered by you - @lelengerine (your boyfriend surely knows how to make you flustered, even when he’s the one who should be.)

❤︎ Danger - @daegall (however, on one particular day, the epitome of 'danger’ shows up to your doorstep and is asking you on a date. you recognized this certain person as lee haechan, one of your art classmate, renjun’s, best buddies.)

❤︎ getting even | lee haechan (P1) - @ofjunemoment (Haechan is notorious for his pranks. Who can forget about the one time the campus fountain was bleeding red? You were weary of never getting on his wrong side, but when you get to know him better, it seems like behind all that front he's a sweet and caring guy. That is until you get a bucket of water dunked on you straight after he promised he wouldn't pull something on you. You're not only pissed that he had fooled you like this, but that he chose such a simple prank.)

❤︎ double dog dare - @waithyuck (your best friends renjun and jeno decide that it would be funny to dare you to sit on the lap of your long time crush, lee donghyuck, during a college party.)

❤︎ ⇢ haechan as your boyfriend - @justalildumpling

❤︎ THE ONLY EXCEPTION - @jaylaxies (mark was an overprotective brother and he didn’t fail to show it, warning all the guys to stay away from you, his best friends were no exception. so, how will you make it work when you return back after graduating school, only to find that your crush is paying more attention to you than ever? it most certainly doesn’t help that it’s lee donghyuck, to whom, you are strictly off limits.)

❤︎ body language [l.dh] - @badalivie (You and Donghyuck have been dance partners for the past 6 years. When he gets into an accident that costs him a competition and substitutes himself with another dancer, he realizes he’s not so open at all to having you dance with someone else, especially having their hands in the places he considered his.)

❤︎ pancakes for two - @pearlesscentt (haechan x reader, college!au)

❤︎ ❛NICE GUY❜ ( l. haechan ) - @luvyeni (in the midst of your stalker running lose you trust haechan , he seems like nice guy)

❤︎ all is fair in love and war - @lonelyharmonies (when you meet a guy once and forget his name, the last thing you expect is meeting him again on your new job.)

❤︎ spur of the moment (ldh) - @haetrack

❤︎ pairing: lee donghyuck x reader - @yrqrnc (wherein, it’s a late afternoon and you’re watching your favorite series with your dearest boyfriend as you cuddle on the couch, but it seems that it’s physically impossible for you to keep your attention fixed on the large monitor in front of you, and not him.)

❤︎ impulse - @nctsworld (saying i love you for the first time during the heat of the moment doesn’t really count... right?)

❤︎ home is a feeling | lee donghyuck - @neonun-au (Fresh off a break-up, not willing to stomach spending Christmas single with your family, you book a last minute trip overseas to escape the impending loneliness, not realizing that perhaps running away from your feelings will only serve to intensify them. You arrive at your home-away-from-home only to find you’re not the only one staying there. Through some unfortunate (or not so unfortunate) mistake, the AirBnB you booked has also been booked by a handsome young man looking for a similar escape from his own life. Now you have to choose whether or not to stay and spend your Christmas with a stranger or scramble to find a lonely hotel room last minute over the holidays.)

❤︎ corny stuck under the bed scenario - @sherwees

❤︎ indica dreams | ldh - @hazyhae (when you finally decide to do something about your sleeping problem, your best friend suggests weed as a solution. he introduces you to donghyuck — a plug who makes it his personal mission to teach you everything there is to know about it.)

❤︎ ( 📁 twenty minutes. by lee haechan ＿ ⭐ O1O1 ) - @lavandiors (where haechan finds you in the practice room and can't help but want you all to himself.)

❤︎ ⎯ sweet nothings… - @foolsunz (you’re going to be the death of him, he knows it.)

250 notes · View notes

hainge · 9 hours ago

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While mama is away...

bllk!dads summary:You’re off on a well-deserved vacation, and it’s Dad’s turn to take care of the morning school/daycare chaos (but not for everyone). But don’t worry, they are trying.

characters: Michael Kaiser, Itoshi Rin, Itoshi Sae, Nagi Seishiro, Shidou Ryusei, Chigiri Hyoma and Isagi Yoichi

Michael Kaiser and Felix (5)

"Your hair looks like a mop with regrets."

Kaiser wakes to the rhythmic sound of tiny fists slapping wood, not his face, thankfully, but his bedroom door. Each knock is punctuated with a little voice that sounds way too calm for this level of passive aggression.

"You forgot to prep my uniform like you promised."

Kaiser groans, dragging a pillow over his face. "That can’t be right. I swear I laid it out." His voice is hoarse. His brain is not yet connected to his limbs.

"You didn’t. Mama always does it the night before. Organized people do that. You are not one of them."

He peeks out from the pillow. Felix is standing there in blue footie pajamas, arms crossed like a tiny HR rep preparing to file a complaint. His hair is somehow perfectly brushed, probably brushed it himself. Probably judged Kaiser in the mirror while doing it.

Kaiser stumbles up and scans the room. There’s no sign of a uniform. Just a mountain of track pants, training jerseys, and a rogue shin guard sitting on a chair like a depressed accessory.

"Okay, okay. We’ll find it. Let me just—"

Felix sighs with the kind of disappointment that ages a man ten years. "This is why I schedule things. Mama says time is a tool, and you're just swinging it around like a sword in the dark."

"You're a kid" Kaiser squints at him.

"And yet, I'm thriving."

Breakfast is chaos, wrapped in good intentions and sealed with failure.

Kaiser, in boxers and one sock, confidently pours chocolate chip cookie cereal into a bowl like it’s a gift to mankind.

"No," Felix says immediately, deadpan.

Kaiser blinks. "What do you mean no?"

"I want the star cereal. With the astronaut bear on the box."

"We don’t have astronaut cereal. I checked."

Felix picks up his dinosaur cup, takes a long, judgmental sip of water, and sets it down like he's a seasoned divorce attorney about to deliver a verdict.

"Then you failed twice."

"Okay, I’m improvising!" Kaiser declares, dramatically. "That’s called flexibility. Champions adapt."

"You made me a bowl of disappointment"

The kid turns on his heel and stomps toward the living room.

"Play Paw Patrol."

