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#ninety year old child
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I'm sitting here wondering if people realise Aaron Taylor Johnson is now 32
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hypnos333 · 2 months
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My Heavens
Lucifer Morningstar x Ex Wife Reader Gabriel x Wife Reader
Pt 1- left her behind
Synopsis: You moved on and had a kid with another archangel
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You gave birth throughout those centuries to twins, Caelum and Kailani. A boy and girl both have your color hair and eyes but your husband personally a shyness. Also both archangels.
You happily watch them grow with you husband as you both teaches them how to guide people into hopefulness and into following God.
Now they’re one hundred and ninety five years old in age and you are proud of them even though there still kinda of teenagers. You and gabriel were still proud but now with the extermination coming up you had to put your family first no matter the cost.
During the meeting with Charlie Morningstar that’s when you started feeling under the weather making you children go with their father instead of you going sick.
Charlie went up to your daughter mistaking it as you, “Woah Dad was right you are beautiful but you looks so young, Oh Right i’m Charlie you must be ___. My dad has been talking about you nonstop” Charlie rambled making Kailani raise her eyebrows.
“Sorry to burst your bubble but ___ is actually my mother” Kailani stated, “Both of our mother” Caelum add making Charlie look at the twins in shock.
“W-What?” Charlie asks as Vaggie approaches her.
“Yep sweetheart, we’re twins, Shocked? You are the only one that is” Caelum said rolling his eyes the princess stupidness. Kailani slapped her brother on the back of his head before laughing it off.
“Haha ignore my brother, it’s just your the only one who doesn’t noticed our similarities” Kailani said more kindly.
Vaggie pulls a still shock Charlie back to there seats but before they even made it Gabriel landed in front of them. “A-Ah Charlie, Vaggie I see you have met my children, my apologies about them they’re about bit of a hand full like they’re mother” He joked making Charlie gape at him.
“You and ___ had kids???” She questions him trying to get answers for her dad.
“Well of course married and have a new child on the way” Gabriel chuckled making Charlie feel bad about her dad not having this future with his first love.
“Ah I see well congratulations” She faked a smile as she congratulated him and his family.
“Thank you Miss. Morningstar and I hope you have the future you want” Gabriel said before flying away to his children.
After the meeting, Lucifer waited impatiently to hear the news from Charlie.
“What did ya hear Charlie? Did she accept me back to her life?” He asked his daughter hopefully making her looked down before grabbing his hand and slowly putting her wedding ring back into his hand. His smile drop looking at his daughter in fear.
“I’m so sorry dad but she’s married to another archangel named Gabriel and had twins the same age as me with another one on the way” Charlie explained to him.
Lucifer tried to hold into his tears but couldn’t as he sobs falling down to the floor. Charlie hold her dad as he sobs in her shoulder. “I-It’s all my f-fault” He cries out making Charlie console him.
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aweina · 5 months
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౨ৎ. CHOCOLATE LIPSTICK ( 17﹢) ; mike schmidt
tags fem reader. enemies to ( ? ). mike is mean + angry. 2-3 year age difference. sexual tension. oral fixation. semi-brat taming + 1k words.
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mike was staring at you funny, it made you feel weird — annoyed, actually.
“what?” your voice was harsh, muffled by the sweet frozen yogurt coating your mouth.
he raised a brow at your tone, a little vexed from your sudden attitude. it reminded him of the bratty kid he happened to escort out of a toy store just an hour ago. he’s in a bad mood already, but there was no reason to get mad right now.
“don’t talk with your mouth full.” mike tiredly mumbled. an honest suggestion, but half of what he really wanted to say.
you rolled your eyes at his critiquing words. he always seemed to lecture you about the littlest things. how you’re not as productive during your usual security checks or even that one time he was finding the mall keys during your shared nightly protocols — making sure to make a sly comment and sprinkle in an unneeded suggestion about how untidy your bag was. exactly how an obnoxious parent would.
it was annoying. being treated like a child and especially by someone like mike. so what if he was a few years older? slightly more mature than you, much more responsible, and definitely not hot. just a little bit tho, but you’ll never admit that.
but ninety-percent of the time he pisses you off, and this is one of those times.
you swallowed down the yogurt that melted from your seething irritation, brows furrowed at the snarky comment he had to make about your dining etiquette. it’s a fucking mall food court, not a fine dining restaurant.
“do you always have to be a dick to me?” your words were laced with venom, all the suppressed anger managed to bubble out your throat.
his calloused fingers suddenly stopped twisting on the volume of the two-way radio, usual soft hazel eyes darken to a muted brown, stubbled jaw clenched. mike swallowed back the urge to say a few fighting words at your childish retort.
your tone wasn’t a big deal. well, until now.
his day has already been ruined. parents weren’t so attentive when it came to their bratty children, that meant he had to parent them himself — awkwardly standing until their tantrums fall silent or escorting dozens of children that happen to run off for some ridiculous toy. he didn’t need anymore whining from you, especially about something he’s done without the intention of malice — you were childish, immature.
“i don’t need to hear this right now.” mike was too tired to argue. a heavy sigh escaping his lips, his rough hands brushing away the tired feeling in his eyes. “you’re acting like a kid right now, you know that?”
you swore your blood pressure just went up.
“see that’s what i’m talking about! you treat me like a kid and you have to be a total asshole about it. why?”
passing families and teens curiously looked towards your table, the sudden blast of your agitated voice drawing unneeded attention. just what mike needed.
he turns away from their prying eyes, flustered that he was a victim of your grownup tantrum. mike continues the silent treatment as he listens to your incoherent babbling, colorful words like “old man” and “asshole” passed through his eardrums like a sour tune. the grip of his arm was deadly tight. yet, your pouting made his heart skip a bit. it was adorable, it always has been. but not when it’s accommodated with your high-pitched whines, your brows knitted with all these negative emotions, cheeks redden from breathless insults. the angry look in your face looked so familiar — it was the same look everybody seemed to give him.
all this over a smudge of frozen yogurt on your mouth. he would laugh if he wasn’t at his breaking point.
“fuck, i hate yo – !“ with sudden force, mike grabs you by your chin, the pouring insults latched shut with a firm grip.
the reddish hue on your face that was once from your vexation became brighter from mike’s unusual forcefulness — he has never been this angry with you before. weirdly enough, you don’t hate it.
the chocolate remnants blotched over your cheeks, dribbling from your unwiped mouth, was he pointing this out the whole time?
“watch your mouth.” you didn’t know if he meant the mess you made or your little tantrum session that set him off.
maybe both, you can’t tell anymore.
you both stare at each other for a second, the tension so thick in the air — the invasive looks felt like a blur in the background, or rather, seemingly drawn away by this peculiar exchange. hazy eyes slowly peered down at your mouth, deliciously glazed with chocolate yogurt. it was tooth aching, he could imagine the taste on his tongue. if only he was a little closer, he never had to daydream about this ungodly sight for weeks.
his thumb slowly drags over your pinkish flesh, gathering the sweet residue that coated your quivering lips. he reached over the corners of your mouth, studying every hitch of your breath and the way you nervously fiddle with the plastic spoon. someone so loud, bratty, could be silenced with a single touch.
pushing past your pursed lips and clenched teeth with ease, his sweetened touch swirled all over your taste buds — the subtle hints of sweat somehow tasted sweeter than the chocolate goodness. mike watches you closely, his slacks suddenly feeling tight. you’re letting him do this to you, without a protest or your usual dirty look.
for another second, his fleeting touch brushed against your wet muscle, mesmerized by its softness. the darkness that loomed in his irises vaporized into a soft green, lured by the sight of an obedient mouth. he finally draws away, a string of saliva connecting his cleaned off thumb and your glossy lips. the rigid grip on your chin loosens as mike huffs in mild irritation, mostly out of astonishment from this predicament.
mike stands from his seat, hiding his hard-on with his bunched up security jacket — hand still soaked from your dribbling saliva. awkwardly, he picks up the trash splayed over the table, making sure his car keys were stuffed deep in his pocket.
“i’ll see you tomorrow.” he steadily spoke, seemingly unbothered.
you nodded, mouth still slightly agape.
mike walks off, leaving you with your own muddled thoughts.
out of complete horror, you hover your nimble fingers over your mouth — the taste of his skin still permeates on your tongue. even with how intimate that whole situation was, mike made sure to clean the remnants of frozen yogurt off your face.
the gall to leave you utterly confused, edged by this new side of your usual grumpy coworker. there was a line between guilty attraction and burning hatred towards mike, you were stuck in the middle of it. but your racing mind seemed to linger towards the shadows casting his tired eyes, the focused look on your compiling mouth, the demand in his voice animating your body like a toy. fuck, yeah okay, he was hot.
the ache between your legs seeped arousal through your pants, you thanked your employers that your uniform was black. gosh, it’s been so long since anybody has touched you like that.
you nearly break your skull when your head falls defeatedly on the table — a heavy groan vibrating in your chest.
you don’t know if you could come to work tomorrow.
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© aweina : please do not copy, repost, or modify any of my content.
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cipher-fresh · 5 months
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💬 suffering-academy-student Follow
does anyone else wish u could regenerate but not change and not use up a regeneration. just like do a hard reboot
#i'm gonna call myself The Sufferer
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💫 constellationon-kasterborous Follow
what is it even like to not be a time lord do you like get impaled by rebar at 45 years old and just die. couldn't be me
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🚀 silvertraveller Follow
_____👶 timelordtoddler Follow
_____playing with a roentgen radioactive brick in the nursery rn
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🔉 gallifreyballifreyshmallifrey Follow
i love this website because its the only place you can say you have interfered with the natural flow of time and you won't get investigated by the CIA
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😉 winkles-wonderland Follow
who up lording they time
#no I don’t need to add any extra tags thanks I trust my audience will find it
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👦 theresponsibilityavoider Follow
I was skipping school hanging out in a clearing and some guy exited a portal from a CONFESSION DIAL 😭 and he was like “Go to the city. Find someone important. Tell them I’m back. Tell them, they know what they did. And I’m on my way. And if they ask you who I am, tell them ‘I came the long way round’” 😭😭😭 what the hell
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💬 oneofthegreathouse Follow
if you have a fetish for people being born through bodily reproductive systems KEEP IT TO YOURSELF!!!! nobody needs to see that on their dash
__♻️ callmeweaver Follow
__Ok Puriteen you need to get on my level. sexualize looms OR ELSE!!!!!
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💫 thecurator Follow
the high council of gallifrey: got some straight gas 🔥😛 this strain is called “the timeless child” 😳 you’ll be zonked out of your gourd 💯
Me: yeah whatever. I don’t feel shit.
5 minutes later: dude I swear I just saw some pre-Hartnell doctors
My buddy the Master pacing: the Time Lords are lying to us
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🏠 somegrandolgallifrey Follow
I heard some kid crying himself to sleep in a cabin. COULD not be me
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♾️ thatacademygraduate Follow
Went to a museum today! I saw a lot of really cool stuff but something I couldn’t stop thinking about was this horrifically busted up Type 40 TARDIS that literally looked like it was held together with duct tape, chewed gum and prayers 😵‍💫😵‍💫 girl kill that thing I’m so sorry….
#i think it was even still alive. please put it out of its misery for the love of rassilon
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🥽 howsitgoinghowitgoes Follow
Bruh my best friend and I tried to play a prank on my brother but it went wrong and he hit his head so badly he REGENERATED i need to go into hiding
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😐 the-hybrid Follow
Who am I
#please for the love of god help me
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🔹 thetasigma Follow
Koschei and I skipped school today and went stargazing. We agreed to visit every single one together when we leave this stupid planet. I love them so much. We're going to be together forever.
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💭 siblingofkarn Follow
Why do I keep having nightmares about Gallifrey being destroyed in like 5 different ways, that could literally never happen
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🤖 pompousandstuffy Follow
I literally hate children soooo much like today some ninety year old tried to speak to me. KILL YOURSELF THIRTEEN TIMES ‼️
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👽 cheapandnastytraveltime Follow
For a Time Lord I have such a bad sense of time. if chamelon arches were real i would make myself literally any other species
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😍 starstartwinkletwinkle Follow
I have to stare into the untempered schism tomorrow. Any advice?
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wlntrsldler · 18 days
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poisoned mercury | bad reputation
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ii. bad reputation by joan jett & the blackhearts 
a/n: andddd we're at chb! reader is mean to luke lol. vaping, smoking, mentions of addiction. crumbs of clarisse x chris!
series masterlist | previous | next
“kid, you really need to look at the bright side,” your dad said, taking a sip of his diet coke. “you get to summer in montauk for free. no paying rent, no worrying about what to eat, the world is your oyster.” 
“i don’t understand why i have to spend the entire summer here,” you glared at him, close to ripping your hair out. 
“you’re smarter than that,” he replied, placing his can down on his table. he kicked back in his chair, letting his sandal-covered feet prop up on his desk. his aloha shirt wrinkled as he placed his arms crossed behind his head. he was taking his camp manager role too seriously. “you got put on probation by your field hockey coach.” 
your eyes narrowed, “and?” 
“... for punching a teammate.” 
“who deserved it!” you argued, huffing as you sat on the seat across from him. if there wasn’t a desk separating you from your dad, you were sure you would’ve strangled him with the camp necklace around his neck. “i promised you i’d be on my best behavior, but no. you decided that i needed to be glued to camp all summer.” 
“listen,” he leaned over on his desk, “the girl probably deserved it, but you still got kicked out from summer conditioning, kid– from the top field hockey team in the country! not everyone gets to attend unc but you did and you fucked that opportunity, so until you can prove to me that you have your shit together, you’re stuck in montauk.” 
“gods, you’re ridiculous!” you howled, getting up from your seat. “i hate you.” 
“love you!” he called out, chuckling to himself. you got your dramatic flair from him so he couldn’t fault you too much for your reaction. he probably would’ve reacted way worse if he was in your position. 
“yeah, yeah,” you yelled back, already out of his office. “love ya, too.” 
you walked out into the campgrounds, still huffing and puffing at your interaction with your dad. groups of children and teenagers were checking in for the summer. it amazed you how popular camp half blood became over the years. your dad wanted to create a summer camp for aspiring musicians and creatives to meet others and learn from professionals. he already had the network for it given that he used to be a hot-shot producer in the mid-nineties until he fell into his addiction. 
your dad never talked much about those dark moments in his life, and not many people knew about it, but he was happy to tell you about what came after it; meeting your mom, falling in love, and having you. his sobriety became his top priority when you were born, after you and your mom, of course. camp half blood started out as a dream your dad had when you were still a child, unsure of what you were passionate about, and he hoped you’d fall in love with music the same way he did. right before you turned four, he opened camp half blood. he said he wanted to have the place up and running and established by the time you were old enough to join. but alas, when you turned six and still had no musical or creative bone in your body, your dad’s hopes of having a musical protégé as a daughter were shattered. 
he bounced back from it though when he saw how passionate you were about field hockey. the second you picked up a stick, he saw your eyes brighten and he knew it was lights out from then on. he attended all of your games, bought you the best gear for the sport, and supported you in any way he could. you were thankful for that, for him, but you also knew that he probably would’ve preferred a kid he could talk music with. you saw it when he bragged about the new artists he signed to olympus records or when he talked about the kids at camp half blood. 
you took a sharp right turn at the corner of the dining hall, making a beeline to the secret spot by the lake that you stumbled across when you were fourteen. it was the place you retreated to whenever you and your dad fought while you were at camp. fights and arguments between you two happened often. your mom said it was because you were too similar for your own good. it was true. you and your dad were both stubborn, hot-headed, and unable to accept when you were wrong, but it also meant that you and your dad understood each other on a level that not many father-daughter duos did. 
even though you refused to tell him–or anyone for that matter– why the altercation with your teammate happened, your dad was on your side. he always was. 
you sat on the worn out bench, years of weather damage evident on the wood, taking out your cherry ice vape from your pocket. it was a vice you picked up in college. you weren’t proud of it, and it definitely started affecting your ability to play, but the stress of being a student-athlete, plus all the commotion with your probation started to get to you. 
you stared out into the view, appreciating the way the trees framed the lake in a picturesque way. camp half blood was beautiful; nature everywhere, there was utter silence except for the sound of water and birds chirping when you got far enough away from the noise and chatter of the campers, and the weather in the summer months was perfect. you let the smoke escape your lips, watching as the cloud dissipated into the air. 
“oh, my bad. i didn’t realize someone would be out here.” 
you turned around to see a boy, an unlit cigarette hanging from the corner of his lips. he wore a black, tight-fitting t-shirt and gray sweatpants. there was a silver chain hanging around his neck with a pendant tucked underneath his shirt. his tussled curls peeked under his backwards yankees cap. 
“spot’s taken,” you said, facing the view once more. you took a deep breath, sliding your vape in the pocket of the hoodie you wore. “go somewhere else.” 
“that thing’s gonna kill you, y’know.” either the boy didn’t hear you or he didn’t care enough to listen because he slid on the bench next to you, taking out a lighter for his cigarette. he closed his eyes, letting the nicotine into his system, “that has like chemicals and shit.” 
you scoffed, “like your cig is any better.” 
“i know what i’m putting in my body,” he shrugged. he motioned aimlessly in your direction, “you don’t know what’s in there. it hasn’t been around long enough for us to know the long term effects.” 
“‘m not planning to be doing this long term.”
“sure,” he smiled at you, unconvinced. “i’m luke.” 
you stared at his outstretched hand, shaking your head, “i’m not interested.” 
“i was just trying to be polite.” 
“if you want to be polite, find another spot to smoke.” 
luke eyed you, undeterred by your hostility. he leaned back on the bench, taking another puff, “nah, i’m good right here.” 
you took out your vape again knowing that you’ll need it to get through this conversation. the two of you sat in silence as you both smoked, letting the smell of the cigarette mix in with the artificial cherry scent. you tried your best to ignore the boy beside you, but it was hard to when he was so close to you. the bench seemed much larger when you were fourteen, when you were alone as its only occupier. 
“so five star, tough day?” 
“what did you call me?” 
“five star,” luke nodded to your hoodie, flicking off the ashes on his cigarette. “your unc field hockey hoodie? like five star recruit.” 
you looked down at your sweater, completely forgetting that you were wearing your team merchandise. you tugged on the collar awkwardly, suddenly feeling like you were exposed. “oh.” 
“so, tough day?” 
you glared at him, “what makes you say that?” 
“well, for starters, it’s the first day of camp and you’re by yourself away from where all the fun shit is happening, smoking a fucking– what is that? strawberry?”
“cherry ice,” you corrected. 
“cherry ice vape,” luke continued, “and you’re biting my head off for trying to start a conversation.” 
“maybe i’m having a bad day because a boy disrupted my me-time and decided to start a fucking conversation when i obviously want to be alone.” 
luke chuckled, pointing to the cigarette between his fingers, “relax, i’ll get out of your hair after this one.” 
“don’t make it a habit.” 
“what? smoking?” he asked, a boyish smile on his face. “already a habit of mine.” 
“interupting my me-time,” you replied, blowing out rings with the smoke in your mouth. “i don’t care what you do to your body.” 
“should we exchange numbers and coordinate when we’ll be using the spot?” 
you rolled your eyes at the teasing tone of his voice. this guy just doesn’t quit, “no, because you won’t be coming back here.” 
“i dunno,” luke looked out into the lake, a soft smile on his face. “i like it here. it’s pretty.” 
“i was here first.” you weren’t backing down. this was your spot. your secret spot, at that. not many campers ventured this far out into the woods, too afraid to get caught by their counselors and get in trouble, or too scared to get lost in the maze of trees. 
“sharing is caring, y’know,” his tone was playful.
you looked at him, no emotion on your features. you studied his face, furrowing your eyebrows like you were trying to place him. he looked familiar like you’d seen his face before. his eyes were big and brown, innocent looking compared to the smirk on his lips. a scar ran down the side of his face, subtle, but noticeable if you looked hard enough. it was slightly discolored compared to the rest of his face. his jaw sharp and cheekbones defined, with beginnings of a summer blush dusted across the bridge of his nose and the high points of his face. behind his ear, a small tattoo of the number “4” was hidden under his curls. his ears were pierced, two, small diamond studs on each earlobe. 
you’d seen him before, but you just couldn’t remember where and when for the life of you. 
you blinked, “i don’t like to share.” 
he threw the butt of his cigarette on the floor, gently stomping out the remnants of it with the tip of his converse convered feet, “noted.” 
you watched as he got up, keeping his promise of leaving you alone after one cigarette. the smirk on his face remained as he turned to face you before he left, “see you around, five star.” 
you made an noncommittal noise, not missing the sound of a deep rumble from his chest as he laughed at your dismissal. you watched him disappear into the trees, noting how his back flexed under his tight shirt as he cleared a path to avoid ducking under stray branches. 
you waited around twenty minutes before getting up to leave. you didn’t want to risk running into luke again, just in case he got lost on his way back. you were not going to lead him back to the safety of camp. if he got lost after trying to take over your spot, then so be it. that wasn’t your problem. 
as you entered the main campgrounds, you saw clarisse, a teammate of yours, who also got put on probation for coming to your defense, leaning against a tree trunk by the registration table. she needed a summer job and housing since she wasn’t allowed to come to practices and live on campus during her probation period, and you were quick to recommend her to your dad to be a camp counselor for the summer. thankfully, your dad was kind enough to say yes. at least you wouldn’t be alone all summer. 
you walked over to her, smiling kindly at the young kids you ran into on the way, excited out of their minds to be away from home for the next few months. “what’s up, la rue?” 
she smacked your arm, “why didn’t you tell me?” 
“ow,” you winced, clutching your upper arm. the girl was strong. there were many moments where you were thankful that you played for the same team. you did not want to be the poor girl who stood in clarisse’s way when she was in the zone. “tell you what?” 
“poisoned mercury!” she hissed, crossing her arms over her chest, “why didn’t you tell me they were gonna be here this summer?” 
“oh,” you rolled your eyes, “i didn’t think it was a big deal.” 
“not everyone grew up around celebrities, y/n,” clarisse reminded you, shaking her head. “sometimes, i forget that you did. you don’t talk about it as much as i would if i grew up like you.” 
“yeah, well, it’s not all glitz and glamor, to be honest.” 
you thought about your last relationship– a boy from california that you met during one of your dad’s work trips. it was a whirlwind summer romance that ended in a lot of heartbreak and a promise to yourself that you would never, ever date another musician again. your dad did try to warn you about him, subtly, of course, since he knew better than to butt into a teenage girl’s relationship. the boy had been begging your dad for a record deal for ages and he thought that by dating you, he’d get one step closer to his goal. your dad dangled the possibility of a record deal in front of him like a carrot, his own personal entertainment since he saw right through the boy, and ended up blacklisting him from the industry after he broke your heart. 
a little extreme? sure, but it wasn’t like he was that talented anyway. you still cringe when you remember his terrible rendition of “grenade” by bruno mars. 
“do you know when they get here?” clarisse asked, snapping you out of your thoughts. 
“i dunno, don’t care,” you shrugged, “when did you become such a huge fan?” 
“since i saw how hot their bassist is,” she laughed, a twinkle of mischief in her eyes. “seriously, y/n, chris rodriguez is fine.” 
“enough, there are kids around,” you shoved her playfully, laughing as you motioned for her to follow you into the cabin you were staying in. “i didn’t know they were gonna be here, actually.” 
“your dad didn’t tell you?” 
“i’ve been on a strict ‘no talking, unless it’s yelling’ rule with my dad the past few months,” you explained, entering your room and closing the door behind you. your bags were messily thrown across the floor, bed unmade, and walls empty. you didn’t get around to decorating and putting things in their place before you gave your dad a piece of your mind. “and i refused to accept that i would be staying here all summer.” 
“it’s not that bad so far,” she moved your training bag from your bed, sitting on it, “the kids are adorable little music nerds. i don’t think they’ll cause too much trouble.” 
“for your sake, ares cabin head counselor, i really hope they don’t,” you teased, beginning to put your things away. “i’m not worried about the kids, actually. it’s more of the people our age that i’m worried about. musicians can be such dicks.” 
“true,” she agreed, “do you remember the kid who acted like he was hot shit when he performed at the fall concert at unc?” 
“yes!” you let out a belly laugh, “the one who shamelessly flirted with lena?”
clarisse nodded, falling on your bed in a fit of laughter, “then ran away when he saw charlie.” 
“i mean charlie is a scary-looking dude,” you commented, taking off your hoodie and stuffing it into one of the drawers. you fixed the camp half blood shirt you wore under it, “big ass linebacker.” 
“but the biggest teddy bear.” 
“the biggest,” you grinned, thinking about your friends back on campus. you already missed them and your crazy, late-night adventures in your college town. you and clarisse met charlie the summer before your freshman year at unc during athlete orientation. he shyly asked if he could sit next to you and clarisse in the back row, not wanting to block the view for people behind him if he were to sit in the front. he was a timid guy for someone who could probably bulldoze you and clarisse without breaking a sweat. 
he introduced you to his girlfriend, silena, when the school year started, and the four of you became inseparable ever since. you were glad you found a friend group in college, one that you could trust and depend on. 
“and this is the cabin where you all will be staying.” 
you looked back at clarisse, eyes widening as you heard your dad’s voice in the living room of the cabin. he didn’t tell you that someone other than clarisse was going to be staying in the cabin with you. 
“there are six rooms in total. one master and five others. there are three bathrooms. one’s in the master and the other two are out here. this is the living room and the small kitchen is down the hall,” he continued to explain, “my daughter has dibs on the master bedroom, though, so tough luck for you guys.” 
“i didn’t know you had a daughter, mr. d.” it was a boy’s voice.
“yeah, i do, y/n,” your dad said. you can practically hear the smile in his voice. “she doesn’t like the limelight so i don’t bring her up too much. i’ll introduce you guys to her when i see her.” 
“chris, put that down!” another voice. this time it was a woman. she sounded older, and tired, like she’d said that phrase a million times before. “sorry about them, mr. d. they may all be of age, but i swear it still feels like they’re kids.” 
your dad laughed, “trust me, i get it, may. my little girl is turning 19 soon, but she’d give her 12-year-old self a run for her money.” 
“i call this room!” 
“travis, you can’t just call dibs on rooms when the rest of us haven’t gotten a chance to take a look around.” 
“you snooze, you lose, rodriguez.” 
clarisse jolted from your bed, jaw hanging as she put the puzzle pieces together. she pointed at the door, whispering, “is that poisoned mercury?” 
your dad was in the middle of a conversation with the woman, may, when you opened your bedroom door to investigate. he was nodding along to what she was saying, taking mental notes of her words. you walked towards them, giving may a polite smile when she noticed you coming their way. 
“speak of the devil,” your dad clapped his hands, placing a hand on your back to guide you into the conversation. “may, this is my daughter, y/n. y/n, this is may castellan, poisoned mercury’s manager.” 
you held out your hand, “nice to meet you.” 
“oh god, a teenager with manners,” she exhaled, immediately accepting your handshake, “pleasure to meet you.” 
“you know we can still hear you, right, mama c?” a boy with curly hair peeked his head out from the room beside clarisse’s. he was wearing a white tank top, his tanned skin adorned with patchwork tattoos on full display. he had a pearl necklace around his neck, a charm of the band’s logo resting between his collarbones. he had a wide smile as if he wore his emotions proudly on his face. “these walls are thin.” 
“you were supposed to hear me, chris,” she replied, rolling her eyes jokingly. 
you tilted your head, analyzing the boy. you understood what clarisse meant. he wasn’t your type, but he was definitely hers. she always did like the golden retriever type. you raised your arm, giving him a small wave, “hey, i’m y/n.” 
“it’s the famous y/n!” you turned around at the sound of your name to see a boy with dark hair and a vintage iron maiden shirt on. he was leaning against his doorframe, toned arms flexed as he stuffed his hands in his front pockets. “travis.” 
another boy, looking eerily similar to travis popped his head out his door at the sounds of introductions. you cocked an eyebrow, “are you guys tw–”
the boy shook his head, stating “no we’re not,” at the same time as travis nodded, “yes we are.” 
you looked at may for help. she shook her head, throwing a pointed look at travis, “they are not. travis is older than connor by a year.” 
“which one of you fuckers stole my charger?” 
you froze in your spot. you knew that voice. your mind started connecting the dots then– luke castellan, lead singer of poisoned mercury. you’d seen pictures of him on your twitter timeline from both your friends from college and from home. he seemed to be the topic of conversation every week because there was a new thing to write about. his wild rockstar adventures were a crowd favorite. 
you once heard that he had a pet monkey that he bought with his first check from their album sales, but tmz reported it so it wasn’t the most reliable source. the last article you saw about luke was titled “leaving a trail of broken hearts: luke castellan’s extensive dating history and how they ended.” typical. 
“oh, luke, i want you to meet my daughter,” your dad beamed, none the wiser. he placed his hands on your shoulders, twisting your body to face the boy. 
you pursed your lips, biting the inside of your cheek. so much for him getting lost.
“five star, nice to see you again,” luke’s eyes lit up, the corner of his lips quirking up in a smile, “looks like we’re roommates.”
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chrollohearttags · 8 months
Text
bake it
reiner can’t get enough of you or your sweet treats. Regardless of what anyone thinks.
themes: food play, reiner and reader both being nasty af, (and both have super country accents), lots of old southern colloquialisms, food play, oral (m. receiving), spit play, pet names (sugar, poundcake, daddy, pumpkin, sweet girl), spanking, backshots, squirting
📝: this may or may not be a lil series based off my fav album at the moment. I think it fits the cowboy!reiner x reader headcanon very well.
••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
“Chile, did you hear about what (y/n) did down at the Hole this weekend?”
“Girl yes. Being fast and actin’ all loose. Hanging over every man that’ll look her way.” “I’m tellin’ ya, honey. She ain’t nothing like her mama or her cousins. Girl’s a handful, I tell ya. Never seen a thang’ like it.”
“She was with that Braun boy from what I heard. Lord knows what she was doing..”
rumblings and rumors had spread like wildfire among about what took place at the infamous hang out spot and saloon in the small town in which you’d grown up. It seemed that not much had changed from the time you were a tiny child from now being a grown woman, returning to your stomping grounds after a couple years of higher education. Pearl clutching church ladies and snobby debutants with their noses in the air, disapproving of any woman who hadn’t settled down and popped out ten kids before the age of twenty five. It was how the customary traditions went in the south and sadly, wasn’t going to change any time soon. However…
“Yes and did you hear that I had him calling to the good lord after I fucked him seven ways to Sunday? He was a lot of fun. Boy’s got a third leg and a tongue like a serpent. Might have to keep him around.”
the very bold proclamation of your supposed actions had your coworkers of the Sweetie Pie Bakery; owned by the ladies in your family and had been a staple in the city for ten years, gasping and glaring at you disgust. The ones working there currently were a few new hires from the local church. The types to be sleeping with other people’s husbands by Saturday and running in and out of the pew on Sunday. Blatant hypocrites. Hence why you so casually admitted to your affairs and boasted about them. You didn’t give a damn what those uppity bitches thought of you! Especially when the man in question was all but obsessed with you…sneaking away at any opportune moment to have you since the first night you gave him a taste of your proverbial sweetness. Slurping you up, tonguing you down and pounding that little pussy sideways..letting him have a slice of you anyway he liked. It was no secret to anyone that you weren’t some innocent saint but if it’s gossip they wanted, you’d give those mouth breathing heifers something to bump their gums about. They’d feel how they want to about you regardless so it didn’t matter. Might as well have a little fun..
“Now if you ladies will excuse me, I have a delivery to make.”
“In that outfit?!” Referring to the very short, denim miniskirt wrapping your thick backside and halter top hoisting your ample breasts.“It’s ninety two degrees outside besides, a wretched jezebel like me has to look the part, right?” Mocking them with an overly done accent and a fake smile before waving and turning on the heels of your boots.
and where you were headed, you wouldn’t have it on long anyways..not once he spotted you…
••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
halfway across the tracks was a small office residing on the outskirts of town, right before you’d reach the dozen mile long stretch of fields and farmland. The moniker atop the building read ‘Braun Farms, Inc.’ owned and operated by the prominent family for several years and generations. Providing fresh vegetables, poultry, cattle and everything else to many local diners and families. The hardest working man in the entire company may have been the next line to take it over, Reiner Braun. A young, handsome, determined guy who was always about his business before any sort of pleasures. Of course, that all changed when his new fling came around..a girl by the name of (y/n) (l/n) who had a grip on him in more ways than one. After some whisperings, he discovered that you too had grown up in this area but was carted off to school elsewhere in your adolescence. You at sone private Christian academy and him homeschooled, hence why your paths never crossed. But that was a thing of the past and so was hiding the promiscuity you both harbored.
“Damn, poundcake. You keep suckin’ on me like that and I might hafta’ give you my credit card and last name.”
the words escaping in a guttural groan from Reiner’s half parted lips. His chest was heaving, so much so, it looked as if it were about to pop from his chest. Going mad with pure unadulterated lust as you licked on his shaft from underneath the desk. He had been assigned to records keeping today so you decided to pay him a little visit on his lunch break. And what was a better meal than your delicious cupcake and the chance to eat his dick up?
“Don’t say that too loud, pumpkin. Someone might get the wrong idea about me..think I’m trying to take ya’ money.”
“To hell with them. Only thing I want right now is to fuck that pretty lil’ throat.”
and he did just that. Bobbing your head up and down with a spread palm resting atop your freshly done lace front; feeding you every inch feasible of that long, erect cock. Gliding it to the back of your mouth until it damn near reached your esophagus and drummed up strings of spit. Loud gurgling noises filled the room and Reiner nearly lost his shit. Clawing at the arms of the chair and cursing like a sailor. You had this man doing and behaving in ways unbecoming of his character but he could give a damn less. As long as you kept letting him use you like this. Sticking your tongue out, you’d smile and request that he spit into your mouth..adding to the pre existing strings saliva and cum covering your face. It didn’t help matters any when you decided to take some of that frosting and place it on his sensitive tip before slurping it off. “W-whatever you want, sugar. I’ll give you whatever you want just keep —oh shit!” Earning yourself another warm load of his nut all over your exposed tits and pretty face. “You taste so good..” Those deviant eyes and sultry voice luring him in. By now, you had to be dripping so he’d tug you out from under there and place you at the edge of the desk before saddling up behind you with that hard dick. Hoisting that mini skirt to your waist, letting it bunch up around that soft, pudgy tummy, he was pleased to find that you wearing no panties but was wetter than the lake he frequented.
“Want you to fuck this pussy so good…stretch it out f’r me, Rei…” begging with your decorated nails placed on your round cheeks as you pulled them apart to reveal that puckering hole and soaking entrance…making him hungry for both. Wasting no time, he’d grab a handful of that thin top and your waist to reign you in. With his teeth grimaced, he’d whisper in your ear with growls; feeding you heavy handed smacks to your ass in the process. Spanking you like a bad kid but doing so because you enjoyed every second. “That’s what you want, sugar? For me to fuck ya’ like a lil’ slut? Make you come all over this dick? That right, baby?” To which you’d nod profusely, never craving something so badly before in your life. Of course, he was happy to oblige..but you’d have to beg a bit, just because that sexy voice turned him on so bad. “Yes, daddy. Need you to fill my shit up too..nut all in this pussy. I ain’t come all this way for nothin.” And of course, that all but sold him. So with your inviting heat waiting for him and those Wranglers ruffled around his waist, Reiner pulled you in close before impaling you on his cock.
“Damn right, baby..so take all this dick.” Pressing a thumb to your tight little asshole as he pumped you full..one long, deep stroke after the next, coaxing out sticky cream and soft cries as you scratched at the wooden surface he had you planked across. Sliding in and out of that warmth like a perfectly fitting puzzle piece. The tight clutch you put around his shaft had him mesmerized. It didn’t help your case any when you constantly doted and bragged on how good he fucked you. “I swear you’re the only one who can get this pussy wet like this..” “..right there, daddy. You in my fucking spot..gonna make me come.” Of course, Reiner was loving every bit and only wanted to please his lady so as that big ass bounced against his pelvis and rippled like waves, he’d give you more slaps and try to maintain his pace. Even going as far as to make that tip kiss the inner corner of your cervix.“Give it to me then…nut f’r me, sweet girl. Let it all go.” And the second you did, juices flooded the floor as you squirted all over him. “Shitttt! That’s what I’m talking about, pretty girl. Make a mess of me..” grinning from ear to ear before housing his own seed inside of you. That pulsating cock still inside of you minutes later. Turning you around, he’d mark your lips with a sloppy kiss and look down at the aftermath.
“I swear, I ain’t never gonna be able to quit you, sugar. Just too damn sweet..”
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souliebird · 5 months
Text
[[and then I met you || ch. 7]]
Series: Daredevil || Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader || Rating: Explicit
Summary:
A one-night stand years ago gave you a daughter and you are now able to put a name to her father – Matthew Murdock. Everything is about to change again as you navigate trying to integrate your life with that of the handsome and charming blind lawyer’s and Matt realizes he needs to protect his new family from not only Hell's Kitchen but from the world.
pt: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6
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When you escaped your parents’ house and moved into the city for college, you already knew the basics of cooking. Since you had turned fourteen, it had been your responsibility to feed yourself. 'You are old enough to figure it out' was what your parents had told you. Living in the dorms didn't give you much opportunity to cook and when you finally had your own kitchen to really play around in, you didn't have the money to afford a full pantry. It was hard, but it never deterred you and you learned a couple of good recipes.