Kaiser sighs and flips it on. The theme song blasts while he toasts bread and slices a banana, trying to channel his inner domestic god. Felix sulks under a blanket on the couch, his face barely visible, eyes fixed on Sky like she’s the only creature who gets him.

"Are you mad at Papa?" Kaiser asks, creeping over with the toast like a peace offering.

"disappointed."

Kaiser recoils. "That’s worse!"

In the car, the silence is palpable until Felix decides to reopen the case file.

"Your hair looks weird."

Kaiser glances in the rearview. "It’s bedhead. I didn’t get to do anything to it."

"You look like a mop with regrets."

Kaiser nearly swerves into a dramatic spiral. "You’re still young and vulnerable. You’re supposed to love me unconditionally."

Felix shrugs. "Love doesn’t mean enabling."

Kaiser stares at him for a moment too long at a red light. "Are you sure you’re five?"

"I’m advanced."

He squints. "You don’t have, like, dwarfism or something? Because your tongue is ancient."

Felix tilts his head, unbothered. "Maybe you just need to grow up."

Kaiser exhales. "This is why your mama needs to come home."

Itoshi Rin and Masako (7)

“You’re brushing my spine. My hair is higher than that.”

Rin Itoshi was not ready.

And he’s been in World Cup finals. He’s played in front of millions of people. He’s stared down some of the best strikers in the world. But none of that prepared him for the soft pink battlefield that is Masako’s bedroom at 7 a.m.

He’s standing there, clutching a hairbrush like it personally offended him, staring down his tiny opponent: a seven-year-old in a unicorn nightgown, legs swinging calmly over the edge of her bed, smiling like she’s about to give him performance feedback.

"Morning, Papa," Masako says sweetly, eyes shining with innocence and a hint of dread.

"Hey, baby. Let’s get you dressed, yeah?"

"Okay. Mama usually does it while I tell her about my dreams, and then we do affirmations. But you can do it your way."

Rin pauses. "Affirmations?"

"You know. ‘I am brave, I am strong, I am smart, I am kind.’" She tilts her head. "Mama says it rewires my neurons."

Rin has no idea what that means. He awkwardly clears his throat. "You are… all of those. Very… neuron-y."

Masako beams. "Good try."

He opens the dresser drawer and grabs a blue dress with little daisies on it.

"That’s the Tuesday dress," she says without even looking.

Rin blinks. "It’s… Friday?"

She points. "Mama folds them in day-order. See the little tags?"

There are labels. Actual tiny labeled dividers — "MONDAY," "TUESDAY," "WEDNESDAY" — staring up at him like proof he’s unfit for this mission.

He stares into the drawer like it betrayed him. "I feel lied to by fabric."

Masako pats his arm gently. "It’s okay. I’ll help you. You’re learning."

He finally gets her into the Friday dress after a mild struggle involving backward tights and a missing sock (it was on her hand, pretending to be a puppet named Alice).

Now: the hair.

He lifts the brush, cautiously. Masako gives him a look.

"That’s not the detangle brush."

"It’s a brush," Rin replies flatly.

"The detangle one is the purple one with the soft bristles. And Mama uses the pink spray first. It’s in the cabinet behind the scary face cream."

"My shaving cream?"

"Yes. It’s foamy. I don’t trust it."

He sighs, finds the spray, and squirts half of it into his own eye. Masako blinks politely and hands him a towel like this is routine.

He starts brushing, gently.

"Papa," she says after a few strokes. "You’re brushing my spine. My hair is higher than that."

"I’ve played against international strikers," Rin mutters.

"And now you're brushing the wrong bones."

By some miracle, he gets one (1) braid done. It is crooked. It is struggling. It looks like it just came back from a very windy jog. Masako looks at herself in the mirror, then turns to him with a soft smile.

"You tried. I’ll tell Mama you tried."

"That bad, huh?"

"No. It’s a fashionable tornado. Very abstract. Very… movement."

"You’re so much like your mom, it’s terrifying."

"She said that too."

"Do you do this every morning?" he asks, exhausted, watching her munch on heart-shaped cereal pieces.

"Yup." She chews thoughtfully. "But Mama makes it feel less like a crisis."

"Cool. Cool cool cool."

When he ties her shoelaces and gets them both into the car, both dressed, fed, semi-composed, he lets out a breath like he just finished a 90-minute match in overtime.

From the backseat: "You did good, Papa."

He smiles, warmed.

"Except for my braid. I feel like I can hear it."

"Thanks for your support."

"You’re welcome. You tried really hard. But maybe… don’t quit your day job."

Rin glances in the mirror, mock-offended. "Why are you like this?"

Masako shrugs.

Itoshi Sae, Kimiko(6) and Haruki (4)

“Papa: useless.”

Sae wakes up to the sound of war.

Not actual war, just the six-year-old kind.

"GET UP! WE’RE GONNA BE LATE AND I SWEAR TO EVERYTHING IF I HAVE TO PACK MY OWN LUNCH—"

The voice echoes through the apartment with the fury of a kindergarten general. Sae blinks at the ceiling, sighs, and reaches blindly for the mug already on his nightstand. Cold coffee. He knew this would happen.

A door slams. Feet stomp. A high-pitched rant about someone putting the purple lid on the pink cup.

Welcome to morning with Kimiko.

He shuffles into the kitchen where his daughter, dressed in blue pajamas and righteous purpose, is furiously spreading jam onto toast. She’s standing on a stool, her hair already brushed and braided, a sparkly headband angled with extreme precision.

Her little brother Haruki is laid out face-first on the couch like he passed out mid-protest, blanket over his head, legs kicking idly in the air.

Sae sips his coffee. "Is he breathing?"

Kimiko glances over her shoulder. "Barely. He won’t eat the eggs, and I did the smiley face ketchup thing. Just like Mama. I even gave the eggs eyebrows."

Sae leans on the counter. "You’re terrifying."

Haruki lifts his head an inch. His hair is flattened on one side like a soggy croissant. "I want bread."

Kimiko slaps a hand to her forehead like this is the fourth trial she’s endured today. Sae tosses a slice of bread in Haruki’s direction. It lands on his back. He grunts in approval and flops back down like a tranquilized cat.

Kimiko chugs her milk like it’s a stress reliever. "Hair: brushed. Water bottle: filled. Math homework: complete. Papa: useless."

Sae raises an eyebrow. "At least one of us is thriving."

"I did your and Mama’s job today."

"Should I pay you?"

"Yes. A LOL surprise."

Sae thinks about it, nods slowly. "Only if you stop yelling at Haruki."

"Deal."

Ten minutes later, Kimiko is doing a last-minute inspection of her backpack like a TSA agent. Haruki is under the table, still eating his bread one crumb at a time.

Sae walks over and crouches down. "You gonna make it, champ?"

Haruki gives him a slow, sleepy thumbs up. "Papa’s cool."

"Wow. That’s the highest rating I’ve ever gotten from you."

Kimiko calls from the hallway. "He only compliments people once a week."

On the way out the door, Sae looks down at his son, bed-headed, shoeless, still munching.

"You and me are the same, huh?"

Kimiko turns back around, arms crossed. "you’re both boring."

Sae shrugs.

Kimiko lets out a long, exhausted sigh like she’s raising both of them. "I hope Mama never finds out how bad this was."

"Too late," Sae says, unlocking his phone and pointing at the camera. "I recorded everything. Gonna show her you braided your own hair."

Kimiko gasps. "That’s illegal!"

Haruki looks up. "Tell mama I brushed my teeth."

"You didn’t." she yelled.

Sae sighed. "I thought about it." he smiles faintly as they head out, Kimiko already bossing her brother down the hallway.

Sometimes being a dad felt like being on a team where the coach was six, the star player was asleep under the coffee table, and he was just there to drive the van.

But hey. They were dressed, fed (kind of), and on time. That’s a win.

Nagi Seishiro and Shizuku (4)

“You said that three times already.”

Nagi wakes up to a presence.

Not noise. Not shaking. Just…vibes.

He opens one eye and sees Shizuku standing silently at his bedside, holding her bunny and staring like a tiny, polite ghost. Her hair is a waterfall down her back, too smooth to be legal at this hour.

“…You okay?” he mumbles.

She nods once. Then whispers, “It’s wake-up time now.”

Nagi grunts. “Five more minutes.”

“You already said that three times,” she says, barely audible, like she’s unsure if she’s allowed to correct him.

He flops back down dramatically. “Tragic.”

But she climbs into bed beside him and waits like a quiet judge. Two minutes later, she gently pokes his face.

“...mommy said we can’t be late.”

He groans into the pillow.

In the kitchen, he burns the toast again. Shizuku just blinks at it. She picks up a slice, takes one polite bite, and slowly sets it down like it offended her ancestors.

“I like it less when it’s… smoky,” she says, after a pause.

“Same,” Nagi mutters, already Googling “how to not burn toast.”

The apple slices go untouched. He side-eyes her. “You asked for apples.”

She nods shyly. Then whispers, “I meant the crunchy green ones. Not the sad red ones.”

“Noted. I’ll fire the fruit guy.”

But the real boss fight? Her hair.

Nagi stares into the mirror. Shizuku sits on the bathroom counter in her unicorn pajamas, legs swinging. Her long hair spills behind her like it’s mocking him. The brush is already stuck and it’s been ten seconds.

“Okay,” he says. “This is fine. We’ve trained for this.”

They have not trained for this.

He tries to gather it all into one neat ponytail. It slips through his fingers like magic. Her bangs fall into her face again. He brushes them aside. They fall again. He lets out a single defeated sigh.

“You okay, Papa?” she asks quietly.

“Not really.”

She watches as he tries again. The elastic flies off his fingers and hits the mirror. They both freeze.

Shizuku slowly offers him a second hair tie from her lap like she’s handing over a weapon in a movie.

He attempts a braid. It ends up looking like a sad pretzel.

After thirty exhausting minutes, he gives up.

“…Let’s go wild today.”

She nods. Then whispers, “Like a lion?”

He blinks. “Uhh...yes. A little lion"

They head to the front door. Shizuku, bundled up in her puffy coat, stands quietly while Nagi struggles to zip it all the way. The zipper catches twice. He mutters something about the universe being against him.

“Almost got it,” he says.

Shizuku stares at him. Then carefully holds out one mittened hand and says, “You have to push it up first.”

Nagi blinks. Tries it. It works immediately.

“…When did you learn that?”

She shrugs. “Mama does it.”

Of course.

He grabs her tiny backpack. She reaches up for it like a sleepy executive going to an important meeting. Just as he’s opening the door, she suddenly stops.

“Wait,” she says, frowning. “You forgot your kiss.”

Nagi freezes mid-step. “My what?”

She reaches up, stands on tiptoe, and plants a tiny kiss on his cheek.

“For luck,” she whispers.

He melts.

But as he buckles her into the car seat, she turns serious again.

“Papa?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re still wearing your bunny slippers.”

He looks down. Loafers: missing. Bunny slippers: present.

He groans.

She just nods, calm and composed.

“I won’t tell Mama,” she says quietly.

Nagi stares at her, utterly amused.

Shidou Ryusei and Shoko (6)

“That’s called fashion, babe.”

Shidou kicks open his daughter’s bedroom door like he’s breaking into a villain’s lair.

“RISE AND SHINE, BABY GREMLIN!”

There’s a silence. Then the blanket rustles. A pillow sails through the air like a missile.

“YOU RISE, LOSER!” comes the response, shrill and feral.

She hurls herself off the bed in a flying tackle. Shidou catches her midair and spins her.

“AHHH—MY BONES! I’M TOO YOUNG FOR THIS!”

“YOU’RE 28, ACT YOUR AGE!”

“NEVER!”

Their mornings are less "routine" and more "WWE meets glitter daycare." And today is no exception.

The kitchen smells like chaos.

Shidou is flipping neon pink pancakes with a spatula in one hand and mixing syrup with food coloring in the other.

“We feast like royalty today!” he declares, sliding a plate onto the table with the flourish of a man who’s proud of his crimes.

“Royalty who eats sugar for breakfast and cries at the dentist,” Shoko mutters, unimpressed but already loading up on whipped cream.

“This is called culinary art, thank you very much.”

“You put candy eyes on everything.”

“Because everything should have a soul.”

She snorts, kicking her feet under the table. Her purple unicorn onesie is still half-zipped, and her hair looks like she fought a wind god. Which means—

“Hair time,” Shidou announces ominously.