When Minnie came along and you were able to figure out her likes and dislikes, you made a few changes - you could finally afford to get all organic produce and bread not made from ninety percent sawdust and you started cooking even more because your little one didn't like things from a can. 
And despite what the experts and people online say, you give in to every one of Minnie's food whims. You don't want to force her to eat things she doesn't like. Your parents never listened to you, even if the food made you sick - you ate what was given to you or not at all. You are not going to do that to her and the rules you have come up with are she at least has to try something. If she doesn't like it, she doesn't need to eat it, and the past few months she's been pretty good at telling you why she doesn't like something. You don't always understand her reasoning, but you accept and tell her that she can try it again when she's bigger. 
Her favorite thing that you make is lasagna. You make it from scratch and she usually loves to help you and will spend all day excited for ooey-gooey cheese.
Usually.  
Today is not a usual day. Today your daughter is an upset little banshee. As soon as she woke up, she was in a bad mood. She didn't want to be touched at all and getting her dressed was a nightmare. Lots of 'no's and crying about how all her clothes were itchy until you finally allowed her to just wear her swimsuit. It was the only thing you could get her to stay in. You didn't even try with her hair, running your fingers through it to get out some knots, but that only lasted a full five seconds before she was running away from you.
You are trying to be patient with her - you know that something must be upsetting her, whether it be waking up on the wrong side of the bed or she's starting to get a cold and not feeling well. She doesn't know how to express herself beyond crying and you don't blame her. You want to cry when you don't feel well. 
That doesn't mean it isn't stressful for you. The back of your skull is throbbing from her screams and your own mood is sour because you don't know how to help. Hearing her so upset breaks your heart. 
Matt is supposed to come by, thus the homemade dinner, but part of you wonders if you should cancel. Minnie isn't going to calm down anytime soon and you would feel bad having him come over just to witness a tantrum. On the other hand, tantrums are a part of having a child. 
You decide to leave it up to him and send him a text letting him know Minnie is having a bad day. He quickly responds he still wants to come, so you return to working on your tomato sauce as quietly as you can.
Mouse has hidden herself under a throw blanket with her tablet and her plushies on the couch. You don't worry about her doing anything she shouldn't be - the tablet is child locked to hell and back - but it is a little hard to tell what she is doing since she's muted the tablet. There is an eerie purple glow coming from under the blanket, so you can guess she's playing one of her games. You've found a few that don't require sound that she enjoys - a few dress up games and matching things. 
Occasionally you hear her sniffle or mumble but she doesn't call for you, so you let her be. She didn't really nap today, so you're trying to avoid another meltdown. You are hoping when you remind her Matt is coming, it will help her mood. You're a little jealous he is obviously her new favorite person, but also you are so happy for it. 
Your original idea of taking things slow has been adjusted based on her reaction. You wanted to start talking to her about family today and build her up to the idea of having a dad, then have Matt over so she starts that association. That obviously is not going to happen. 
You finish up your prep and start to assemble the lasagna, laying sheets of pasta down before adding sauce and cheese then repeating the process until the pan is full. You made a little extra, with the intention of sending Matt home with leftovers. He had mentioned in passing that he doesn't get to cook much and living off take out is not ideal. 
The baking pan gets put into the oven and the timer is set, then you aren't sure what to do with yourself. It will take about an hour and Matt is scheduled to arrive then. 
You could do some cleaning, but with how Minnie is, you don't want to set her off. You know when she gets like this, any little thing can trigger her, so the best you can come up with is scrolling your phone. 
Still, you want to be with your baby, so you make your way to the couch. You keep your voice just above a whisper, knowing she's been itching at her ears all day, "Mouse, can I sit with you on the couch?"
You know she heard you based on the way the blanket moves. It takes a moment before you hear a tiny 'okay'.
You tuck yourself into the opposite corner and take out your phone to bring up something to look at. As soon as you start scrolling your feed, the glowing blanket mound starts moving towards you and you are easily overtaken by it. Minnie gets herself into your lap, still hidden away, then flops against your chest. You can feel her tablet against your thigh and you're pretty sure Scooby is jammed into your stomach, but as long as she's good, you're good. 
You keep an eye on the time as you flick through your phone. A majority of the news sites you follow are filling your feed with stories about the explosion in Connecticut. An uneasiness fills your stomach when you see the word 'attack' being thrown around. The headlines say they have determined the destruction was intentional and not an accident, though no one has claimed responsibility. Tony Stark gave some sort of press conference, so his face is all over your phone. 
You don't need this today, so you switch over to browsing some online shops. Minnie is getting too big for her winter coat, so you definitely need to get her one before the weather changes and prices go up. You'll have to get her approval before you make a final purchase, but it's good to check what is in the market. 
About twenty minutes before you are due to take the lasagna out of the oven, Matt texts you to let you know he is on his way. You confirm that you got his message, then gently run a hand over the mound in your lap, "Hey, sweetie. Dinner is almost ready. Do you remember what I said about dinner tonight?"
The blanket gets tugged and moved until Minnie can poke just the top of her head out. She squints at you, like she is judging you, before mumbling out, "Mister Matt is coming?"
You give her a soft smile, trying to comfort her in any way you can, "That's right, baby, Mister Matt is going to come over and have dinner with us."
She squirms in your lap, before flopping herself forward again and declaring, "I want juice."
"Okay, sweetie." 
You manage to gather her, her blanket, her tablet, and some plushies into your arms and get Minnie on your hip to carry her to the kitchen. You're an expert at doing things one handed and it only takes you a minute to make up a sippy cup. Once that is in her little hands, you deposit her into her seat at the dining table. You let her keep her blanket and toys, setting up Scooby and Pig so they are in the seat next to her and her tablet is on the table in front of her. 
She is indeed playing a dress up game and as she nurses her juice, she looks at each dress option for the character she's dressing. As she does that, you start to set the table around her. You can tell that despite the cuddles and quiet, your Mouse is still in a grumpy mood. You really, really hope that Matt will help her smile a little. 
Once everything is set, you check on the lasagna. It smells and looks delicious to you, and you take the sheet tray out a little early so it can start to cool. That gets Minnie's attention, and you can see her watching you out of the corner of your eye. She's stuck her fingers in her mouth, sucking on them as her eyes follow you around the kitchen.
You are so busy watching Mouse watch you, you don't keep track of the time and when there is a soft knock at the front door, you jump. 
You scurry to answer, putting your hand over your heart and telling yourself to chill out. You know who it is and why they are here, and you don't need to panic over it. It's just Matt, you tell yourself.
It's just Matt. 
You open the door and your breath catches. 
It is just Matt, but Matt is Matt, and he makes your heart pound in a different way. 
He's come right from work, so he's in one of his crisp, fitted suits. His hair is fluffed up, like he's run his fingers through it too many times, and he's got that permanent five o'clock shadow. He looks like some GQ model, standing in your doorway. 
Embarrassment runs through you. You're not nearly as dressed up as he is. Even on his casual days, he looks so fashionable and cool, and you are wearing biker shorts and a black T-shirt. You look by no means raggedy, but maybe you should have changed. Just because Matt can't see what you are wearing doesn't mean you can be a slob. 
"Hi," you eventually choke out and Matt's face lights up. 
"Hey there," he says back, then he's holding up a bottle of wine and smiling so sweetly, "I thought I'd try contributing this time and I figured you might need a glass." 
You can't help but flush. Today has been rather long and a glass of wine sounds amazing. You don't drink often, but he is right and a glass to unwind sounds perfect. 
"You're a saint," you praise, and step aside so he can come in. "How was your day? Oh, you can put your jacket and bag to your left. There's hooks about chest level." 
Matt thanks you, then reaches out to feel the wall. He finds the hooks quickly, then hangs his saddle bag before starting to remove his coat, "it was good. We were able to wrap up a few smaller cases - sometimes it just takes someone getting a lawyer for others to cave and do the right thing. Cheaper to just do the right thing than get sued and having to do it anyways, plus all the pay outs and fees."
"That is good," you hum, very much meaning it. You're glad those people got the help they needed. "You mentioned having a handful of cases, so that frees up your plate a little bit, right?"
Matt laughs a little, smile still wide, "A little bit. It's a nice change of things - we aren't hurting for paying clients, so we are going to try to take on a few more pro-bono things. We're getting into a nice groove - or so Foggy claims. He's leading that charge - making sure we aren't over working ourselves."
"I'll have to send him a thank you card," you tease, surprising yourself with it. 
"He'd like that, he'd get to lord it over me," he replies. Then he turns to you and steps forward, reaching out and finding your arm. He ghosts his fingers up until he oh-so-gently wraps them around your bicep and steps forward until you're a breath away from each other and you have to look down at his chest, so you are not staring at your own reflection in his glasses. His voice drops to something quiet and intimate, and you can barely hear him through the pounding of your heart in your ears.
"I told them. About you. About Minnie."
You find yourself smiling at the news. That makes it more real, doesn't it? It isn't just the courts acknowledging Matt is Minnie's father - it's the real world. It's Matt wanting her - wanting to show the world he wants his daughter. 
That's all you want. 
You step just a fraction closer, and to keep your balance and let Matt know how close you are, you place your hand in Matt's chest. Almost instantly, his free hand goes to your waist, and you feel steady. 
You bite your bottom lip, then ask, your curiosity so much bigger than your ability to keep your mouth shut, "What did they say?"
He huffs and lightly shakes his head, "After yelling at me for keeping it a secret? They want to meet you, properly. If that is okay. I told them I'd ask you before confirming anything." He hums, then drops his voice even more, "Karen got me magnets so I could hang all the work I got up on my fridge at home." 
"You're going to need a lot of them," you whisper back to him. "I ordered popsicle sticks and puff balls so she can make 3D things." 
"I can't wait. Karen got me a bulk pack of magnets."
You giggle at that, but before you can reply, a needy little voice calls out from the dining table, "Mommy!"
You pull away from Matt, his fingers tracing down from your bicep to your wrist before he drops his hand, and turn to walk towards your daughter, "Yes, Mouse?"
"I'm hungry!" 
She's poked her head out from under the blanket and is now wearing it like a cape and her chubby little cheeks are pulled down into an upset frown. You have a feeling a tantrum may be close - there's nothing worse than a hangry toddler. 
You take a breath, then smile at your daughter, "Okay. Mister Matt is here so we can have dinner now. Do you want to tell him what we are having?"
Matt taps his way into the main living space, and you know you should give him a quick tour, but you think if you delay dinner at all, Minnie is going to start crying, so you tell him instead where the table is. 
Minnie doesn't seem to want to engage, stuffing her fingers back into her mouth. Luckily, Matt isn't dissuaded by that. He sets the wine bottle down before taking the seat across from Minnie. 
"It smells like we're going to have lasagna for dinner. Is that what we are having?" he asks, voice soft and gentle. 
Your little one rocks side to side, keeping her fingers in her mouth before nodding. Normally, you would remind her to use her words, but you don't want to push, so you relay her message to Matt, "She nodded."
Matt hums softly in response. He tilts his head slightly, brows knitting together, before leaning forward just a fraction, "Do you want us to leave you alone until you eat?"
You are surprised by the question then even more surprised when he gets the tiniest, 'yes' in reply. Matt's face softens at that, and he nods to Minnie.
"Okay. Can I still talk to your Mommy, or do you want us to be quiet, too?"
You stand, dish towel in your hands, ready to bring the lasagna to the table, watching your daughter interact with her father. He's being so gentle and understanding with her and you can tell he's being genuine. You can hear the care in his words, how he's giving her choice and not pushing her to talk to him. 
You'll gladly eat dinner in silence if Minnie doesn't want either of you to talk. You don't know how it will work, but you'll try. 
Your little one doesn't answer the question right away. She looks between you and Matt, before pulling her fingers out of her mouth to speak, "You can talk to Mommy."
"Thank you, sweetheart. We'll be quiet, okay?" Matt promises. 
You quickly parrot him, giving your own soft smile, "Thank you, baby. We'll keep it down." 
Minnie snuggles herself tighter into her blanket and you take that as a sign to get yourself into gear. You carefully pick up the lasagna pan and bring it over to the table, setting it as far as possible away from your little one. 
Matt tilts his head towards you, and the food, "That smells delicious. Did you make it yourself?"
You go back to the kitchen to get your serving utensils and answer in the softest voice you can muster that isn't whispering, "Thank you, I did. I found an all organic, from scratch recipe online and have been using it ever since. It's even fancy, way too expensive, cheese. I, uh, made extra. For you to take home, if you want."
Matt licks his lips, and you can tell he's trying to hold back a big smile. It makes your insides turn in a funny way - his kindness and appreciation. You are, as sad as it is, not used to such treatment and for whatever reason that, combined with Minnie's attitude, and Matt being in your apartment for the first time kick starts your anxiety. You are definitely very aware of your heartbeat, and it feels like someone dipped your heart into ice water before it disappears into a hollowness. 
This feeling isn't new to you, so you try to push past it, not let your sudden panic ruin things, because despite your little one's sourness, things are okay. You tell yourself things are okay. 
Your tiny bout of distress goes unnoticed, as it lasts the blink of an eye. Matt leans back in his chair, letting his smile start to crack through, "You didn't have to do that, but I will definitely take you up on it. I can't turn away a home cooked meal."
You force yourself to smile and cut out a slice of lasagna for Matt, before leaning over to place it on his plate, "Guests first."
"Thank you," Matt practically cooes, "I don't think I've been this excited for a dinner in a long time."
The praise does all sorts of things to you, so instead you focus on cutting out a little slice for Minnie and serving it to her. As soon as the food is in front of her, she stabs her fork into it and shovels a piece into her pouty mouth. You don't blame her at all.
"Would you like a glass of wine…?" You ask Matt. Minnie has her sippy juice, but you haven't set out any other drinks. 
He gives you a soft, "Yes, please," and you go to get the two wine glasses you have and a cork screw. You bring them back to the table and set down the glasses before going to open the wine. You haven't done it in such a long time it takes you a minute of struggling to pop it.  Matt turns his head towards you, a little grin on his face until you start pouring. 
You give Matt his drink, then finally make your own plate before sitting beside Matt. Minnie is still angrily stabbing at her dinner and you feel so bad for her. Even with her favorite dinner and good company, she's not having it. You expect when you put her down, either she'll try to fight you or be asleep the moment she touches the covers. You very much hope for the latter. 
Matt, on the other hand, looks completely enthralled with his plate. You can tell his eyes are closed and he's clearly enjoying what he's eating. 
You don't press for conversation - instead reaching for your wine. It's a deep red and delicious on your tongue and you can't remember the last time you've had a good wine. You can feel your shoulders starting to loosen. 
Which of course means, everything needs to come crashing down. 
One moment everything is okay, then the next, Minnie is absolutely screeching. Her face is screwed up in pain and you scramble to get out of your chair to get to her.
"Minnie! What's wrong?!" You try to ask her over her wailing. 
Instead of any sort of answer, she grabs for her fork, which is stabbed into her food, and throws it as hard as she can. You watch in horror as the fork and a large chunk of lasagna still attached to it flies over the table and smacks right into Matt's chest. Panic surges through you as he also bends forward and covers his ears with a distressed face, ignoring the food staining his shirt.
You try to grab Minnie from her booster, but she does not want it and instantly starts to try and fight you, flinging her arms and legs everywhere. 
"Minnie, please," you beg as she kicks you in the hip, "What's wrong, baby?!"
The only reply you get is upset screaming. 
"Cover her ears!" 
Matt is very suddenly beside you and clapping his hands over your baby's ears. She fights it, squirming to get away and smacking at his arms with all her might, but he doesn't budge. You stare, not understanding what is going on, what set her off, and you don't know how to help. 
You don't know how to help and that sinking feeling in your chest is returning and you're scared. 
Matt says your name again, then almost barks at you, "Her headphones! Get her headphones, the strongest ones!" 
You don't understand why but it's something you can help with, something you can do, and you rush to the bedroom and grab her sleeping headband. Minnie has always told you this one works the best, despite the reviews of the others. You run back to the dining area and nearly stumble upon what you see.
Matt has somehow gotten Minnie out of her booster seat and into his arms, and she is octopus clinging to him. Her face is pressed into his neck, one ear on his shoulder, while he keeps his hand clamped over the other. He's lightly bouncing her in his arm as she cries against him and part of you becomes extremely distressed at seeing someone else comfort your child. 
You push that away quickly to hurry forward and hold up the headband, "I've got it." 
Matt nods, then turns his focus back to Minnie. He noses her hair, and you can just barely hear him over her, "It's okay, baby, Mommy has your headband. We're gonna make it quiet. I know it hurts, I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry."
You hesitate before stepping towards them. Minnie doesn't flail or pull away as you maneuver the headband and get it over both her ears. It feels so awkward to do as she cries and once it is on her head and over her ears, she reaches up and yanks on it until it is in place. Then she flops back down into the crook of Matt's neck, still crying but somehow not as urgently. 
You are unsure of what to do, but everything in you screams to touch your child, so you shuffle close to Matt until you can put a comforting hand on her back. 
"I'm right here, baby, it's okay," you whisper, gently rubbing a small circle along her spine. 
Matt shifts slightly, and the hand that was covering Minnie's ear drops and he instead wraps it around your waist and pulls you closer, so you are flush against him, with Minnie between the two of you. 
That seems to help with whatever has upset Minnie so much. She stays clinging to Matt while he oh so gently sways you back and forth. Her screeching dies down to tired-upset crying and you know she's going to keep going until she passes out. 
To your absolute amazement, Matt doesn't seem deterred at all. He keeps his nose buried into his daughter's hair, talking quietly to her as she sobs, "It's okay. Shhhh, shhh. Feel my heartbeat, sweetie. Focus on that. The bad noise will stop soon, I promise. Just listen to your Mommy and I." 
You have no idea what he is talking about - what the bad noise is - but it's calming Minnie down, so you let him keep going. You keep your hand on her back, gently doing your own 'shhh'ing, trying to encourage her to calm even more. 
"That's my good girl," Matt hums, before giving her the briefest kiss against her temple. "Do you want to go to Mommy now?" 
You don't hear Minnie respond, but she must in some way because soon enough she is being transferred into your arms. She clings to you loosely and you can feel her little body starting to droop. She must be close to wearing herself out.
She makes a little upset whine between her huffing and puffing, and you instantly take up gently bouncing her like Matt has been doing. Matt stays wrapped around both of you, taking over your role of rubbing Minnie's back. 
You don't know how long you stay there, curled together and soothing Minnie, both of you whispering little words of love and comfort to your daughter. 
You think you are past the worst of it, but of course that isn't the case.
Minnie starts squirming and fussing, reaching up and pressing at her ears over her headband. You look up to Matt, to see his reaction and your heart runs cold and fear spikes in you.
He looks absolutely murderous.
He's lifted his head and it is turned towards your living room, his brows scrunched and a scowl on his lips. You instinctively hug Minnie tight to you, but you quickly realize you have nothing to fear.
He stalks across your living room to your open window and yanks it shut. Right away, Minnie loops her arms back around your neck and settles with a sleepy sniffle. You press your face into her, rocking her a little more.
"I've got you, Mouse. It's okay. Mommy's right here."
You don't jump when Matt's hand brushes along your back and he once again wraps you in his arms. You allow yourself to turn ever so slightly and tuck yourself closer, lowering your head so it leans just barely against his shoulder, with Minnie hidden between your bodies.
You feel safe in that moment. You're confused why Minnie got so upset so suddenly and you're confused at how Matt knew how to handle it, but you feel safe, and even more so when Matt's arms tighten around you. 
"I've got you both," he practically breathes against you. "I won't let anything get you. I'm here now. I've got you." 
You close your eyes as the panic and adrenaline washes away from you and the exhaustion of your day starts to catch up to you. You very much understand how rubbing Minnie's back helps her sleep - Matt's started to drag his fingers up and down your spine and you know it could lull you into Dreamland.
Minnie's cries turn into sniffles and then quickly turn into quiet snores as the minutes pass.
You stay still until you are one hundred percent sure she's gone to the world before pulling back just slightly, and whisper, "I should go lay her down." 
Your face is so close to Matt's you can practically taste his breath and your heart starts to pound at the realization of it. 
You don't know if it is on account of your words or if he was also aware how tangled up the two of you were, but Matt drops his arms and steps away from you, nodding, "Yeah, she sounds pretty sleep now."
You chew your lip, not liking how your arms are suddenly chilly, but don't acknowledge it, "I'll be right back." 
You turn and grab Scooby and Pig, knowing another tantrum will happen if your daughter wakes up alone, and head towards the bedroom. It is surprisingly easy to get her to let go of you and you deposit Minnie into her bed. You place her toys beside her and tuck her in, careful to not jostle her. You dare to kiss her forehead before pulling away. 
As you turn to leave your bedroom, your window catches your eye. It is closed, but in front of it is a little table. 
Just like in your living room. There is a table under the window, with more than a few knick knacks on it. 
Your brow furrows and you return to the main living area. Matt has found his way back to the table and is drinking his glass of wine. 
"Is she good?" He asks, setting down his glass and turning to face you. 
"She didn't wake up at all, I think she's down for the count," you say, glancing towards where your window is before looking back to Matt. "Can I ask you something?"
"Of course," is his instant reply. You take a moment to look him over, from his fluffy hair, to the tomato sauce now on his shirt, to his fancy loafers, before returning to his handsome face.
"Matt…how did you know where the window is?"
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two-unbeatable-beaters 
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luveline · 11 months
Note
thought of a cute eddie and roan request!! since it’s almost summer time they go to the pool or beach?? roans having a blast
thank you!! dad!eddie takes you and his baby for a trip to the beach (lake)!! this is when they haven't been together as long and roan is younger!! dad eddie x fem!reader ♥︎ 3k
Eddie's daughter is nearly five years old, about 3ft 5in, and weighs less than fifty pounds. She has slightly chubby cheeks, a huge smile, and she has never been this excited in her life. 
"I swear I've taken her on vacation before," Eddie says, his eyes moving between the road, the side of your face, and Roan's joyous expression in the rear view mirror almost frantically. 
You push your sunglasses up your nose. "I believe you. I've seen the photos, Edward." 
He snorts. "You know that's not my name." 
"But it makes derision much funnier to call you something formal."
"You usually go with Munson." 
"I'm feeling festive today, it's such a good day." 
Roan agrees from the back with a small shout. 
You turn in your seat before Eddie can, eyes creased with affection when you see her again. Roan is in her best summer dress with her hair braided back out of her face, ending before her ears so her curls can take centre stage. She's got her delicate blue cardigan on, and a sandwich in her hands. You've been trying to break the long drive into smaller bits for her with snacks and songs, and it's worked thus far. 
"Do you want another sandwich, baby?" you ask, clicking open the the tupperware in your lap. "We've only got PB and J left, Eds. Can I give her that? I don't wanna ruin her dress." 
"If she wants it," he says, shrugging. His expression is cut short as he turns the wheel sharply to the side. "Woah! Sorry, ladies, I almost missed the turn. What a loser."
You tear Roan's sandwich into a smaller one and hand it back through the seats. "Try not to get it on your dress, princess, it's so pretty," you plead. 
"I won't," she says. As soon as you hand her the sandwich she drops it on her skirts. She's just old enough to understand what's happened, and giggles like she thinks she's about to be told off. 
You've seen Eddie do it enough times. Roan drops a crust or spills a drink and Eddie pretends to be cross, eyebrows drawn together in an unconvincing glare. "Roan," he always says, and if he can reach he chucks her under the chin with his knuckle, "how dare you. You know accidents aren't allowed." 
It warms your heart that her reaction to a potential chastisement is laughter. 
Roan has firmly passed baby stage: she doesn't look like a big baby, she looks like a very small child, with deceptively long arms and legs. She waves one leg toward you and says in her high-pitched, sometimes illegible voice, "My shoe's coming off." 
Her shoe isn't coming off, but the buckle around her ankle has come undone. 
"Oh no," you dote, leaning through the two front seats of Eddie's car to help. "What happened? You're too happy, babe, all your dancing must've wiggled the buckle free."
"I'm too happy," she agrees, "we're going to the beach now." 
"We're nearly there," Eddie says. 
Indiana Beach is an amusement park on Lake Shafer ninety miles away from Indianapolis, which is a good eighty miles from Hawkins. If you were to draw this journey on a map, it would look like the hands of a clock at three thirty, or a 'Y' without one of its eyes. With Eddie's cautious driving but not much traffic, it had taken you guys nearly three hours from the time you set off from his trailer at seven in the morning to now. It's an aching amount of time to confine a child, and Roan hasn't slept a wink, so her happy attitude is miraculous and perhaps precarious. 
Which is to say, you smother her in love and hope it will keep her from becoming too agitated. You and Eddie have already discussed the possibilities of her behaviour — if she started a screaming crying tantrum as she sometimes does, Eddie would pull over and you'd climb in the back. If your company didn't help, he'd pull over again and you'd take a break wherever you were. If she still didn't improve, you'd think about going home. The point of the trip is for Roan to have fun.
You can see the Galaxi from a mile away, a huge curling roller coaster on the Indiana Beach pier. Eddie starts grinning, really smiling, the kind you don't get to see very often. He smiled like that when he asked you to be his girlfriend outside of the Hawk movie theatre, and he smiled worse when you told him you loved him for the first time, your hand pressed against his chest and your face hiding in the crook of his neck. 
"Ro!" he says loudly, turning onto a side street in search of the parking lot, "look, baby! Can you see the lake? The beach? It's so sunny, oh my goodness." 
His hand reaches across for you. He squeezes your leg roughly, and it aches in the best way, fingertips digging into the soft inside of your thigh. You can't help laughing, pleasantly startled by his obvious joy. 
Roan starts talking and you're sorry but you're not an expert in her warbling yet, not when she's speaking a mile a minute. You catch "beach," and "sunshine," and "daddy!" but that's about it. 
He drives into a ticket parking lot a fifteen minute walk from the pier and finds a space with ease. You quickly undo your belt and get out, stretching your arms behind your back and leaning forward to roll your neck out. You're sore from all the back and forth, attention split between Eddie and Roan for the last three hours. 
Eddie gets out on the other side, and he should get Roan's stroller first, but it was never going to happen. He opens Roan's door and the excited stream of chatter increases between the both of them. You come around the back of the car and watch him pull her out of her car seat, fussing over her skirts and her hair and her tiny shoes. He makes one of those heaving dad groans when he picks her up, one arm skewed under her butt and the other behind her back. It's more hug than carry. 
"Hey, baby," he says, "how's that? Is it nice to be out of the car?" His hand moves to her legs. "Should we do some walking and stretching?" 
He rubs her legs. 
"Daddy, it's sunny, it's like– like with Uncle Wayne, when'd he says that the sunshine is out to play," she says, her hands moving from her chest and into the air above her head like a burst. "It's not messing around!" 
You laugh, your heart melted to a wet goo. Eddie gives you an eyeful, as if to say, Yeah, I made her, that's my kid, and I know she's the cutest thing on God's green earth, thank you very much for noticing. 
"It's not," he agrees, putting her down on the ground. You stand a little ways away, knowing she won't run into traffic but worried anyhow. 
Eddie holds one of her hands and Roan puts the other one back in the air, stretching up big and tall. Eddie strokes a hair behind her ear, and his thumb lingers affectionately on her cheek. 
"Will you wear your hat?" he asks. 
"Do you have a hat?" 
"Uh, no, daddy doesn't have one," he says. 
"But I do!" you butt in.
They turn to look at you. You open the trunk, digging through your packed bags to find the sunhat you'd brought with you. You pop it on your head and turn to smile at them. "See? So you wear yours and we'll be matching." 
Roan doesn't hesitate to crowd your legs. You grab her hat from her 'baby' bag and place it carefully on her head. It hides her beautiful hairdo, but it'll keep her safe from the heat. She looks you in the face and grins. 
"Beautiful," you compliment. 
Eddie doesn't look quite as summer ready as you both. His hair is down, shiny clean but unlikely to stay that way considering the heat. He's wearing blue denim rather than black, something he'd spoken of with horror but more than pulls off, and a black Motorhead t-shirt. There's one chain around his neck that he never takes off, but besides that he's sans jewellery. 
"Roan," he says, "we're gonna walk to the pier to stretch our legs, but you have to hold hands. And you can sit down in the stroller when they're tired again." She nods hurriedly at the idea that she'll be free for a while. "Okay. Alright." 
Eddie gets her stroller out and unfolds it, putting her baby bag in the seat. You rake your fingers through the ends of Roan's hair while you wait, the sun warming the back of your neck already. 
Eddie locks the car, and the three of you start toward the pier. Roan holds your hand and Eddie pushes the stroller out of the parking lot and onto the sidewalk that leads to the pier. 
The smell of salt tickles your nose. Roan's hand flutters in yours like a hummingbird, excited gasps breaching her lips when you pass an ice cream stand bragging rainbow cotton candy bigger than her head, kaleidoscope gelato, Popsicles in cherry red, raspberry blue and lime green. Her eyes widen at the sight of huge diamond kites, yellow rubber dinghies, surfboards and wetsuits dripping water down sandy ankles. 
You know Eddie's been saving. He confessed, when you'd brought up your concern one night, that he wants her to have everything. 
What's going on? you'd asked, frowning at his bedraggled face after another late shift. You knew Wayne had been picking Roan up from daycare to let him keep working, and it just hadn't been like Eddie to do that. You can tell me anything.
You'd been expecting, regrettably, money troubles. The Munson's aren't rich but they've never been hurting for money since you met, and all these extra hours has you assuming the worst. 
Eddie rubbed a tired eye. I just want her to have everything. I don't want to say no. Not even once. When we go on vacation, I want her to point at things and I want her to know how it feels to be able to have them without a fight. 
Admirable, a tinsy bit silly. Of course he wants that, isn't that what everyone wants for their children? Admirable, because he wanted it and he worked for it, and he saved up enough to bring Roan here and spoil her within an inch of her life. Silly, because Roan doesn't ask for much. She does ask for stuff, of course, but she's not gonna beg him for a two hundred dollar professional kite, or state of the art arm floaties. But just because you think it's a little silly doesn't mean you aren't incredibly in love with him, impressed by and proud of his efforts. 
He wants to get Roan everything. And so they start with shaved ice. 
It's the second stand you see, just off of the pier with a long, long line. Eddie scoops her up off of the floor so she can see the different flavour combinations, and it's no surprise when she chooses all the pinks and red. Strawberry, cherry, and pink lemonade. The cone is bigger than her hands and costs a ridiculous seven dollars. 
The small smile on Eddie's lips when he can crack out a crisp twenty dollar bill and hand it over makes you smile, too. It's satisfying. All that hard work was worth it for this moment. 
And the moment after. Eddie takes the snow cone and Roan audibly sighs. 
"Oh, my gosh," she says. 
You laugh. Eddie looks at you from over his shoulder and beams. 
Roan wants to do everything, as Eddie predicted. She plays arcade games she's too short for, hoisted up on his knee or in your arms, face screwed in concentration every time, and though the controls escape her she loves hitting the big red button and watching the claw come down. 
But she also wants stuff money can't buy. She wants Eddie to hug her when the clown walks past because he's big and bright and a little scary. She wants kisses when they stand at the side of the pier to look at the lake, blue and clear as an ocean, and drops some of her own against Eddie's sweaty cheek when she's been loved up. She wants you both to swing her by the hand when you're walking down the ramp to the beach, which is difficult but not impossible with the stroller in Eddie's other hand. 
She wants to get ice cream, and a slurpee despite her half eaten snow cone. She wants soft pretzels and churros and a hotdog with extra onions. She wants a surfboard, and you dissuade Eddie from getting her one of the proper ones in favour of a floatie. 
She wants you to put the finishing touches on her crumbly sand castles, and to cuddle in your lap when Eddie makes her drink from a cold bottle of water. When you've been sat in the sun so long that your brain is jellified and you have more sand in your shoes than sock, she springs up from her stomach where she'd been kicking her little feet drawing smiley faces in the sand and demands you take her down to the waterfront. You leave your towels on and the stroller further up the bank and pray for the best, and Eddie peels out of his t-shirt and rolls up his pants a couple of feet from the water. Eddie pulls her sandy dress off to reveal the swimming costume she'd been wearing underneath, a bright yellow costume with a skirt, not too tight to hurt, and bends down at the waist to talk to her as they wait for the water to rush in. You encourage armbands over her elbows. 
"It's gonna be cold, Ro, so we have to run in! Are you ready?" 
"I'm super ready!" she says, squeezing his hand and squaring her shoulders. 
You secure her bands and take her other hand into your right hand, your shoes in your left, bracing yourself for the shock. 
You run in full pelt and screaming with joy. Roan's voice turns into a stream of "oh my god oh my gosh daddy pick me up'd it's too cold oh my gosh," as the water covers your calves and her waist. Eddie immediately leans down to pick her up, out of choices and surprised by her loud aversion. Water stains him from knee to navel. 
"It's not that bad, babe," he says, though he meets your gaze over her head and mock glares at your shaking head. It's freezing. "We just have to get used to it. Ready?" 
He doesn't let her get ready. He doesn't let you get ready. He grabs your wrist and pulls you with him, fighting the cold as the gentle lake tide laps at your waists. 
"Eddie, our pants!" you protest. You'd brought spare clothes in case of any accidents. This is decidedly not an accident. 
"Please, sweetheart, just come in," he says. 
He should legally be prevented from saying please and sweetheart in the same sentence. You submerge yourself to the waist as he wanted and stand there in the water, the taste of river water heavy on your lips now, splashes of cold wetting higher up your chest. It's close to intolerable, the only saving grace the heavy heat of the sunshine above you.
"How's that, Roanie?" he asks.
He's clearly having a blast. His eyes are brighter than the sun dappling that kisses the waves. 
"It feels squishy," you say, adjusting your footing in the sandy bottom of the lake. 
"This is so FUN!" Roan shouts, letting go of Eddie's neck to put her hands in the water. She splashes the surface and soaks Eddie's t-shirt to the neck in the process. 
You almost fall over trying to find his waist in the blue. You wrap and arm around Roan and Eddie wraps and arm around you, the three of you much too deep in the lake and with no plans of turning around just yet. 
"This is so fun," he says, kissing her cheek, kissing yours. "We should do this every year." 
You smile at his chest. 
You hadn't realised, yet, that he wanted you every year. Roan babbles her agreements, talking about her snow cone and the sunshine and her floatie. She stops suddenly. 
Eddie rubs her shoulder, water shining across her pale skin. "What, babe?" 
"Daddy, where's my floatie?" 
You head back up the beach to find it. Her stroller and your towels have been left alone, but the floatie must've been too tempting. 
Eddie, without complaint, goes to buy another. 
more Eddie and Roan ♡
please reblog if you enjoyed, it means so much!
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wannaeatramyeon · 4 months
Text
Jake Kim x Reader: Mother in Law
Requested. G/N. Meeting Minseon for the first time.
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"You want to bring someone over for dinner?" Curiosity colours Minseon’s question.
Jake imagines his mom on the other end of the phone. Hand stilling, cigarette halfway to her lips. One eyebrow quirked at the unusual request.
She asks for the name of the guest and Jake tells her.
"And is this Y/N a particular someone?"
"They're... someone to me," Jake doesn't hide his grin, "I'm serious about them and I want to introduce them to you."
About time, Minseon thinks. Rumours of her son's dating life has reached her ears months ago
"Very well. See you Saturday."
.
.
Minseon's eyes flicker down to your's and Jake's joined hands and back up again, giving you both a polite, cordial smile.
Suddenly, you feel like the contact is inappropriate. Too intimate. Jake must agree, because between the two of you, you don't know whose palm is sweatier.
You untangle your fingers, and bow. Ninety degrees, parallel to the ground. Showing Minseon the respect her station and status deserves.
Returning upright, you take the bouquet from Jake and hold it out to his mom. Jake had said it was unnecessary, but how could he expect you to meet her for the first time empty handed?
You clear your throat, "Thank you for having me over. It's lovely to meet you, Mom!" and immediately wish you never said anything at all.
Mom?!
You take one look at her shocked expression and feel your cheeks bloom. Jake tries to mask his chuckle as a cough and receives a sharp elbow in the side.
"Ow!"
Minseon blinks in surprise at your familiarity. Hmm, she knew her son can be lively, so it's only fitting that he found someone similar.
"Mom is fine," she says, "Thank you. These flowers are beautiful." She smiles, and you're taken aback by how much Jake resembles her.
.
.
You sit through a reasonably comfortable dinner.
Minseon now knows all about your family history.
Where your parents grew up, what they do, what you want to do, your grade point average. How you do fine with Math but struggle with grammar and tenses. The dog you had as a child, the fish you had as a young teen, the scar on your hand from your grandparent's cat.
Something about her, despite first impressions, welcomes you. Makes it feel like you're never talking too much, taking up too much time.
Then when you apologise for rambling, she tells you not to be ridiculous.
But the conversation shifts.
Minseon asks if you know about the Kim family history, what Gapryong Kim does, did. What Jake Kim actually does. You say yes but she gives you a rather grizzly and brutal history lesson anyway.
When she excuses herself, you release a breath you didn't know you were holding.
"Mom is..." Jake scratches the back of his head, face contrite and apologetic. "Just making sure you know what you're getting yourself into. Sorry. That was intense."
"Is she always like this?"
"Sort of." Jake picks up his chopsticks and picks at the leftover beef ribs. Munching thoughtfully, he adds, "I thought she might be better with company. I've never actually brought anyone over before."