In the bathroom, she climbs onto the counter while he gets to work. And this is where Shidou actually shines.

You wouldn’t know it by the rest of his lifestyle, but when it comes to his daughter’s hair? He’s a machine.

He sections, detangles, and smooths with laser focus. He could probably braid blindfolded. The final style includes two delicate braids, glitter strands, two color-matching bows, and, at her request, a tiny butterfly clip "for intimidation purposes."

She stares at herself in the mirror with satisfaction.

“I look like a fairy who could commit war crimes,” she says, hands on hips.

Shidou nods. “Exactly the vibe.”

She leans in closer, turning her head from side to side. “It’s giving… magical girl"

“Ten outta ten.”

Speaking of lunch, that’s a whole other thing.

Shidou’s idea of a balanced meal is… questionable. Today, her bento includes: three mini meatball sliders, heart-shaped cucumber slices, rainbow gummy worms, and a juice pouch labeled “Liquid Victory” in marker.

She peeks into the box.

“You forgot the sparkle jelly.”

He gasps. “Oh my god. I’m a disgrace.”

He literally runs to the fridge, grabs a cup of blue sparkle jelly, and slides it in with a bow like he's handing over a rare gem.

They high-five.

Shoko zips up her jacket while Shidou is still trying to put on sneakers with mismatched socks. The morning sun hits her like a spotlight, her glittery hair practically glowing, lunchbox swinging, war-ready energy at max level.

“Alright, tiny menace,” Shidou says, tossing her backpack over her shoulder. “Go wreak some controlled havoc, yeah?”

She grins.

They do a complicated secret handshake that ends in jazz hands.

Then she squints up at him.

“…uhh"

“Yeah?”

She steps forward and gently tugs the hem of his hoodie. “Your pants are inside out again.”

He looks down. Pauses.

“Intentional,” he says confidently. “That’s called fashion, babe.”

She exhales the way a mother does when her child disappoints her.

“You’re welcome.”

They march to the car like a superhero duo. As they approach the school gate, the teacher sees them and visibly braces herself.

Shoko waves sweetly. Shidou throws finger guns.

Chigiri Hyoma, Mayu and Himari (twins, 6)

“Let’s go, bitch!” The morning had started with harmony.

Chigiri was plating up breakfast like he was filming for a cooking channel, tiny waffles with chocolate syrup swirled into art, strawberries fanned out on the side, and little heart-shaped forks placed neatly on matching plates.

“Breakfast is ready” he called out as the twins marched into the kitchen in matching fuzzy slippers.

Mayu slid into her seat with a soft “thank you, Papa,” immediately picking up a strawberry with delicate fingers. Himari, however, stared at her plate like it had personally insulted her.

“Papa,” she said, squinting. “This syrup is… attacking.”

Chigiri turned from the sink. “Attacking?”

“It’s too much. My waffle is drowning. It looks like chocolate soup.”

“It’s the same amount as always,” Chigiri said, tilting his head. “Maybe the syrup bottle was just feeling generous today.”

Himari poked her waffle with the fork like it might explode. “It’s gross.”

Mayu, ever the diplomat, offered sweetly, “I can trade with you if you want. Mine doesn’t have as much—”

“I DON’T WANT YOURS” Himari snapped, eyes wide and brows scrunched. “Why do you always talk when I’m mad? It makes it worse!”

Mayu blinked. Her lip quivered slightly, but she said nothing. Just put down her fork, slipped off her chair, and walked quietly out of the kitchen.

Chigiri froze, one hand holding the juice jug. “Himari…”

She was still glaring at her plate, mumbling, “I didn’t mean it"

Chigiri sighed. “That was pretty harsh. You okay if I go check on her?”

Himari shrugged, then grabbed her waffle with both hands and took an angry bite. “Fine.”

He found Mayu sitting cross-legged on her bed, hugging her stuffed dolphin, blinking very fast.

Chigiri sat beside her, gently brushing her bangs back.

“She didn’t mean it,” he said softly.

Mayu nodded. “I know.”

“But it still hurt,” he added.

Mayu’s chin wobbled. “A little.”

He kissed the top of her head. “That’s okay. You don’t always have to be the nice one, you know. You're allowed to feel things too.”

“I didn’t want her to be more mad,” Mayu whispered. “So I didn’t cry.”

Chigiri smiled and pulled her into a hug. “You’re strong, Mayu. But you don’t have to carry everything alone.”

Back in the kitchen, Himari had eaten her entire waffle and was now staring down the empty plate like it was to blame. She looked up guiltily when they returned.

Mayu gave her a tiny smile.

“I saved you a strawberry,” Himari muttered, sliding it across the table without looking up.

“…Thanks,” Mayu replied, quietly taking her seat again.

Chigiri clapped his hands. “Okay, drama queens. Time to get gorgeous.”

Ten minutes later, Chigiri had perfectly braided Mayu's hair and gave Himari her usual high pigtails. “There, perfect,” he said, fluffing them both up.

Mayu beamed at her reflection. “Thanks, Papa!”

Himari gave a little nod. “can you make them bouncier next time?”

“Of course,” Chigiri said with a sigh.

With their outfits on, Chigiri gave a final once-over. “Clothes: 10/10. Hair: flawless. Now, let’s avoid a glitter explosion before school, yeah?”

Himari huffed. “Fine. No glitter.”

They walked out, looking like a Pinterest-perfect family. Chigiri handed them their lunchboxes and led them to the car.

Ready for the day?” Chigiri asked with a smile.

“Ready!” Mayu said calmly.

“Let’s go, bitch!” Himari cheered.

Chigiri froze, eyes wide, his mouth slightly agape. “Excuse me?”

Himari looked at him with a judgemental look. “What? I’m just hyped for the day!”

Chigiri blinked, still processing the words. “Where... where did you hear that?”

Himari shrugged, unfazed. “From that film we watched this weekend. You fell asleep halfway through, but I watched the rest.”

Chigiri’s face went a shade paler, his mind racing. “What exactly were they saying?”

“Uh, I don’t know... some stuff,” Himari said nonchalantly. “It was funny.”

Chigiri closed his eyes for a brief second, imagining the chaos. He could already picture your reaction if you find out Himari picked up that word. A small shiver ran down his spine.

“Great,” he muttered under his breath, mentally preparing for the inevitable fallout. “Just...fantastic.”