.
.
"Your dad had some... undesirable traits in a partner." Years old wounds flare up after dinner. Over coffee and delicate pieces of cut fruit. Bitterness and anger flashes across Minseon's face before she regains her composure and takes a careful sip.
"If Jake ever gives you any trouble, you let me know."
"Mom..."
Jake rolls his eyes; is about to say that he is nothing like his dad, at least not in that regard.
But then he sees her place her hand over yours, giving you a reassuring squeeze. The same protective, maternal look in her eyes that he is so familiar with, and he can't bring himself to say anything to ruin this sweet moment.
Just give him time, and he'll show his mom, and you, how different from his dad he is.
Jake rests his hand on your knee. Big and warm. Holding hopeful futures and kept promises.
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onwardmeteors · 3 months
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just a perfectly normal velocipede I'm what's known as a newspaperman but it's not as fun kraken ooh great big bugger actually I thought I might take the car when it's over the almighty is going to put up a new thing called a rain bow as a promise not to drown everyone again I asked them for a rubber duck I made the archangel michael miracle me a towel I know someone who looks like you oh I would but rescuing me makes him so happy dreadful mistake discorporating me oh it'll be a complete nightmare in the name of almighty god avaunt I gave it away there are vicious animals it's going to be cold out there and she's expecting already so I said here you go flaming sword don't thank me and don't let the sun go down on you here I do hope I didn't do the wrong thing let there be light might you be looking for a gardener wait and see I know exactly what I'll be doing for the next twenty-one minutes I don't like it any more than you do but I can't disob--not do what I'm told I'm an angel I'm awfully sorry it doesn't seem to want to you cannot actually be suggesting what I infer you're implying I know what you're thinking what's that man doing up there is he here to amaze and befuddle us all with his prestidigitation and jiggery-pokery I have standards I like that pinky-blue bit in the corner it's very aaahhh yes yes that sounds like the great plan just wondering is that the ineffable plan as well if he does come into his full power how do we stop him then we are here to lick some serious butt smitten I believe you're being silly to be I mean not to be come on hamlet buck up I sir aziraphale of the table round am here to speak with the black knight this is not pickled herring I like pears but it's pretty not just a southern pansy sergeant shadwell the southern pansy I am an angel you are a demon we're hereditary enemies get thee behind me foul fiend after you she had balls still a demon then what do you sell that calms people down some eccles cakes please well I was I got peckish well if you must know it was the crepes can't get decent ones anywhere but paris and the brioche sometimes you meet a stubborn turnip they're all creatures great and small enter it's called hot chocolate you drink it yes fun for you look at the state of this coat I've kept this in tip top condition for over one hundred and fifty years now I'll never get this stain out what is that lovely american expression ah yes played for suckers well yes just as the bookshop is technically my shop but we both get plenty of use out of it don't we I was reprimanded last month they said I'd used too many frivolous miracles you can't drive ninety miles an hour in central london you'll get us killed well inconveniently discorporated you will speak one at a time I can see you're naked oh I think perhaps you're in the wrong shop you can't kill me there'll be paperwork is this the resurrectionist public house an american diplomat really as if armageddon were a cinematographic show you wished to sell in as many countries as possible I'm in the mood for something modern but not bebop sorry right number tip top absolutely tickety boo mind how you go sword oh yes big sharp cutty thing yes must've put it down around here somewhere forget my own head next oh dear we had crepes I have no wine child I am the nice one you can't expect me to do the dirty work I'd like the apology actually not good enough I want a proper apology with the little dance I did the I was wrong dance in 1650 1793 1941 got any better ideas got one single better idea in the beginning in the garden there was well he was a wily old serpent and I was technically on apple tree duty I'd like to think none of this would've worked out if you weren't at heart just a little bit of a good person!!! to the world!!!
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sergeifyodorov · 10 months
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would you actually be willing to give like a pretty long rundown of those main guys from the 2015 draft class?? because i would be Very interested
Of course! I wrote this in a Google doc so I could get it all down. It's a LOT btw -- this is the abridged version, leaving out what are probably important details, and it's still [checks] 11k words long. Sorry about that.
Anyone who tells you that the draft is a science is an idiot not worth their twenty-dollar stadium beer. The draft has analytical elements, sure, but it is a crapshoot through and through. If you dare to take a look back on draft histories from the past ten years -- the past twenty, the past thirty -- only rarely is the first pick, the “best in show,” actually the best of his class. I mean, no wonder, right? How well can you determine how good a man is going to be at hockey when you have only seen him as a teenager? Accuracy and prophecy are not kin.
Every ten years, though, you come across someone whose trajectory is easy to map. A prospect who is so head and shoulders above everyone else -- in numbers, in the eye test -- that you cannot help but say that they are going to be The Next One. God save the poor boy you put that name on.
In this case, it is 2014, and they are speaking those words again. On the dingy ice of an OHL arena, a red-haired Toronto boy with scared fawn’s eyes paces around the circles, faster than anyone else in the building. There are articles written about him already, calling his experience the torture test and labelling him Jesus, the saviour, the new great. It will get worse for him from here.
A Generational Prospect
It is 2004, and all eyes are on Sidney Crosby. He has eclipsed QMJHL scoring records. He performs highlight-reel antics. It is known that he will make the NHL as a teenager, and that whichever team has him will have an asset they should not ever think to relinquish.
Now, in 2023, all expectations of him are blown away. He is fifteenth on the all-time scoring list, having played most of his life in the dead-puck era, and will be inside the top ten by the time he retires. He has never been below a point per game, having gotten to a hundred points as an eighteen-year-old rookie and only slowed down to ninety at thirty-five. He has won three Cups; two Harts; two each Art Ross and Rocket Richard.
Something similar can be said for his contemporary, one Alex Ovechkin, sixteenth in all-time scoring, second ever in goals. While neither were always the most singular, dominant player of the past eighteen years (has it really been that long?) their longevity and consistent high-level play have cemented them into that tier of all-time greats. 
Such players only emerge once (or, for them, twice) in a generation; a “generational talent.” Gordie Howe was the first, before drafting happened at all, then Gretzky, joined as a part of the WHA merger, then Lemieux, then, debatably, Jagr through the early half of the dead-puck era, then Crosby and Ovechkin. Jagr was drafted fifth overall partly due to political constraints (it was 1990, and Czechia was behind the Iron Curtain), but all of the other drafted ones went first. While development curves for everyone else are hard to map, it is easy to tell, for them, how good they are as youths. We all call Gretzky the “Great One,” but he actually got that nickname before he was a teenager, because of how much better than the rest of his peers he was.
This is how we go up to the 2015 draft. Let’s say that it is September 2014, a full hockey season before the draft, so we can set the scene. Go back to the dingy Erie rink, watch the red-haired boy speed around the ice.
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This is Connor McDavid. He was born in January just outside Toronto; if you are unfamiliar with the term “GTA,” I will pause now to tell you that it means Greater Toronto Area, and that it is the nexus of all hockey in the world. He is a Leafs fan, as so many of the GTA hockey-playing hopefuls are. 
Connor is an unusual child, even by young hockey prospect standards. Entry to any of the CHL major junior leagues -- the OHL, the WHL, the QMJHL -- starts at sixteen, but select few can apply early, and if they are academically, physically, and emotionally deemed adept they can be accepted for exceptional status and join at fifteen. This happens once every two or three years nowadays; Tavares and Ekblad were the only ones to predate McDavid. As well as being deemed exceptional by the board of the CHL, he is exceptional among peers, too: intelligent and analytical, black-and-white, painfully shy. He works hard in school, desperate to avoid coming off as a “dumb jock.” Media interviewers ask for him, but they have to change the settings on their microphones in order to pick up his voice, it is so soft. 
He has already won trophies; scholastic achievement, sportsmanlike behaviour, CHL rookie of the year. He will score at least one point in all but one of the first eighteen games of the 2014-15 OHL season, before breaking his hand in a fight (getting himself a Gordie Howe hatty, being that he already has a goal and an assist). He will score a hundred points in thirty-eight games, and a hundred and twenty points in the forty-seven games he will play.
Understandably, his name is penned in at number one on the draft board. Even such deficits as breaking a hand and being out for six weeks don’t tank his stock, it is so obvious how well on track he is to outpace all but the best.
He is sweet and shy, a captain of Erie based mostly on skill, and tight-laced into the destiny of future franchise saviour.
At least he has a friend, though, right?
Dylan
The 2014-15 Erie Otters are a good team. A great one, even -- third in league standings by season’s end, and you don’t get that far if your single generational superstar is sidelined half the year with a hand injury.
This is where Dylan comes in. Like Connor, he’s a GTA boy, and a young Leafs fan. Unlike Connor, he’s part of a serious hockey family -- the middle child of three. His older brother Ryan has already been drafted, in the first round, no less. He’s a real student of the game, too, a stats obsessive and a calm, steadfast personality. 
Remember how we said the draft is a crapshoot? That’s very true. Prospects may have precise rankings when all is said and done, but in the meantime I find it best thinking of them as instead arranging into tiers -- there’s the generational talent in this year, but disregarding him we have a first overall-level, then a small handful of top prospects. Not saviours in their entirety, but certain to make a team very happy. Dylan projects as the latter group -- he’ll be somewhere between three and five. In 2014-15, he’s the OHL scoring leader, and takes the Erie Otters’ single-season record.
He and Connor are also best friends. Connor’s quiet, anxious even, but Dylan has a coolheaded sort of confidence that brings out the best in him. Rarely are they pictured without each other; rarely are they spoken to without mentioning the other. There’s a sweet little video out there of the Otters going to New York state and going on this little ziplining/outdoor climbing gym, and Connor and Dylan are about as glued to each other’s sides as you can be while obeying the harness safety rules. In hockey terms, while a little young for it, they’re married. Much like Crosby and Malkin are, although over a much shorter term, and publically the two Otters are much closer.
Dylan is the one I feel as if I can talk the least about. He is mostly defined by what he is not: not Connor, to start, and before the actual draft takes place that is the most of it. 
Of course, that’s the most of what any of it is, isn’t it? These are teenagers, separated into imprecise tiers and mostly defined by which tier they slot into. The three boys below Connor, no matter how good they are, are defined by being not Connor.
Jack Eichel most of all.
Jack, to start, is American, unlike any of the other three. He’s a late birthday -- born in November of 1996 instead of  the first eight and a half months of 1997 -- so he’s, in theory, had another year to adapt. (Brief footnote: the September 15 cutoff is what determines draft eligibility, either the year you turn eighteen or the year you turn nineteen. If you were born in, say, June of 2000, you would be eligible for the draft in 2018. If you had the audacity to be born in October of 2000 instead, you’d have to wait until 2019.) His development pipeline is also unlike the others, having come up into the NCAA, college hockey, and playing at the US National Development team before committing to Boston University. He won the Hobey Baker award as a freshman, and led the NCAA in scoring as a rookie.
He was marketed, coming into the draft, as the American Connor -- the new face of American hockey, a homegrown star, a fellow generational talent, although that was a feeble marketing strategy to dull the disappointment of going second to greatness. He was proud and polite, quiet but not scared, a young man uncomfortably aware of his own myth and rather irritated at the fact he had a myth in the first place. Taken in and treated well, he would probably have a well-suited disposition to a high-stress, playoff-bound team.
It’s unfortunate that that wouldn’t realize until eight years after he was drafted.
The Draft Itself, or, What Caused All These Problems In The First Place
The draft lottery rolls around. The lottery and the draft take place on different days -- the lottery several weeks before, so that for a long time the boys have an idea of to whom they will go. The first four teams to pick are, in order:
Edmonton. Edmonton had been very bad, for a very long time, and had three shiny prizes already to show for it: Taylor Hall, drafted first overall in 2010; Nail Yakupov, drafted first overall in 2012; and Ryan Nugent-Hopkins, drafted first overall in 2013. I’m sure you already know this, but Edmonton was Gretzky’s team, while Gretzky won all his cups, and they now stand to get themselves another generational talent in Connor McDavid.
Buffalo. The Sabres have a few decent pieces: Ryan O’Reilly, Sam Reinhart. They haven’t made the playoffs in a few years, and have plummeted to the bottom of the standings, finishing thirtieth out of thirty.
Arizona. Arizona has never gotten off the ground, not once. They are a dust mote of a franchise, held in place by Gary Bettman’s fragile ego and the skimmings of Original Six markets. Their survival, as doomed as we know it is, is banking on a distant hope of good prospect luck and better PDO.
Toronto. While Arizona is the smallest of small markets, Toronto is… well, it’s Toronto. Remember earlier, how I said that the GTA is the nexus of hockey? Toronto is called the Centre of the Universe, and for good goddamn reason. The Leafs are one of the most storied franchises in the NHL, and simultaneously one of the winningest (the second-most Stanley Cups, after Montreal) and the losingest (their most recent Cup was almost sixty years ago.) Their fanbase dwarfs all but the most hardcore of French Canadian separatist contingents. There’s a common phrase now, when any hockey news is mentioned -- but how does this affect the Leafs? It’s well-done satire.
And with four teams, we have four boys. So I come upon the last one now: Mitch Marner. Mitch, like Dylan and Connor, is a GTA boy, a born and raised Leafs fan on an OHL team. He plays for the London Knights -- a diminutive forward (he weighs in at 160 pounds soaking wet at eighteen, and eight years later barely cracks 180) with fantastic playmaking skills, the creativity and gall to do things other players have never even thought of. He’s a sweet one, too, bubbly and energetic and cuddly and kind.
Here is how the draft goes:
The Oilers take the stage first, for the fourth time in six years. The ceremony is unnecessary. Connor McDavid is the name everyone knows they will say. Connor walks up to the stage, looking vaguely nauseous, and dons the jersey and the hat. (His facial expression in the interviews afterward is thoroughly dissected over the next eight years. Some say it’s simple stage fright; others say it’s personal distaste for the Oilers -- remember, Toronto boy, Toronto heart. I choose to believe it’s the first one. Not all of us are John Tavares.)
After a first-round prospect is chosen, they bring him down for an interview, then shuffle him off to some arena underbelly for photos upon photos. Connor performs his niceties, but before he is taken back, he asks to stay. He wants to watch Dylan get drafted.
The Buffalo Sabres come second, and pick Jack Eichel. Eichel is asked, throughout, how he feels about Connor, being behind Connor, coming second to Connor. The narrative being pushed is called McEichel -- the Canadian wunderkind versus the American one -- and he wants no part in it. He’s impressed by Connor’s play, in their few brief meetings he thinks of him as nice enough, he wants to carve out his own path.
This refusal to play along may have been the start of the discontent, in hindsight. The media clearly wasn’t going to get anything out of soft-voiced scared-eyed perfect Canadian boy Connor, but Jack, sharper edges and colder heart, might be good for a soundbite or two about this new league-made rivalry. Jack, though, ever aware, puts himself solidly into Generic Hockey Interview voice and backs off.
The Coyotes come third. Here is where a choice occurs, the first genuine decision. Connor McDavid had been slotted into first pick since the day he got accepted for exceptional status. Eichel had taken a few years more, but his place in second after Connor was well known for months on end. Dylan and Mitch, however, were up in the air. Do you pick the big one with more points, or the small one with star power?
The Coyotes follow the conventional hockey wisdom, and take the big boy. Connor waits to watch his friend take the jersey, then hugs him in the wings.
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Finally, the Leafs.
Let’s actually take a step back to talk about the Leafs rebuild, for a second, because it, like everything the Leafs have ever done, is a testament to failure. Also, somewhat, because it is relevant. Also, moreso, because I can’t shut up about hockey and you’ve asked me to talk as long as I like. If you’re still reading, I want you to know that a) I am ever thankful for your time and b) we’re, like, just getting started here.
The Leafs’ last contending era was before the 04-05 lockout season, which means it predates the salary cap. They struggled in the midsection, for a long time, then finally fell enough to gain the fifth overall pick in 2008, with which they selected a big tough young defenceman named Luke Schenn, the first official piece of the Leafs’ rebuild, strange as it may be. Luke, while competent enough, was obviously not the sort of franchise-changing star the Leafs needed, and they struggled in the midsection again, before gaining, once more, the fifth overall pick, with which they selected Schenn’s partner, one Morgan Rielly. The two would be perfect partners, but we won’t know this for eleven years. Luke was traded twelve hours after Rielly’s draft.
Rielly is still in the AHL the next year, 2013, when the Leafs make the playoffs. This is the infamous 4-1 series: the Leafs go down 3-1 in the series, claw their way back up to game seven. They gain a 4-1 lead, going into the third period, and then blow it completely and lose the game, and the series, in overtime. They do not make the playoffs in 2013-14, and before the 2014-15 season begins they change management. The man they install as President decides to tank, and tank hard, selling as much of the Leafs as he can in the hopes of landing that elusive first pick.
They end up with fourth overall, and Mike Babcock, the Leafs’ head coach, does not want Mitch Marner, instead asking the then-management for the bigger defenceman, a boy named Hanifin who will go fifth to the Hurricanes. The Leafs take Marner anyway. Watch him as his name is called. He, like the first three, sits in a nest of other prospects and their families -- Mitch actually sits right behind Jack Eichel -- but unlike them, when his name is called the other prospects lean over to offer him congratulations, as well as his parents and brother. Mat Barzal, from across the aisle, offers a bro-hug as Mitch goes by.
The rest of the draft goes as usual. The 2015 draft, beyond narratively, is one of the deepest drafts in recent memory; players you may recognize include Timo Meier, Mikko Rantanen, Travis Konecny, Sebastian Aho (the Carolina one!), Roope Hintz, Kirill Kaprizov, Troy Terry… the list goes on. These players have their own stories, but few really tie in to this one. (So far.)
Summer passes; we move on. Training camp rolls around.
Connor McDavid, as expected, makes the team. He moves in with Taylor Hall, a fellow first overall. Jack Eichel also makes the team.
Dylan and Mitch do not. Dylan’s reasons are unknown to me, but Mitch is sent down because, again, Babcock does not want him. He’s naturally undersized and does not have a frame that builds muscle; Babcock is not under the impression that young men in Mitch’s image make good hockey players. Both Mitch and Dylan are returned to the OHL.
The stage is set now; each boy has a team. Eight years on, only half of them are on those teams. But we can’t worry about that yet! We have to make it to the NHL first!
World Juniors and the Memorial Cup
Once Connor makes the Oilers, Dylan Strome is named captain of the Erie Otters. Very cool, to only get what you deserve after the golden boy is gone.
Jack and Connor are off playing with the big boys. They’ll get their own section later -- we have to work our way up, not up and down and up and down. I’ve got to be somewhat cohesive, you know? So, we’ll stay, for now, in the world of junior hockey.