Isagi Yoichi and Isamu (7)

“I don’t get school,” Isagi had made a to-do list the night before. He was determined to make this morning perfect.

To-Do:

Wake up by 6:30

Eggs & toast

Soccer uniform ready

Water bottle filled

Motivation speech (brief)

He wakes up at 6:42. Panic hits like a red card.

His son, Isamu, is sprawled out in bed like he’s auditioning for a starfish role in an ocean documentary.

"Isamu, buddy, time to get up," Isagi says, shaking him gently. "Big day ahead!"

"Ugh," Isamu groans, barely opening an eye. "I want to drop out."

"You’re seven."

"Exactly," Isamu says, rolling over and curling into a blanket burrito.

Isagi’s internal monologue screams as he rushes to the kitchen. Breakfast needs to be perfect. The eggs are half-scrambled, and the toast? Slightly burned. He slides it onto a plate like it's the Mona Lisa of breakfast, though it looks more like abstract art.

"Breakfast, Isamu. You’ll need energy for school!" Isagi says, trying to sound motivational.

Isamu eyes the toast like it’s a science experiment. "What is this...? It’s... not pizza."

"Eat it, or no soccer later," Isagi threatens.

Isamu rolls his eyes dramatically and takes a bite. "You’re so dramatic. I still don’t care about school."

"School is important!" Isagi insists, getting flustered. "You need education to—"

"I’m gonna play soccer," Isamu interrupts, chewing with all the intensity of a man who’s just been told he has a free pizza pass. "Who needs school when you’ve got soccer?"

Isagi ignores the comment and rushes to get his son’s clothes. He’s sure he left them right there on the chair. He checks the chair. Nothing. He checks the floor. Nothing. He checks under the bed, under the table, in the laundry basket.

"Where the heck are they?" Isagi mutters, sweating now. "I swear I put them here."

"Maybe the ghosts took them," Isamu offers nonchalantly from the kitchen, barely glancing up from his toast.

Isagi freezes. "Ghosts? Why would—"

Before he can finish, Isamu shrugs, "I don’t know. Could be."

After a few more frantic minutes of searching (and Isamu offering absolutely no help), Isagi finally finds the soccer uniform under the couch.

"Found it!" Isagi declares, holding it up triumphantly like a knight retrieving a sword.

"About time," Isamu says, unbothered, chewing slowly as if he were watching paint dry.

They race to get out the door. Isagi grabs the water bottle, zips the bag, and notices Isamu’s shoes are mismatched. He doesn’t have time to fix it.

"Teeth brushed?" Isagi asks as he grabs his keys.

"Close enough," Isamu replies with a yawn.

“I love you” Isagi says, feeling a mix of exhaustion and love.

"I love soccer," Isamu replies, not even looking up from his phone game.

Once dressed and vaguely clean, Isamu plops into the car seat like it personally offended him. Isagi starts the engine, already five minutes behind schedule.

The car is quiet until Isamu sighs like he’s been carrying emotional weight since birth.

“I don’t get school,” he mutters.

Isagi glances at him. “What do you mean?”

“I sit in a chair for hours while the teacher tells me triangles are important. For what? Triangles have never scored a goal in their lives.”

Isagi stifles a laugh. “Triangles are used in passing formations.”

“Not emotional triangles. That’s different.”

He stares out the window dramatically. “And you know what else? People lie. Yesterday, this kid told me we were best friends. Then he passed the ball to someone else.”

Isagi hums sympathetically. “Harsh.”

“I’m starting to think school is just a government distraction from my true potential.”

“Which is…?”

“Becoming the best striker”

There’s a pause. Then Isamu adds, “Also, I don’t trust teachers who wear shoes indoors. That's villain behavior.”

Isagi parks in front of the school with a slow breath. “Okay. Big day. Deep breaths.”

Isamu opens the door and mutters, “Time to enter the battlefield.”

bllk!dads

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biancadoes1 · 2 days ago

Note

Maybe we have it all wrong…

Maybe A is L’s girlfriend. Maybe he just wants it to be really private. Maybe he doesn’t come to her defense online because they have an understanding. He’s told her he just can’t defend her. Maybe he lets her post pictures that insinuate he is with her because he can’t admit it openly (you know keeping it private and all). Maybe he’s just a really bad boyfriend who doesn’t care about the backlash she gets because this is show business. Maybe he wants to see himself growing old with a “twirker” who is just in the relationship for the fame and glory. Maybe he’s okay with mediocre. Maybe he just doesn’t want to show PDA when he’s with A. Maybe he can be himself with her, and that’s why he feels comfortable enough to pick his nose while out with her. Maybe he’s okay looking like he just doesn’t care about his career or his self esteem and chooses her over both. Maybe he’s okay with everyone thinking he’s miserable with her although he may not be. Maybe he’s really happy with her and just put on an over the top act with N while on the World Tour. Maybe his co-workers really don’t think he’s the best dude. They just said those empty words to build him up or to hide who he really is from everyone.

And with N and J maybe he did kiss her at Cannes. I mean we’ve never seen that before, but maybe they’re trying something new. Maybe she is the love of his life, and we’ve just misconstrued things he’s posted in the past. Maybe he changed himself so she would fall in love with him. Maybe she thinks he’s the most charismatic and charming man she’s ever met. Maybe she’s okay with the age gap, and he makes her feel younger (realizing she was entering college when he was just starting school). Maybe she’s okay with people thinking he’s her young lover and future father of her children. Maybe he is her roomie and lover rolled all into one. She is obviously okay this time around with sharing her relationship with the world so he must be the “one.” She’s never done that before. So maybe that’s why their friends don’t rejoice in their relationship. Maybe they’ve been told not to post about how blissful and happy they are.

Maybe L and N are just two co-stars who played it up for the cameras and lied about that relationship they’re always touting. Maybe the SAGS was all just one big act that they both deserve awards for. Maybe people in the industry who are always questioning their relationship are just blind or have it all wrong. Maybe they don’t even know when the other person’s birthday is. I mean they didn’t wish each other a happy birthday this year. They probably don’t even know where the other one lives. I mean it was probably just a complete coincidence N was photographed at a place just a few mere miles where L had been photographed the week before. Yeah just a big coincidence. Doubtful they ever hang out together aside from work or know what the other’s favorite foods are. Sure they don’t know what music the other listens to either or what concerts they attend. And I’m sure N exaggerated about cooking for L or about buying him t-shirts. I’m sure he was just being nice when he went on and on about that peanut butter crumble. What they put off on that tour was just an illusion after all.