The Otters and the London Knights, Mitch’s team, are in the wonderful circumstance of not only both being very good at the same time, but also being in the same division as one another. This means they see each other quite often (no plane travel in the OHL. Bus only.) and have thus formed… a bit of a rivalry. It is becoming difficult to dance around: Dylan Strome, despite the politeness they’ve shown each other at the draft, hates Mitch Marner.
And why wouldn’t you? He’s the one Dylan fought with all last season for the OHL scoring title; he’s fast on his feet and can shoot from impossible angles; he makes plays you’ve never even considered, much less considered possible. He dangles through the Otters and scores the easiest impossible goal you’ve ever seen and laughs as light as air about the whole thing. And he’s tiny. Unfortunately for the rest of us, Marner drew a lot of comparisons to Patrick Kane in his junior days -- thankfully without the character in common, but as a hockey player. An undersized (almost comically so) London winger with otherworldly ability to manifest scoring chances out of nothing. The exact sort of irritating worm that not one of us wants on the other team.
So, of course, they get put on the same team.
The 2016 World Juniors are summoned. Connor McDavid, then dealing with a broken collarbone and a great deal of pressure, is not on Team Canada’s roster. Dylan Strome and Mitch Marner both are. Suddenly and thankfully, the media’s focus shifts from one, false rivalry in McEichel to a very very real one.
I don’t want to dismiss what happens next as a mere symptom of the fact that hockey players are engineered to get along with their teammates, even if they don’t like each other. Admittedly, it does start that way -- Mitch is a winger and Dylan a centre, and both skilled, so the coach puts them on the same line. Simple enough. And then they spark up a friendship.
Dylan’s reasons for hating Mitch were not personal, just hockey-related. Dylan hated Mitch because he was good and he knew it, the simple way a teenager hates their direct competitor. On the same team, though, the competition aspect is removed, and the barrier for hatred is gone. This is the Dylan/Mitch enemies to lovers arc, if you want to put it that way.
Mitch, for the record, I doubt ever hated Dylan. He doesn’t have that in him, never had. He saw a rival, sure, and as soon as that rival wore a matching jersey I assume he taped the word friend over whatever defined their relationship before. Mitch is probably one of the most gregarious, friendly, charming hockey players out there. Beyond his cute little face and on-ice highlights, even. He’s loud, sure, but when he talks he knows how to include you. He finds out what you like and talks about it, he singles you out if you’re shy and builds up your confidence. He’s just plain nice.
Dylan, like the rest of us, was charmed. Within weeks he went from calling Mitch annoying to telling us all about how he loves cuddling (!?) with him. They became fast friends and great linemates.
Dylan’s not the only one Mitch Marner befriends at Worlds, though. Somewhere between matches, Mitch takes an elevator at the complex they’re staying at, and ends up sharing it with a boy from the American team, a tall square-jawed Mexican centre with a Justin Bieber obsession. This is Auston Matthews, one of the projected top picks of the 2016 draft -- born just two days after the cutoff that would have made him eligible to go in 2015. He played with Jack Eichel at the USNTDP, before taking his age-eighteen year to go play pro in Switzerland. He holds the NTDP scoring record as a seventeen-year-old, and will continue to hold it until Jack Hughes breaks onto the scene. The two boys in the elevator do not yet know it, but they are about to share the mantle of franchise saviour, for the franchise most desperately in need of saving.
Either way. The Canadians place sixth at World Juniors, the Americans do better, the Finns win the whole thing. (In the long run, Laine turns out not to be better than Matthews after all.) Mitch and Dylan go back to their OHL teams.
Erie and London tie in points that year, but London wins the OHL title and goes to Alberta for the Memorial Cup, the CHL trophy. Mitch Marner takes home the scoring title, the Stafford Smythe (CHL equivalent of the Conn Smythe), and the Memorial Cup itself. He is one of the most decorated winners in OHL history, touted as being clutch, creating magic, and racking up points. He has close friends in Dylan Strome and fellow Knight Matthew Tkachuk, who will be selected sixth overall in the 2016 draft, the second American after Auston Matthews himself. And when NHL training camp rolls around in the fall, even Babcock cannot deny he is ready, no matter how slight he may still be.
Connor Complex
There’s nothing that fuels story like a good rivalry, and the NHL was obsessed with marketing this rivalry. The Canadian versus the American. The perfect child of a long line of red-blooded southern Ontario tradition versus the Boston boy with a chip on his shoulder. Jack and Connor, Connor and Jack. They hyped Jack up the time leading up to the draft, trying to hint that he was almost as good -- no, just as good -- as McDavid himself.
He was not, and everyone knew.
The 2014-15 Sabres, then the worst team in the NHL and having done an elite job at tanking (they are one of the worst teams in the analytics era, besides the 2022-23 Anaheim Ducks -- I wonder what prize might be waiting at that number one spot? Surely not someone named Connor.) wanted McDavid. The Pegulas, the owners of the Sabres, tried to hide their disappointment in him as pride. They had an all-American star, they said, someone who had grown up not too far from Buffalo himself, and in the same country, no less. He would be the sort of man to lead them into a new golden age, away from the misery of the tank years.
And yet the narrative persisted. McEichel, they whispered. Look at how good Connor McDavid is, and look at how much Eichel is not him. McDavid, they say, McDavid McDavid McDavid. No article could be written about Jack without mentioning how he came second to Connor.
The Sabres tried to quell the whispers. Look at our boy, they say. They signed Eichel to an eight-year, ten million dollar contract, and in the beginning of the 2018-19 season they named him captain. Isn’t our boy great.
The team does not improve. The Sabres hadn’t made the playoffs for three years when they drafted Eichel; they still haven’t made the playoffs today. I wasn’t around to look, but the team was bad. Eichel did his best, but he was young and inexperienced and did not -- never did -- have captain’s blood in him; Ryan O’Reilly lost his love for the game.
The whispers of character issues start to come out. Jack Eichel is a “locker room cancer;” he’s selfish, stuck-up, quick-tempered. He’s caught in a cage where the only key is to be Connor, something which he never wanted to achieve in the first place, and never could have even if he did want it. The whole narrative was completely fabricated. He liked Connor well enough when they met.
I do imagine he has feelings about it, though, and feelings about Connor now. He didn’t know him, not enough to have an opinion on the boy, but the name followed him around long enough for him to think about it. Imagine it. You’re good in your field, great, even. You’re doing well enough to earn yourself a superstar contract, you’re an All-Star, and yet the only way you will get any recognition at all is when they say that you are worse than one of the greatest players ever to play the game. They lock you into a connection that you have never wanted, barring you from forging your own path. You exist permanently in that orange-and-blue shadow. I don’t blame Jack for being angry. I would be too.
Babcock
Auston Matthews was incredible from the jump. He was big, he was strong, his wrister is the stuff of legend. He won the Calder in his and Mitch’s rookie year, by a not insignificant margin, well ahead of Laine. He was a coach’s dream doll, unusual enough to be marketed and good enough to be useful. Unavoidably masculine even at nineteen.
Mitch less so. Mitch is still small, remember, and struggles to gain weight. I know I talk about his size a lot, but it’s genuinely important. Hockey and its fan culture has long been a group that prioritized size and raw power above all things. Mitch possessed neither of those things, and when he struggled with gaining muscle it was seen as an unwillingness to try. If you know anything about the ability of our bodies to gain or lose weight, you know that it is simply a genetic roll of the dice, a scale that puts a little bit of us into the “gains muscle mass easily” category and decides when to stop. Most hockey players actually aren’t very far up the muscle-gaining spectrum, especially when compared to American football or baseball players -- mass is strength, yes, but it’s also more to move around on ice -- but Mitch is especially low on the scale. Because of this, he is seen as unmanly, a dangerous thing to be.
The Leafs media market is a nightmare, and always has been. Because this is the Centre of the Universe, there are more eyes on the Leafs than on any other team. More eyes mean more writers, means you have to say weirder and wilder things to beg for clicks. Outrage is a good marketing tactic. Getting mad about one of the prize prospects seemingly not wanting to bulk up for the good of the team is a very easy thing to do.
What’s more, Mitch, after his entry-level contract had expired, had had a very difficult and long-drawn out contract negotiation, asking for a lot of money -- essentially the maximum that the Leafs could afford at the time. Because of the salary cap constraint, this was seen as kind of selfish. The angry clicks move. Mitch is sensitive, they say. Soft, selfish, weak.
It’s easy enough to dismiss out of hand when your uncle from Belleville does it, because what does he know. It’s different when it’s the head coach of the Leafs. Mike Babcock, is, at the time of hiring, the highest-paid coach in the NHL. He was signed before the 2015-16 season, and at that point had an eight-year contract, which would have carried him up until this year.
Mike Babcock sucked. Structurally, his teams were fine -- the Leafs made the playoffs in 2016-17, and haven’t missed it since, but he was awful, horribly mean to the boys under him, and especially, especially Mitch. 
We should skip ahead a little bit. It’s the beginning of the 2019-20 season. The Leafs have made the playoffs three times already, and lost in the first round each time -- but this, too, is not yet a phrase that strikes worry into our hearts. They’re young, and they have plenty of time left. 
Respected veteran Jason Spezza came home to the Leafs, having spent his career -- a player who might squeak the Hall of Fame, but is more likely just below its level -- in first Ottawa, where he was the captain of the Senators briefly and one of its most well-loved players, and then Dallas. Like the boys I talk about here, Jason Spezza is a former OHL player, a GTA boy, a Leafs fan. The Leafs’ season opener is against Ottawa, the team where Jason Spezza left most of his mark. There used to be a promotion with the Senators -- a local branch of some pizza chain would offer a free slice if the Sens scored more than five goals in a game. Spezza (and his linemates, Heatley and Alfredsson) were so good, they named his line the Pizza line. Mike Babcock makes Jason Spezza a healthy scratch on that day.
This is seen as disrespectful, but no more than a coach living up to his hardass reputation. You do what the coach tells you, don’t you? Lest you become a whiner, or worse, a locker room cancer. Scratching an extremely well-respected veteran on the opener against his former team is just something some guys do. A message, if you will. Stay the course, Babcock just wants his players to respect him.
And then news of the list leaks.
It happened when Mitch was a rookie, but they kept it hidden for three years. The Leafs went on a father-and-sons trip, one they do every season. They’re on a road trip, with only their fathers, isolated from their home.
(A brief aside to talk about Mitch’s dad; his name is Paul Marner, and he is the most stereotypical hardass hockey dad on the planet. A nitpicker, an armchair coach, a bully. I do not imagine Mitch felt particularly comforted by his and Babcock’s combined presence on this trip.)
Babcock approached Mitch and asked him to organize all of his teammates in a list. He wanted Mitch to arrange them in order of hardest workers to laziest; he thought Mitch was one of the lazy ones, and wanted to drive this point home by making him categorize his teammates like this. Mitch, as a rookie hockey player does in the presence of the Maple Leaf hanging over his head like the sword of Damocles, obliged. He was under the impression it would be a private affair, just an assignment from Babcock to teach him some sort of lesson. Whether it be out of fear or honesty, he placed himself last on the list. 
Babcock told the others.
Specifically, two Leafs vets that Mitch had placed low on the list -- Nazem Kadri and Tyler Bozak. Imagine this: you are a decent centre on a bubble team, but nonetheless an established NHL veteran of about a decade, and your coach shows you a list a rookie made. He tells you that the rookie arranged everyone by work ethic, grinders to lazy shits. You are firmly on the “lazy shit” end.
How much does the coach have to suck, or how much does the rookie have to be loved, for Kadri and Bozak to react like they did? The rumour says they called for Babcock’s head on the spot. Mitch was in tears. I wouldn’t want to stay in Toronto if that happened to me. No wonder he and Auston signed for so much -- Babcock was barely halfway through his contract when they did. If I’d thought that I would have to deal with him for that long, I wouldn’t accept anything less than as much as they could possibly pay me.
In the end, in the beginning of December, 2019, Mitch got hurt and the Leafs went on a road trip. They were already losing by the time they’d left, and they kept losing. Normally, a team on a road trip doesn’t take the hurt players with them, but they took Mitch. The Leafs lost six in a row and finally fired Babcock, letting Sheldon Keefe take his place. Mitch’s presence was a comfort.
Go West
The Leafs make the playoffs first, and take Mitch with them. The Sabres are fighting a silent war with their star centre, but they are no closer to success. 
Connor McDavid is named captain at nineteen, the youngest in the history of the NHL. He scrapes the team to a playoff spot, then to a second round loss. He wins the Art Ross and the Hart.
The year before his entry-level contract expires, when he is first eligible, he signs what is then the most expensive per-year contract in NHL history -- eight years, a hundred million dollars. He is looking forward to spending the rest of his prime as an Oiler. He wins the Art Ross the next year, comes very close the year after. The Oilers do not make the playoffs again until after Covid hits.
He gets hurt a lot, too -- he breaks his collarbone as a rookie, missing half the season, and at the very end of the 2018-19 year, crashes into the net irons and shatters his knee. There are rumours of the man who broke Connor’s collarbone doing it on purpose; Connor claims that he overheard the man bragging about it, and I am inclined to believe him. This guy gets traded to the Oilers not too long after that.
In the meantime, Dylan is struggling. The Coyotes stick him in Tucson, a team he is obviously too good for. His entry-level contract slides another season. He wiffles between Tucson and Arizona, not being considered good enough to stay up but being too good to stay down. In the end, on the last year of his entry-level contract, he is traded from the Coyotes to the Chicago Blackhawks, a similarly bad team with a few remnants of its Cup-winning days. Dylan, a feeble icon of Chicagoan hope for one last dance with the aging core, centres Patrick Kane.
In his first half-season with the Blackhawks, he scores 51 points in 58 games. There are hopeful flashes of what he can be, the touted prospect he once was. 
Things wrap up on New Years like this: Connor is beyond a hundred-point pace; Dylan, although in no less danger, is at least out of the dust at the bottom of the barrel; Jack is caught in a cold war; the team loves Mitch. 
John Tavares has a Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Playoff Series
March of 2020 rolls around, and with it the coronavirus pandemic. The league is shut down before the season ends, and the playoffs re-formed in July, inside a bubble -- no one in, no one out until they are eliminated. The Sabres stay with their families, having once again missed the playoffs. The Leafs are set to play the Columbus Blue Jackets, and the Oilers are set to play the Blackhawks.
This, to date, is Dylan’s only playoff appearance, and he is set to face Connor.
Dylan wins.
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The qualifying round -- functioning as the first round of the bubble playoffs -- is a best of five, not of seven, and the Blackhawks defeat the Oilers 3-1. They then proceed to lose in five games (this one is a best of seven) to Vegas, but Dylan’s job is done.
The Leafs lose in the first round again. The Leafs have made the playoffs since Auston and Mitch’s debut, every single year, but they lose each time; in six, to the Capitals, then in seven every year after that. Or, in this case, in five.
Covid had not stopped by the end of the 2020 season ( :/ ) and the NHL was rearranged for what would be ostensibly the 2020-2021 season, but ended up being played mostly in 2021. Because of border laws, the Canadian teams are sequestered into their own, North division. Dylan Strome signs a two-year contract extension with Chicago right before the season starts -- one that will carry him until the end of the 2021-2022 season. 
If you’ve seen All or Nothing on Amazon Prime, it is this season that is covered. The Leafs tear through what is seen as a weaker North division, taking a comfortable first place spot. Connor McDavid cracks a hundred points in fifty-six games. Both Leafs and Oilers lose in the first round.
The Leafs do it perhaps most remarkably. They have drawn the Canadiens, a rather insubstantial team who are in their spot mostly because they have one of the best goaltenders in recent memory at their back.
I watched this game, live, before I was a serious Leafs fan. I can only imagine what it would be like if you were already invested at that point; I would not wish to live that horror on anyone. I tried to watch All or Nothing, later, but I stop here. 
Corey Perry and John Tavares are both on the ice, in the race for the puck. Tavares catches an edge, as you sometimes do, and falls, and Perry’s knee is in exactly the wrong place at exactly the wrong time, and it catches Tavares in the side of the head. He falls to the ice, his limbs splaying unnaturally. He won’t move. 
Medics come over, to try and raise him to his feet. He fights against them, blood streaming from a cut in his forehead, unable to tell if they are trying to hurt him or not. There is no one in the crowd, the stadium empty for the pandemic. The camera cuts to Kyle Dubas in the rafters, who has a phone in his hand and swiftly vanishes back into the halls of the arena. He is calling Tavares’ wife. We do not know what is going to happen. Everyone looks shaken -- the Habs have just watched a man nearly die, the Leafs have just lost their captain, perhaps forever. They lose, although the game feels like an afterthought. I do not want to watch hockey anymore.
They win the next three straight, though, even without him. Then they lose, twice, in overtime.
The Leafs, as they have done for the past four years up to this point, go to game seven.
Partway through the game, Mitch Marner panics in his defensive zone and puts the puck over the glass. This is a penalty, it is a penalty every time, and he knows that. He sits in the box, looking defeated already. He curls in on himself, and the camera flashes to the penalty box. He’s crying. He knows the game is lost.
The Leafs are eliminated again, and there is a target on his back now, not only for the puck going over the glass but for the tears. He’s soft, they say. As they have said since he was picked, because he doesn’t look like a hockey player should, because he doesn’t act like a hockey player should, because he doesn’t play hockey like a hockey player should. He makes too much and he disappears when it matters.
Thoughts on the Leafs’ playoff successes suddenly switch from the core is young, even if this is frustrating to they need to win before it’s too late. Already, in recent years, they have suffered historic game-seven chokes and drastic failures to launch. Whether they do it against teams like the President’s Trophy-winning Capitals or the barely-alive wild-card Canadiens is irrelevant. They cannot win a round, at all. The Leafs are already the team with the greatest Cup drought, and they are now gaining a long playoff round victory drought too. It should be time, at least, for them to look like they are a contender. 
This is how the Leafs find themself stuck; a particularly frustrating timeloop, even though hockey itself is nothing but. Sports are cyclical by nature. A team is bad, then okay, then good, then declining, then bad again, and this repeats anew. Some teams try to get themselves out of this cycle by being good forever; I can assure you that this only really happens to the New York Yankees, who employ a cadre of evil wizards to keep everything on that hell team going well for them. Most other teams who try end up stuck like the Canucks are, right now: bad enough to miss the playoffs, but not good enough to get key picks for a rebuild. I can see next season play out, clear as day: they struggle out of the gate, one of their stars gets hurt right when it seems like they’re at the very, very start of gathering momentum, they’re bottom-10 by January and the team says everyone but Pettersson are on the table, they trade picks and low-grade players, they get blazing hot post-deadline and finish twenty-first.