By the way, this is all sarcasm if some don’t get that, and I could have just gone on and on. Some people need to think critically…

Damn anon.

You cooked.

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kxsagi · 1 day ago

Note

something kinda funny happened to me recently and i immediately thought about rin and your fics, so i'll send it as a req!! i hope you dont find it uncomfortable.

to sum up: ppl usually perceive me as a "nerdy and smart girl" (as in, "top of the class" kind of smart) bc of my looks but in reality i couldnt care less about paying attention to something if its not abt a topic im interested in lol. WHICH RESULTED IN ME RANKING 20 OUT OF 23 STUDENTS in everything but english. it doesn't bother me at all bc. well. i was expecting it. but my classmates are always shocked somehow.

anyways, i immediately thought about my dear rinnie, bc i think thats the kind of situation that poor boy would experience, since everyone in bllk sees him as an academically smart guy bc hes fluent in english, failingto realizethat my boy does NAWT cate about anything other than eng and soccer. . so! my req is basically just a fic where both rin and reader end up in the bottom of the rankings in everything but english (they were the only ones to ace it) and the others are like "?!?!?!" bc i think it would be rlly funny!! feel free to do it in any way you like! tyy! BTW SORRY FOR ANY TYPOS I HOPE IT DOESNT SOUND CONFUSING

“𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫”

a/n: OMG I ABSOLUTELY LOVE THIS REQUEST BC i have a male coworker in his 20’s who looks like a geeked out nerd, like kind of skinny, glasses, black hair, asian. and my mom told me to talk to him to potentially gain connections bc i’m academic and i was still in high school at the time so i asked him about college and he said “oh yeah, i dropped out like… 3 times. i just didn’t have the drive because i attended raves instead of lectures” don’t let looks fool you 💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀

for context, all the blue lock characters attend the same high school lol

title is a beabadobee reference bc i love her idc

(art credits go to immmso_ko on twitter)

in a cruel twist of fate, or maybe divine comedy, you and rin itoshi have somehow landed in the bottom tier of your class rankings.

not just “average.” not “middle of the pack.” no. we're talking rank 21 and 22 out of 23. (it would’ve been 22 and 23, but shoutout to that one guy who never came to class and failed on principle. king.)

the only subject you both aced? english.

english was your salvation. your shared pride. your mutual delusion. you’d both walked out of that test with the smug confidence of people who knew the word “juxtaposition” and weren’t afraid to use it. and it paid off with perfect scores.

but everything else? absolute academic carnage.

math: rin got bored halfway through and started drawing soccer formations in the margins.

science: you answered every question based on vague memories of a documentary you half-watched two years ago.

history: you just… didn’t. rin got distracted by a headline about international players and spiral notebooked into a wikipedia hole mid-exam.

and when the results were posted, the classroom erupted.

“WAIT. RIN?! RIN ITOSHI?!”

someone physically grabbed him by the sleeve. “bro. you’re like. fluent in english. i thought you were smart?!”

rin stared at them, face completely blank. “i am.”

“YOU’RE 22ND!!”

“in english?”

“NO. OVERALL.”

“… okay. but in english?”

he had a point. it was the only thing that mattered.

you slinked over beside him, matching his blank expression. “hey. i’m 21st.”

he looked at you. “you’re better at literature than me.”

“damn right.”

behind you, chaos brewed. karasu paced like a man discovering the earth was flat. bachira was cry-laughing, gripping isagi like he’d seen a ghost. otoya just kept whispering “no way. no way. no way.” like he was having an existential breakdown over his fantasy of rin being the dark, brooding honor student.

“this is a scam,” reo muttered from the side. “i thought rin was our secret weapon for test prep. i was gonna ask him to tutor me in math.”

rin tilted his head. “why would i do that?”

“you got a 12%.”

“i don’t need math to score goals.”

“… you didn’t even attempt question two.”

“it was too many words.”

you nodded solemnly beside him. “same. too many triangles. immediate shut down.”

someone behind you whispered, “this is actually worse than when nagi slept through the finals.”

but you and rin? unfazed. you were both already planning how to celebrate your dual top scores in english. (you were thinking milk tea. he was thinking silence. compromise: milk tea in silence.)

you sipped your drink later that afternoon with the confidence of two people who fully accepted their intellectual limitations, so long as they didn’t apply to soccer or essays on animal farm.

“this doesn’t bother you?” you asked, curious.

“not really,” he replied. “they’re just shocked because i don’t talk much. so they assume i’m smart.”

“right?! same! they see glasses and a quiet demeanor and suddenly expect perfect grades.”

he nodded slowly. “people are stupid.”

you toasted your drink to that. “cheers to mediocrity, king.”

and rin, for the first time that day, cracked the smallest smirk. “except in english.”

“except in english,” you agreed, dead serious.

the only subject that mattered.

#blue lock #blue lock x reader #bllk #bllk x reader #rin itoshi #itoshi rin #rin itoshi blue lock #itoshi rin blue lock #rin itoshi x reader #itoshi rin x reader #the perfect pair

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achilles-rage · 2 days ago

Text

Through the Window: Chapter Two

summary: after years of no contact between you and evan, you both find yourselves in los angeles.

word count: 2.3k

previous chapter

series masterlist

a/n: yay part two finally!! sorry it took so long!! there isn’t much interaction between buck and reader in this part, but it’s most definitely coming in the next one. if you remember that it was berkeley and not UCLA in the last chapter, then simply forget about it because berkeley is way further away from LA than i thought. anyway, enjoy<333

warnings: none, reader and buck’s ages range from 17/18-26ish in this chapter so they’re not minors, but it’s still platonic (for now lol), slow burn, eventual friends to lovers, no use of y/n, fem!reader, plus size!reader, race inclusive!reader

You knew university would be hard, but you weren’t expecting it to be so difficult right from the first day of classes. The day you moved into your dorm room was spent unpacking and trying to make the room feel a little more like home; somewhere that was now so far away. Then, the next day, classes started. After spending an absurd amount of money on textbooks, you had to get to work immediately, and for the first few weeks you were so overwhelmed that all you did was go to class, study, and sleep.

You very rarely had free time, and when you did, you spent it trying to get to know your roommate better. If you had to live with her for the rest of the year, you might as well be friends with her.

You still thought about Evan; of course you did. There were often times, especially late at night when you were lying in bed, that you thought about him sneaking into your bedroom and staying up into the early hours of the morning talking about anything that crosses either of your minds, but you were often so exhausted that as soon as the thought came to your mind, you would drift off to sleep.

Slowly, you began to get more used to your busy schedule, and things became easier. That’s when you realized that Evan hadn’t called you once since you had left. It had been almost two months and he hadn’t reached out at all, despite both of you having each other’s number. Obviously, you didn’t reach out either because you were so busy, but for some reason, the fact that he hadn’t called filled you with sadness. It seemed like a sign; he didn’t care about you as much as you thought he did, as much as you cared about him. Suddenly, rather than thinking about picking up the phone and calling him yourself, you thought about the possibility that he didn’t want you to reach out either.

So, you didn’t call. You tried to busy yourself with your new friends in your program, and your roommate, but it didn’t feel the same. None of the friendships felt as deep as your friendship with Evan. You still waited for your phone to ring, and to see his name on the screen, but it didn’t happen, and eventually you had to force yourself to stop waiting.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to reach out; he desperately wanted to hear your voice, but when you left, he was filled with such a profound amount of sadness that he wasn’t sure what to do with himself.

In his mind, he was stuck in his hometown and going to community college while you were out in the real world making new friends and following your dreams at a good school that he wouldn’t even be able to get into. The more he thought about it, the more worried he was about holding you back. And the longer he held off on calling you, the more he felt this feeling weighing on his chest. He hoped you would call first, just to show him that you didn’t actually think what his brain was telling him that you thought, but after weeks he still hadn’t heard from you, and he feared that his brain was right

So, rather than calling, he distracted himself with house parties, and by buying a motorcycle; which proved to cause more harm than good, but it helped numb the pain that he felt for a while; the loneliness that was eating him alive. For the months that you were gone, the adrenaline he felt was better than actually having to sit with his feelings.

When you finally came home for Christmas, you didn’t even see Evan. Most of your break consisted of visiting your hometown friends, and when you’d come and go from your house, the only proof that he still even lived in the house next door was that you would see his bedroom light shining through the cracks of his curtains when it got dark.

By this point, you were sure that you’d never talk to him again. But, despite this, you left your window unlocked every night that you were home, just in case. You would catch yourself waiting for him at night; lying in bed quietly and waiting for him to knock on your window, but nothing.

Evan made sure to stay in his house when he found out you were coming home for Christmas. He still felt that sadness and guilt eating at him, threatening to boil over when he thought about seeing you again. He wasn’t sure why he felt so strongly about the situation; it wasn’t like you were dating. You were just a friend, and by the way it ended so abruptly, it was clear that the friendship was never that strong to begin with, despite his best efforts.

Every night, he’d peek through the cracks in his curtains and look down at your dark window, fighting the growing urge to sneak out and go see you, but he always held back. You weren’t kids now, he thought, sneaking into your room and sleeping in your bed with you would be weird. Even though it had only been a matter of months since he’d last done it, it had suddenly become something that felt odd, and foreign, and so when you left in the new year, he had to work harder to cover up the aching pit in his stomach, the one in which he wasn’t sure the true source of.

Somehow, months turned into years, and you hadn’t talked to Evan since the day you left for university. You hadn’t even seen him in person, either. You planned on going home for the summer after your first year of university, but without Evan, it seemed less and less appealing, so you decided to stay in Los Angeles and start networking with people in your field, hoping that it would help with finding a job once you were finished school.

Maybe it was just a matter of circumstances, you thought, maybe you were only friends with him because you were neighbours, and now he doesn’t need you.

For the next few years, the only way you kept up with what he was doing was through his social media. Evidently, he had dropped out of college and begun to travel the world, and you were happy for him. You remember his words from the night before you left; “I wish I could get out.” You were proud of him for really doing it. Not many people from your small town ever left, and you were glad that Evan was spending his twenties doing something that you wished you could do.

You were happy for him when he got all the way down to Florida, and laughed when he moved away from the beach; which he clearly seemed to love, and went to Montana to be a ranch hand. You were jealous when he found his way to Peru, but most of all, your heart felt heavy being so far from him. You missed Evan, and seeing these pictures of him meeting people and finding out who he was without his parents to worry about filled you with a weird sense of pride knowing how far he’s come.

Evan kept tabs on you just as much as you did him, too. He saw how hard you were working on your dream; he was extremely proud of you when you saw how well you were doing in your program, and how many friends you were making, although, for some reason every time there was a man in a picture you posted, he felt a pit in his stomach that he couldn’t explain.

He found out that you had earned your Bachelors and Masters degrees and began your PhD program, sticking with UCLA. He saw how much you loved Los Angeles, and throughout his travels, his mind always went back to that city and what was in it. He couldn’t bring himself to go there for years; too scared of what could happen if he were to run into you, but it was always in the back of his head.

What could happen if his travels brought him there? Would he ever get you back?

Finally, he did move to LA, and the decision wasn’t because of you, at least not entirely. He’s always felt a strong desire to help people, and having people to call his family was something he’d been searching for his entire life, so when he decided to become a firefighter, LA just felt right. It is the best department in the country, right?

He had seen through social media that there was one coffee shop close to your campus that seemed to be your place of choice, and he also saw that one of your favourite places to spend your less busy weekends was the Santa Monica Pier, but still, he was too nervous to ever go to those places.

He had these scenarios made up in his head; multiple ways that it could go when he sees you for the first time in almost eight years, but he was afraid that it wouldn’t go like he hoped it would.

Maybe you’d make awkward small talk, and his heart would break when he finally realizes, for real this time, that he never meant that much to you, that you merely took pity on him rather than actually wanting to be his friend.

When his station got assigned to assist with fire drills at UCLA, he thought of you immediately, and the entire drive to the campus, he could hardly speak to anyone on his team. He felt like he was going to throw up.

What would happen if he saw you?