There is, unfortunately, also a perception that pure talent is not what makes players playoff performers -- instead, some so-called “clutch gene” that exists, or not. The reality is somewhere in between. Clutch exists. There are always players who can score when no one else can even dream of it, but a greater problem is luck. President’s Trophy winners are not often Cup winners (even if higher seeds are most likely to win), because the regular season is a much, much bigger sample size and the playoffs can change the course of all of it by a goalie having a hot streak at the right time. The 2018-19 Tampa Bay Lightning, third-best team in NHL history, got swept in the first round by Sergei Bobrovsky going crazy. The 2022-23 Bruins lost in seven in the first round in much the same manner.
And no matter what, the Leafs are always on the wrong end of the luck. Bounces hit the post. The refs take back goals for reasons they would have ignored at any other time of year. John Tavares slips, and his head makes contact with a knee.
Mitch ends up the whipping boy. He is the Leafs’ most valuable player, and this is a team with Auston Matthews on it, but I’m serious. He was the Leafs’ leading playoff scorer in 2023, he’s one of the best penalty-killers in the league, he’s adored by everyone who’s ever once talked to him. He only ever wanted to be a Leaf, and now that he is here he is the sacrificial lamb for the anger at a curse that is not his fault.
I do blame the media. I will always blame the media, those who turn on him at a moment’s notice because they know picking on the skinny pretty unmanly one will get more clicks than anything else. I beg of you -- know that, of anything that it could be, it is not Mitch’s fault.
Jack Eichel has a Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Neck Injury
It is 2021, and the Sabres aren’t going to make the playoffs. Jack Eichel has been captain for coming up on three years, and has been a Sabre for coming up on six, none of which have even slightly improved the team. He is widely disliked within the fanbase, and, rumouredly, within the locker room and organization. 
Jack is frustrated, dragging a mediocre team along through a slog of the past six years, and he has never been the kindest man on the planet. He is about to get worse. The Sabres are on a losing streak when they head to Long Island, and Jack is hit the wrong way and slips a disk in his neck. The Sabres insist he’ll only be out a week and a half. 
It is a great sin in hockey, to go against team. Anything that can be seen as selfish is demonized; shooting from a difficult angle when your teammate is wide open, not playing when you can muscle through the pain. Not trusting your coach or management is about as bad as you can get. If you’re a team guy, willing to sacrifice health and limb for the boys, you are held as saint, no matter how hurt you become in the end. This is a philosophy that has been drilled into these men since they were kids, as soon as they put their first skates on. You can stand any pain for the length of a hockey shift; you can play through anything for two minutes. It is a dangerous, dangerous school of thought, one of the most destructive parts of hockey culture. But it is, nonetheless, law.
Eichel is about to commit a sin so great they’ll kick him out of Heaven. I do think that, of the four of them, he is the only one with any semblance of genre awareness: when he was first scouted as a prospect and they were comparing him to McDavid, I think that he would be the only one to ignore the media’s spin on that as thoroughly as he did. He knows what he is, and he knows himself. Of course it comes off as bitchy and selfish, though -- that kind of pressure can’t be kind to anyone.
Before the week and a half is up, he visits a specialist doctor about his neck. This is where it all starts to go wrong.
The Sabres take issue with that for two reasons: one, that they hoped he’d be able to come back after the end of it. Keep in mind that he has herniated a disk in his neck, an injury typically so severe it’s impressive he’s walking -- slipping a cervical disk often causes nerve pain that radiates down through the entire spinal cord below that point, which is the whole body from how high up his is. Two, that the doctor he consults is an independent surgeon, one unaffiliated with the Sabres themselves. 
The thing about belonging to a hockey team is that you are, because of the way your employment is linked to your physical health, essentially their property. They make your medical decisions for you, they feed you, they tell you how to move. Going to someone else is a breach of contract, and the already-tense connection between Jack and the Sabres gets more tense. The Sabres keep losing. They lose eighteen games in a row.
Jack’s doctor recommended a surgery that no NHL player has ever had; cervical disk replacement. The Sabres did not want this -- the surgery carries risks, yes, but they also wanted to control the way that Jack’s injury was handled, and going through with this surgery was Jack’s wish, not theirs. The Sabres do their own evaluation, and ask for a different, more common surgery: spinal fusion. This surgery carries less immediate risk, but the bones in Eichel’s neck will also be fused, and he doesn’t want that. Because the team has final control over a player’s health, not the player, they decline his disk replacement. Having reached a stalemate, they rule him out for the rest of the season, trying to win a war of attrition.
September 2021 rolls around, and the Sabres, along with thirty-one other teams, take training camp. At the beginning of training camp, players do a physical exam. Jack, because his herniated disk has not improved, because he needs a surgery that has been denied from him, because he is stubbornly and bravely willing to wait out the Sabres, fails his physical. As a result, the Sabres, fed up with him, strip the captain’s C from his chest.
Jack makes one final request to the team: either let him get the surgery or trade him. In the end, they trade him to the Vegas Golden Knights, a team that did not exist when he was drafted. The Golden Knights approve him for the disk replacement surgery the day they acquire him.
The surgery is a success; his rehab goes better than anyone expects, and he starts tearing it up when he comes back. I would argue that, if the Golden Knights win the Cup this year, he should get the Conn Smythe -- he has been an invaluable member of the team, even without a letter on his chest.
It is less important for him to win his million awards than it is for him to come in and out of this surgery in the first place, still able to play. He fought with the team that was supposed to have upheld him as their star for months over his right to do what he wanted with his own health; in the end, the only way to go was for him to change that team. He was the first to have this surgery, but after him there have already been hockey players who have undergone it -- much like Tommy John, the baseball player who got his ulnar ligament reconstructed and the surgery to do so named after him. He fought for the chance to control his own body and won.
And for that, he was demonized.
The Sabres missed the playoffs every year they had him; they missed the playoffs every year after he left. Because he was the captain and he had the audacity to go against the organization’s wishes, he was hated. In Buffalo, he is still hated. If you ask, they’ll tell you he was a locker room cancer, that he was undevoted to winning. If you look at him in Vegas, neither of those things are true.
Jack Eichel is a rare man -- he does have that “clutch” gene, or rather doesn’t have the choke instinct. He has always been unbothered by the spiral around him. He operates well in the mire, and when the pressure rises it doesn’t affect him (or maybe, even better, he feeds on it.) He has the right kind of mentality -- that fuck-you, I’m here and you can’t change that, you tried to control me and I wouldn’t bend mentality. He has only made the playoffs once, this year. Like Dylan, actually, his only appearance has involved defeating Connor McDavid. Go back and watch his highlights from the Vegas-Edmonton series if you can: he has a couple of pretty goals and more than a couple great defensive takeaways, but he doesn’t lose his cool, not once. He has earned his right to be here, and he knows it more than anyone else. I’m rooting for the Stars, but I hope he wins some day.
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How do you talk about the Edmonton Oilers? I mean, without either excusing or demonizing them, although I admit I have Hater Instinct and trend towards the latter. They have the best player in the world; that grown-up incarnation of the wide-eyed boy on the Erie rink. They have the best playoff performer in the world; Leon Draisaitl, who I have not avoided mentioning until now on purpose, but whom I cannot continue without bringing up. They have been terribly cap-managed since the day McDavid was drafted, and are an unstable roster with blazing-hot offense and very little defence or goaltending at all.
For a brief moment, let’s not talk about the Oilers. Let’s only talk about Connor himself.
McDavid has 850 points in 569 career games. Not even Sid had that many points through that few games. If he stays healthy, Connor’s well on track to become the second player ever to hit two thousand for his career -- after a certain other Oiler, who need not be mentioned. He has won just about every award you can win, with the exception of the Selke… and the Cup.
If it’s possible, he has proven himself better than all of the hype at the draft saying he would become a great. To watch him, you can see the way he has changed his team, how even though they have all learned from him that he is still the best.
There is something that many Oilers do. When next your team plays them, pay attention to it: they cut into the offensive zone with possession on the outside, using tight little crossovers to gain speed, after which they’ll usually try to rush the net (if there are no defenders in the way). This is a move that McDavid has patented; he’ll use it, just as many of the others will, but he’ll probably be the one that scores. The depth all skate like him, really, fast and in wide arcs, trying to generate a rush chance. 
Connor as a player is a tour de force, the best power-player in the world by a mile, no slouch at even strength, speedy enough to score even shorthanded. The boy’s got wheels. Sometimes it’s hard to tell which NHLers are fast and which are slow, but Connor’s just that tick above everyone else that you can see it without eye training at all.
Connor as a person is a bit less showy. He’s quiet by nature, shy and soft-voiced. Because he was hyped so much (franchise saviour, McJesus, Next One) he has been media trained into sterility, giving the same level answers as everyone else, hardly daring to express any opinion at all. His eyes are big, rounded, and one of them is lazy from a time when his brother tried to take it out as a child, and that combined with his heavy brow and stiff expression -- he’s never been a good smiler, smirks with one corner of his mouth and that’s mostly it -- give him a resting expression of something like concern, or maybe despair. When he laughs, he doesn’t really “laugh,” just kind of coughs, a one or two-syllable affair. He avoids eye contact with the camera, and often the reporters as well. There is no seething emotion under the surface, not like with Eichel, nor does he speak analytically like Dylan does. He moves through his life as if he is someone who does not want it to turn out quite like this.
I do not know if he wants to be in Edmonton. There are jokes about how he is desperate to leave, but I definitely don’t believe those; there’s a difference between not wanting to stay and wanting to go. I don’t think he hates it. He has been given a responsibility, the captain’s C -- and because, unlike Jack Eichel, he is a good Canadian boy who has been given a destiny, he accepts it. He loves his teammates, especially Draisaitl, whom he seems to derive all his confidence from.
I will also say that I don’t believe he’s stupid. Naive, perhaps; not stupid. There is no way out for him, even if he was sure he wanted to leave; he’s the best player in the world, far too expensive for any contender to afford in either trade or cap space, and if he asks for a trade he won’t let himself go to a team that isn’t already a contender. He will remain an Oiler at least until his contract is up, and I imagine that his staying afterwards depends on Draisaitl.
People talk about him leaving a lot, largely because of the team that has been assembled around him. The Oilers are not a well-created team, and I will say that plainly now and spend as little time technically deconstructing it as possible.
Beyond McDavid and Draisaitl, they have:
A rookie starting goaltender, whose success as we know it is based on a single-season sample size and a complete playoff collapse.
A five million dollar backup goaltender, who earned his contract by being carried by the Leafs, despite being utterly horrendous for a long enough stretch leading up to his free agency that anyone who looked beyond the win-loss numbers wouldn’t have signed him.
One genuine shutdown defender.
One young up-and-coming defender; by far one of the most promising Oiler (or otherwise) defensive prospects, beyond the usual suspects.
One netfront grinder who is great at playing wing to high-power setters, but cannot drive his own line.
One decent 2C.
Sarah Nurse’s cousin. Sarah’s better.
A supporting cast of bad defencemen and middling-at-best forwards.
Many charming characters, of course: Zach Hyman, the grinder, is a beloved ex-Leaf, and I’m personally a fan of Nugent-Hopkins, the 2C, but the vast majority of this is not the sort of thing a contending team is built upon. McDavid has missed the playoffs almost as often as he’s made them. The playoffs are a crapshoot, but in order to try your luck you have to at least be able to enter the lottery, and it takes a stunning amount of effort to be able to do that.
So, McDavid lingers, in this kind of limbo. It mirrors the Leafs, almost. (And yes. Because McDavid is an Ontario boy, and the Leafs are the Centre of the Universe, we have to mention them both in conversation. Not all stories revolve around the Leafs, but this one does.) One true contender, and one generational talent, both what we picture to be well overdue for their Cup run, but neither having yet done so. 
The thing about the stories of the class of 2015 is that they intertwine, that they mimic and mirror each other. These boys have not simply gotten drafted in the same handful of picks in the same year and gone on their merry ways -- they layer, they parallel, they weave around each other. Connor is the captain of a team that cannot win, Jack is a captain, Mitch cannot win. Jack fought for the right to control his body and was demonized for it; Mitch negotiated for a contract that he determined to be a fair price for Babcock, and was demonized for it. Whatever pure saviour they figure Connor to be, Jack is the twisted inverse of that, falling from grace.
Connor has one of the best seasons in NHL history, one of only seventeen player-seasons with over a hundred and fifty points (Nine of those seasons belong to Gretzky. Another four belong to Lemieux.) He loses, in six games in the second round, to the Vegas Golden Knights. At the time that he’s eliminated, he leads the playoffs in points. Leon Draisaitl is tied for second place. Counting from the date Mitch Marner played his first game in the NHL, the Oilers and Leafs have almost exactly the same number of playoff game wins, with the Oilers having one more.
There’s No Place Like Strome
Before we can look to the future, there is one person I have been neglecting. Dylan, poor Dylan. I think it would be only half an unfair assessment to call him a draft bust. He’s talented, for sure, but not nearly the same calibre that the draftees around him are. Hardly a Marner, an Eichel, or even a Rantanen or a Meier. 
His career has existed quietly in the shadows, so far from Connor McDavid that it only feels fair to mention them in the same conversation in this context. It has been eight years since they were best friends, Connor so close to Dylan he waited in the stadium in order to watch him get drafted. They didn’t look each other in the eye in the handshake line when Dylan won their series. Connor didn’t go to his wedding.
That being said: so far, he has found himself a knack for landing in the shadow of greatness. When he was an Erie Otter, it was Connor -- Dylan held the scoring title in their draft year, while Connor was out nursing his hand, but Connor was the chosen son and Dylan was the Coyotes’ consolation prize. When he was traded to the Blackhawks, he found himself centring Kane and Debrincat, but of course both of them were the offseason and trade deadline’s prizes, and not him.
And then he signed in Washington.
So now, we go back to Ovechkin. Alex Ovechkin is one of the greatest players of all time; his Capitals are on the decline now, but they contended for a long time while he was playing and may still contend as long as Ovi still skates. For a long time, the team relied on Ovechkin’s goalscoring, assisted mostly by his faithful centre, Nicklas Backstrom. They, too, are married; they have played a thousand games as teammates, been through a decade of heartbreak together before the Cup was theirs. During the 2021-2022 season, Backstrom took time off -- he needed hip surgery, something likely to end his career. Ovi was alone.
There is a fundamental difference, of course, between the expectations of wingers and centres. A winger, like Ovi, scores, or assists, at his own leisure, but it is the centre’s job to drive his line. Ovechkin is generational -- he will sink forty goals no matter what -- but he still needs someone to move him out of the defensive zone, someone to make his assist.
Enter Dylan -- a young centre, not especially fast on his feet but intelligent, and clearly experienced in the realm of managing high-calibre wingers (see: Debrincat, and the ghost of Patrick Kane.) He joins the Capitals on a one-year contract, desperate to prove himself. Chicago didn’t want him, and Arizona didn’t either. It takes barely until November before he is, once again, the necessary shadow of greatness. 
Ovechkin, the team’s captain and centrepoint, clearly likes what he sees, and the management does, as well. The Capitals offer Strome a five-year extension.
Maybe it’s because he’s less of a superstar then the other three members of his draft class, but Dylan has a life outside of hockey -- a wife and young daughter. After being thrown away by other teams, and with his new family, I can only imagine that it was… peaceful, if anything, to be offered this contract.
Chicago, after rapidly getting rid of him, Debrincat, and then Kane, would go on to tank spectacularly, and win themselves the first overall pick. They will use it to draft another generational talent. His name is also Connor.
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The Blue Wedding
So, here we stand, at the end of it all. Dylan finally has a home, a mother hen of a Russian bear that it has become his job to assist in record-breaking, and soon to be two daughters. Jack has a team that loves him, freedom from pain, and an ongoing potential Cup run. Connor has a sterile mansion, a best friend, and an unsteady team. Mitch’s life is up in the air.
Right as I’m writing this, the general manager of the Leafs has been unceremoniously kicked out. His tenure will end the day before Mitch’s no-move contract kicks in, but it is not known if Mitch’s time as a Leaf will survive that long. He is well on track to become one of the greatest Leafs of all time, and his tenure might be cut short in the prime of his career. 
But let’s wrap up with this: Mitch will get married this summer. Because he’s Mitch, the darling of the league, everyone’s best friend, I imagine the wedding party to be extensive/ Packed to the brim of current and former Leafs, as well as people who have never been Leafs. I wonder if Dylan Strome will be there -- or even Connor McDavid, although McDavid never even attended Dylan’s wedding.
The stories, as they do, go on.
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phoenixkaptain · 4 months
Text
Okay. I’ll write an actual analysis.
A Lonely Place of Dying does a few things, storytelling-wise, that are actually incredibly impressive. Like, I figured it out and I was so excited.
First, we don’t see Tim. Not in part 1. All we see is glimpses. His hands as he puts away his camera. His feet as he runs away from Starfire’s apartment. We only see small parts of him, leaving him shrouded in mystery, which leads into part 2, where he’s represented by a shadowy figure on the cover.
The Titans, but especially Starfire, are all worried about the small child looking for Nightwing. This kid knows Nightwing’s name, knows where he lives, nd has a very conspicuous camera. I’d be worried too! So of course, from the Titans perspective, he’s an intimidating opponent that they don’t understand. (Especially since I’m like ninety percent sure Tim isn’t actually the one they’re looking for. Like, I think it was just a happy coincidence that the most suspicious child on the face of the planet happened to show up at the same time as the actual problem.)
We don’t see Tim’s face until just under halfway through part 2. And the first thing they show us are his eyes. He’s searching for Dick, even among all the pandemonium, and it’s only upon him finding Dick that we see his whole face.
Tim’s eyes are important. They’re an important part of his character in this storyline. Because Tim sees things. He sees through Bruce, he sees through Dick, he sees through Alfred even. He’s always looking.
And this is compounded when he explains how he knows what he knows in part 3.
We see child Tim Drake at the circus. Tim says this to Dick “…I kept staring at you…” and this “I remember waiting for you to go on. And then, when you did, I just sat there and watched.”
On the next page, he says, about Dick’s parents’ deaths, “I turned away… I couldn’t watch. Then I heard you crying and I turned back and I saw you holding onto them, and I began crying, too.”
Page 11 has his monologue about seeing Batman for the first time, and how he thought Batman would hurt Dick, but what’s important isn’t the dialogue, it’s the panels. They focus on the realization of Batman being safe, entirely through Tim’s eyes. He’s panicked and scared, then slowly relaxes. We see it all, because Tim sees it all.
And it’s THIS. Tim started the story by finding Batman, but he starts his story by beginning to look for Dick. Us seeing Tim seeing Dick is a direct parallel to us seeing Tim seeing Batman with Dick. Tim’s story starts by him staring at Dick, unable to look away. And when we see him for the first time, he’s looking at him again, still unable to look away.
Throughout the story, Tim is constantly looking at Dick. Yes, this is mostly because he’s talking to Dick, but even at the end of part 2, when Dick is being congratulated by Haly’s Circus members and isn’t paying attention to Tim at all, Tim is still watching him.
Why is there so much emphasis on his eyes? I’m so glad you asked- IT’S VISUAL STORYTELLING BABEYYYY.