As soon as the engine pulled up to the campus and his feet hit the ground, he shut all of his thoughts about you out. He had a job to do, and he wasn’t going to let himself be distracted, even if it was just a drill and no one was in serious danger.

Him and his team made their way to their assigned building, and Bobby told him to take the third floor and make sure that there were no fire code violations while others checked the other floors.

He made his way up to the third floor, taking the steps two at a time in a desperate attempt to get the job done faster and get the hell out of there before he saw you, and when he got to the third floor, he made his way around the halls and classrooms, making sure the fire extinguishers were correctly placed and the fire exit signs were properly illuminated.

With his mind focused on the job at hand, he hardly even looked at the various students and faculty he passed, rather taking in his surroundings and making sure he didn’t miss anything.

Finally, he was on the last hallway of the third floor, which was filled with various labs. There were still students working in a few of the ones he passed, and rather than disturbing them, he merely looked through the glass windows looking in on each lab; taking a quick assessment of the space before moving on.

His heart clenched in his chest when he looked in on the second to last lab, and his body tensed while his feet felt suddenly glued to the floor.

You looked different; eight years will do that to a person, but you still looked like you. You still looked like the girl that he had spent so many nights with, shared so many secrets with.

He could hardly breathe as he took you in, letting his eyes travel up and down your body as you worked on whatever it was you were working on; Buck couldn’t even begin to guess what you were doing. He was glad that you were yet to notice him, but he was sure that he looked like he was going to throw up. Or pass out. Or both, probably.

You looked just like you did on your social media posts, but he caught himself thinking about how much prettier you looked in person. You had changed your hair since high school, and your style, and he loved it. He could see your curves under your jeans and your cropped knit sweater, and his mouth went dry as he studied you.

Finally, finally, you turned your head and your eyes met his. His own eyes snapped up to yours, and he saw the moment you realized who you were looking at. Your eyes widened ever so slightly, and your lips parted as you took him in. Your breath caught in your throat, he could tell even through the window that your chest had stopped moving briefly, and for a moment, he wasn’t sure what to do.

What finally snapped him out of it was when he saw the smile he’d thought about so many times in the last eight years make its way onto your face, and he saw the distinct movement of your mouth, saying “Evan?” although he couldn’t hear you.

Finally, he smiled too, and he fought hard to ground himself while he watched you make your way towards him, your hand reaching out to open the door to the lab.

notes: likes/comments/reblogs would be much appreciated if you liked this<33

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creepykuroneko · 2 days ago

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"Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny. Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly."

- Dr Martin Luther King jr.

Letter from Birmingham, Alabama jail, April 16, 1963.

"Of course, indifference can be tempting -- more than that, seductive. It is so much easier to look away from victims. It is so much easier to avoid such rude interruptions to our work, our dreams, our hopes. It is, after all, awkward, troublesome, to be involved in another person's pain and despair. Yet, for the person who is indifferent, his or her neighbor are of no consequence. And, therefore, their lives are meaningless. Their hidden or even visible anguish is of no interest. Indifference reduces the Other to an abstraction."

-Elie Wiesel Holocaust Survivor.

The Perils of Indifference delivered 12 April 1999, White House, Washington, D.C.

I don't know why the fuck the centrists seem to be the majority who have stayed on Tumblr but you guys are literally more dangerous than the far right.

Infighting amongst voters is not what gave us Donald Trump as a president. It's literally the Electoral College and the system that is in place that gave us Donald Trump as a president. He should have never even been allowed to run as president after January 6th yet here we are. Never mind the fact that he is a literal convicted felon and was impeached multiple times the first time he was president. All the damage he is doing is not because of the "Trump regime". It's because all the other people in positions of power are letting him abuse the system.

Conservative Democrats love to say that "we need to get a democrat in office because it will be harm reduction". The reality is it just makes them comfortable knowing that they will be secured in their white middle class lives. Poc are never secured regardless of who is in office. Roe vs Wade was overturned under Biden. Children were being put in cages under obama. The Clinton's believed black men were super predators. Hell going all the way back to Abraham Lincoln, the lefts favorite President to go to, signed off orders that truly kicked off the Native American genocide. There's no such thing as harm reduction, only harm redistribution. So when you go around spouting harm reduction, what you are really saying is at least I won't be the one harmed by this. The last two years conservative Democrats have been crying about how "if whoever is president won't change your situation then you must be privileged" but in reality it's literally the other way around. If your life can be impacted based off of whoever is in office, you must be in a comfy position. Will the voting rights of inmates be restored under a Democrat president? Will we finally get Universal Health care? What about the continuing deterioration of American public schools? Or the increasing rates of homelessness that have only been rising since the 1970s? The fact that no one will be able to retire anymore? What are the Democrats going to fix this? Blue voters love to complain about how all the financial hardships are Ronald Reagan's fault and that is partially true. He did kick off the downfall of the American middle class but he has not been president for almost 40 years. Democrats have had more than enough time to clean up his mess.

Centris do not care about their fellow humans. They are not pro civil rights, Pro women's rights, pro disabled, pro working class, Pro lgbtq. They just want everything to be quiet.

I've been seeing over the past year a lot of backlash against people protesting in the streets against trump. Of course not a single Centrists reblog those type of posts. Instead they create post condemning protests and disrupting people's lives. You assholes would have been spies for Hitler in germany. Not members of the SS but would have definitely gone along with the administration then feigned ignorance after the war.

The left SUCKS at recruiting people. And so many of you are part of the problem.

The talk about centrists and moderates being the literal devil I see constantly in online leftist spaces is one great example of the left's failure. Yes, it sucks when the people don't see how horrible the right is. But centrists are some of the most open people to discussion- and some already lean left!!

You can't demonize moderates to such an extent that you close yourself off to them and then wonder why you're losing swing states.

Centrists aren't even always people with all the privileges- you will find plenty of people who are part of marginalized groups who are concerned about politicians on all sides.

You can be a smol radical leftist bean all you want who only talks to other smol socialist and communist beans, but you're never going to make the difference you want to in the world that way. It's the cold, hard truth. It doesn't mean you have to engage in discourse with everyone- some people have no real hope of changing and are emotionally draining- just more than your bubble.

I am tired of the left eating itself alive and deranged people like Trump winning.

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angelsuecult · 4 hours ago

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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.”

—

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