Tim’s most important role in A Lonely Place of Dying is as a third party. He cares about Bruce and Dick, and he knows them a lot better than they might think, but he’s still a third party to them. They don’t know him. He’s someone who’s been looking in on their lives for ten years.
He’s. A. Voyeur.
The emphasis being placed on his eyes cements this. Dick, Alfred, and Bruce are all put off by him at first. He knows too much, he doesn’t offer much information on himself until he’s forced to, it’s almost uncomfortable how much of a stalker this thirteen-year-old manages to be. He’s a voyeur, watching their lives, unnoticed by any of them, and that’s a bit unnerving! I don’t blame Dick for being unsettled by him, he’s weird!
And, his eyes as a child watching Dick to his eyes as a preteen finding Dick. They’re connected. A perfectly linear story, just told backwards. It’s really very satisfying.
Now, point two. The question we all have. Is Tim a stalker?
Short answer: yes.
Long answer: yes, but I’ll explain.
Tim begins the story by taking pictures of Batman fighting Ravager. The narration mentions someone calling in a tip to Gordon about Ravager’s location, which is what led Batman to this point, and I’m on the fence over whether or not Tim was the one who called in. On one hand, it would make a lot of sense. Ravager is part of a bigger ploy by Two-Face, and we find out in part 2 that Tim knows Two-Face is behind the trouble. It would also explain how Tim found a spot to set up his camera for a good portion of the fight. And, it isn’t like Tim wouldn’t know Gordon’s phone number. On the other hand, it’s never explicitly stated who called Gordon, so assume what you will.
Part 1 actually shows us a glimpse of Tim’s collection of photographs. It’s huge. Most of them are obviously newspaper clippings, but a few are just pictures (I assume on photo paper because the edges are cleaner than the newspaper photos). Tim says, in part 3 “You know, since I was able to read, I clipped every article on Batman and Robin.” We admittedly don’t know when Tim learned to read, but he’s thirteen and says he gets mostly A’s, so I’m assuming he probably learned in preschool or kindergarten, around the age of 3-5. That’s a lot of newpaper clippings. We only see his more recent and his most stalkery ones, so who knows how many more he has?
There are only a few points in the story where we see that Tim is genuinely emotional about anything. For the most part, he is calm. He smiles a lot. He doesn’t use a lot of exclamation marks. The only times he does use exclamation marks are when he’s monologuing (internally or externally) about how great Dick is or when he’s trying to make a point. The only time we see him get visibly distressed is when Dick ignores him about Batman needing a Robin.
I don’t know how to stress upon you that Tim only cries that one time. Tim almost dies three times in this comic. He went to his second circus and another person died. His idols both berate him and talk down to him (although Dick stops right after they meet with Bruce. I’m going to be honest, I think Dick wants Bruce to take Tim on as Robin because if Dick had to deal with Tim for a whole day, so does Bruce). He has to recount watching Dick’s parents die and the nightmares he got from it.
He went through so much. But, the only time he’s upset is when Dick won’t listen to him about what’s best for Batman.
Anyway, Tim flat out just says a lot of really stalker-y shit, so I’ll just list some more:
We already know about him clipping newspapers since he could read
When he’s asking Kory where Nightwing is, he lets slip to her that he was watching Titans Tower with this line “I know he wasn’t at your meeting today.”
There’s also a few lines from breaking and entering Dick’s apartment “Grayson kept his old apartment. If he left the Titans, he might be here.” “He’s a detective… he must keep notes. Even something scribbled on a shopping list.” “No! The Haly Circus is closing? It can’t be! It can’t! But at least I now know where he is!” (Why is the shopping list thing stalkery Kacie, I’m so glad you asked. Tim knows Dick well enough that he knows Dick writes things down. Bruce certainly doesn’t, and Bruce is also a detective, so it’s a logical leap unless Tim knows Dick is inclined to write things down.)
There’s one part that isn’t stalkery so much as really funny to me. While Tim is looking for Dick at the circus, he realizes that Dick is “a master of disguise” and that “I’ve been looking for Dick Grayson, but he could be anyone.” only to almost immediately after say “No, not the roustabouts. They’re too tall.” First, that means he can’t “be anyone.” Second, he knows Dick’s height just. So well.
Tim realizes who Dick is and I think I’ll just tell you what he said to explain how he figured it out “Th-that jump- - -that’s him! It’s got to be Dick!” What was so special about Dick’s jump? I don’t think there was anything special, I think Tim is just weird.
Dick asks Tim who he is no less than three separate times. Tim refuses to tell him, all three times. At the beginning of part 3, while Dick is introducing Tim to Alfred, Dick says “Alfred, this may be a bit awkward, but I’d like you to meet- - - -what did you say your name was again?” Implying that Tim did tell Dick, but only briefly.
Back in part 2, Tim says this to Dick “Look, I know you’re Nightwing. You used to be Robin. Then Jason Todd became Robin, and when he died, Bruce Wayne went to pieces.” Tim says this before telling Dick his name by the way.
Tim, upon being introduced to Alfred (a cont. of the earlier Dick line) “Tim. Mr. Pennyworth- - gosh I was really hoping we’d meet. I know you’re Batman’s confidant, and I’ve dreamed about the stories you could tell.”
Alfred’s response to this is “I am- - what did you say?” Which is very funny.
Some more stalker lines that come from Tim looking around the manor: “I’ve seen pictures of this place,” “There’s the renoir Mr. Wayne bought last year. I read about that in Art World Today.”, “He’s got an erte? Oh, I love his stuff.”, “Please, can I see the rest of the house?”
There’s this, which a part of was mentioned earlier “I don’t remember the clowns or the animals, or anything else. I just remember waiting for you to go on. And then, when you did, I just sat there and watched.”
Tim says, before explaining anything, “Okay, you won’t take me seriously until I tell you everything. Dick, I don’t want this to hurt you. And I’m really afraid it might.” He then says, “I’m sorry, Dick. I really am. I told you I didn’t want to hurt you by telling you all this.” Tim is right, Dick is hurt. Tim is a stalker, but he’s a conscientious stalker.
There’s this “That image of you doing your somersault- - - -it stayed with me for years. I couldn’t get it out of my mind.” “I knew that somersault. I knew it like I knew my own name.”
This is just the beginning of a sentence, but it still is very stalkery “When you moved to New York to become Nightwing…”
Or how about “…Batman and Robin have meant everything to me. I’ve followed them both… I know them so well. I knew when Dick left to become Nightwing. I knew when Jason came and became Robin… and I knew when Jason died.”
Tim mentions offhandedly that he managed at some point to slip a tracking device on Two-Face. An impressive feat, considering Two-Face was trying to hit him with a crowbar and Tim only came into contact with him twice, either to punch him in the face or push him away from attacking Alfred. I doubt he slipped it on him while punching him, but his ability to stay calm under pressure even while acting panicky, managing to smoothly slide a tracking device onto Two-Face that Two-Face never realizes is there, is very impressive. Or, it’s practiced-
Bruce says “I don’t want a partner. It’s as simple as that.”
Tim responds “After all you’ve been through, I understand.”
So you may be wondering, with all of this overwhelming evidence and the fact that he knows where both Kory and Dick live and the fact that he already knew Alfred Pennyworth was Batman’s confidant and all of the weird, supervillain-esque shit he says, why does anyone like him?
And I’ll tell you why. It’s because he’s so fucking awkward.
Tim says things like “oh thank goodness” or “gosh” or “it’s still been wonderful.” Tim stutters talking to Batman. Tim fanboys over Dick and Bruce constantly. He isn’t even upset to have gotten a mystery wrong, he’s just happy he got to see Dick solve a case.
But also, Tim is right. Batman is acting recklessly, and it’s directly as a result of Jason dying. Tim says he needs Robin, not Nightwing, but I think what he means is more the role that they fill. Robin is little and Bruce can tuck him under his wing and keep him safe. Nightwing is an adult who argues with him and is a good leader in his own right, leading to more arguments. Robin is someone Batman has to take notice of, has to account for when making plans. Nightwing can keep up, and he isn’t as worried about Nightwing because he trusts Nightwing’s ability to stay alive. They fill very different roles, and that’s what Tim means, even if he has trouble saying it.
And he’s completely right. Batman without Robin runs recklessly into a building without scoping it out, tries to save two boys tied with active grenades by himself, walks into a room full of mobsters with guns without having any protection himself. Tim implies that he’s worried Bruce might die, and he’s right to be worried.
But even with Nightwing there, Batman only worries when things go wrong. He doesn’t see Dick as his scrappy little sidekick anymore, he sees him as an adult. And it’s only when Dick’s in trouble that Bruce reverts to treating him like a child.
Robin makes Batman stop and think before they go in. Robin makes Batman patient. Because Bruce cares about Dick and Jason, and he comes to care about Tim too.
Tim wins him over by being clever, but later comics show that they have to build trust in each other. Tim trusts Bruce completely, right off the bat, and that’s overwhelming for Bruce. But Bruce stops being overwhelmed and starts feeling fond.
Because despite everything I said, Tim is a good person. He’s so worried about Bruce that he’s willing to search everywhere to find Dick to try and help him. He’s so worried about Bruce that he spends his vacation week slumming around on his bicycle trying to save Bruce’s life. He dives down a coal chute without a second thought, and he pushes with all his might to unbury Batman and Nightwing. He cares about them, and it’s painfully obvious that he does.
Tim doesn’t want to be Robin. Like, okay, he would love to be Robin, but that’s not why he’s here. He doesn’t want to tell Dick his first name, and it’s only after seeing that Dick isn’t taking him seriously that he spills the beans. He didn’t want to tell Dick, because that would hurt Dick. He says “B-Batman, it’s hard for me to say this to you” because he’s about to tell Bruce off for being reckless and he doesn’t want to. Tim wants to know that Bruce and Dick are safe, and that’s the only thing he wants.
Yes, Tim is definitely a stalker. He literally said himself that he followed them, and even if it was only through newspapers, it still counts as following. Now, maybe he doesn’t fit this dictionary definition of a stalker: “a person who harasses or persecutes someone with unwanted and obsessive attention,” but I think he does fit this dictionary definition: “a person who hunts prey stealthily.” Tim is stealthy and quick.
I read an article that said his weakness was unexpected situations, but I would argue that that’s bullshit. Tim is great in unexpected situations. Did he expect Two-Face to start trying to beat him with a crowbar? No, but he managed to avoid being hit and plant a tracker on him. Did he expect Two-Face to crush the Batmobile he’s sitting in with a wrecking ball? No, but he managed to jump out and hide and tried to warn Batman and Nightwing to watch out. Did he expect Bruce to agree to let him train to be Robin? No, but he’s going to do the best he can now that he has the chance.
From the very beginning, we can see that Tim is someone with an answer to just about everything. He knows things, he notices things, and he’s good at reacting. Later comics don’t dispute this, that I know of. Tim is the Robin with multiple contingencies for his contingencies, but he’s also the Robin who is most likely to say “oh shit I did not see that coming.” He’s a surprised sometimes, yes, but that doesn’t mean he’s unprepared.
All in all, Tim Drake is a fascinating character study of a rich kid who talks like an elderly woman providing therapy for a man who is at least two, if not three, decades his senior. Tim doesn’t quite understand at any point that monitoring isn’t the same thing as showing affection, which is why he and Bruce get along swimmingly and why Tim is often slated to be the Robin most alike to Batman.
Congratulations, Tim.
Also, I really truly believe that Tim had his first crush on Dick, which is why he couldn’t stop staring at him. And I didn’t mention he said this, because it wasn’t important to the points I was making, but it’s important to this one. Tim says “…I kept staring at you, and your circus costume.” The circus costume being similar to Robin’s is never brought up, only the fact fact that Tim couldn’t stop staring at it. I’m telling you, his first crush was here, it’s so obvious, just look at my corkboar-
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inkskinned · 2 years
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but you couldn't, like, see a gay person kissing.
it was alright that i had been catcalled at 12 years old. it was alright that i had been followed and groped at 15. it was okay men were leery and treacherous. it was okay when a man asked me my age and when i said 18, he said, that age is my favorite.
don't you like feeling sexy? i love action movies, but i often have an internal tally of how often a camera will begin at someone's hips and travel to her face only as if by accident. weirdly, you can't show too-much asscrack in the same movie, even if it was the style in the nineties. sort of only apply a tasteful sprinkling of asscrack.
i am wearing a body type that is very easily sexualized. it's a compliment, you'll miss it. it is not his fault, i am told - and then usually with this assurance, someone will compare me to an object. i am, by the way, not using "i become an object" metaphorically. well, you wouldn't wear a precious watch in a dangerous city - i am the watch, in this situation. can you blame a thief for taking a jewel if it was just left out in the open? i think my personhood is the jewel, but sometimes also it is pain. a dog sees a steak. i like this one because it does refer to men as dogs, even if it does literally compare me to a piece of meat (which is, you know, somehow worse than being a dog. at least call me a bitch, babe).
it's inappropriate to show two men kissing, but it's totally normal to hear that "best" age for childbirth is 15. (it's not, by the way. try 20's & 30's. do your fucking reading). and on tv - let's cut from a murder mystery where a woman is shown brutally bloodied, carved into pieces (only pg-13) into a tampon commercial where she runs around, happy and fluttering, refusing to use the word period, white pants abounding. periods: gross, icky. violence, though, is just a gendered currency.
so it's like - you say "can we please treat women like they're people and stop cutting their heads off in advertisements" and then it's like. no actually we needed that woman's bellybutton to sell drain fluid don't like it don't look. and you say "can you please not make every latin person a drug dealer holy shit" and they're like. unfortunately if we don't make the latin person a drug dealer we literally will go rabid. and you say "okay can we at least agree you super don't need to use racist epithets why is this even a conversation we're still having" and they're like. actually my child is a make-a-wish kid and his only wish was that i get to use words that make your skin crawl and if you don't let me use the words it's because you love cancer don't you.
so it's kind of a lost cause. because when something is complicated even a little bit, you find yourself trying to explain that the solution isn't make women cover up, it's that the idea "sexualization of nonconsenting parties is wrong" can also hold hands with the idea "not every expression of fondness is sexual in nature, nor is nonhegemonic sexual expression somehow more inflammatory or inappropriate than its counterpart"- and both of those ideas can also hold hands with "the male gaze is rarely censored despite the massive amounts of societal harm it imposes." but like, that's a big thought. let's just slap "pg-13" on the movie because they actually use the word lesbian. and let's cross our fingers and hope no kid figures out they're lgbt+ before college - otherwise they have access to literally no resources, since even google will censor the results in case they're pornographic. now, if you wanted to know how to hide a body...
when i was a kid i used to keep my eyes on my toes while walking past bra stores, feeling uncomfortable. it was gross to look at ladies, i knew that much. the way the women were posed was... not for me. not even for the people shopping. it was weird. i don't think anyone actually there-for-the-product was like yeah this is inspiring.
and i remember in high school my friends and i were still talking about how uncomfortable we felt in victoria's secret, shuffling our way out into the new england chill. little yellow leaves around our feet. a guy held the door open for us. a few seconds later, he jogged up after us. we were so startled we turned to look. "sorry," he said. "i just wanted to ask how old you all are." we were young then, so we lied and told him we were older. we'd talk about this later - we all thought maybe one of us had dropped our wallet or something. he smiled dolefully. "i just wanted to say you all are fucking beautiful. you have amazing tits on you."
sometimes i wonder. what if one fraction of the effort they put into making sure no gay thing ever occurs onscreen just went into controlling and educating their own fucking population. now wouldn't that be something.
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beep-beep-lettuce-12 · 2 months
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hi friends!
in light of trying to be a wash of relief to Palestinians in Gaza, i have gathered Gofundme links that donate personally to displaced Palestinians in need and/or the trusted friends and family members who can help directly provide to them! \ ^^ /
(more details of their stories can be found in the linked websites)
1. Fadwa Shaheen - Fadwa and her family are currently in a dire situation in Gaza and have lost both their homes and jobs due to the ongoing genocide.
2. Eyad and her dear friend Sanaa - Eyad's close friend Saanaa Odeh who is currently in Gaza made this Gofundme in order to help her and her family seek asylum in Belgium in the best way that she can.
3. Dr. Thaer Inshasi - Dr. Inshasi is a radiologist currently living in Gaza. since the start of the war over ninety days ago, he, among many, if not all Palestinians in Gaza have belong living in fear, struggle, humiliation and starvation.
4. Evacuate my diabetic child out of Gaza - Miriam and her three kids, one of whom is a 7-year-old diabetic. her family has survived five war aggressions on Gaza, the latest being in 2021 when Miriam was three months pregnant with twins. now, Miriam and her family face displacement and have little to no access to fulfill even the basic needs even for her kids, such as, diapers, milk/formula, medical check-ups, medicine, clean water and food.
5. Rebuild Hope in Gaza: Support Bisan and Families - Bisan Odwa is a remarkable women's rights activist in Palestine and in the surrounding regions as well as a passionate digital creator and is the founder of her company, Tellers, a company that empowers women and provides economic opportunities. despite the odds given to her, Bisan has been able to create better futures for many until tragedy struck and she was displaced from her home and her work. now more than ever she needs our help.
6. Help Raina's Family escape Gaza - Raina Alalem asks for our help behalf off of her family, the Al-Dahouks that include sixteen members including eight kids are trapped in the devastating eighty plus day genocide occuring in Gaza, and are urgently seeking aid to cross the Rafah border into Egypt.
7. Help Hasan's family escape Gaza - Hasan has been separated from his mother and sisters who are currently in Gaza, and has not been able to go back since 2014 due to the ongoing genocide. his five sisters and mother as well as his aunt and uncle, and their children are facing insurmountable danger and have been displaced from their homes several times since the past year.
8. Save the family of Dr. Duhair from war torn Gaza - Dr. Duhair, a devoted pharmacist once had a pharmacy nearby the Shuhada Al-Aqsa hospital, where they were able to provide a beacon of community amongst Palestinians. now, that same pharmacy has been destroyed by the IDF, and the heavy bombardment. Dr. Duhair along with his wife, Faten Ahmed and their three kids, Adam, Kenda and Kenzy yearn for nothing more than to leave the horrors of war and to leave Gaza.
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lundenloves · 3 months
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“ 𝐒𝐈𝐌𝐎𝐍’𝐒 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐃𝐄𝐏𝐋𝐎𝐘𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓 “
⤷ this was written in around 40 minutes flat. i love you all, thank you for being here to support my ramblings.
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His first deployment. Nothing short of devastating, a ruinous experience not meant for the likes of an eighteen year old. Shoved between a divergence of broken and bruised ageing men that forced a squint from younger eyes. The smell of drink and gunpowder mixed, sat shoulder to shoulder with bloodied uniforms and pairing eyes that sunk to the floor as if by force. “How is it?” A splutter of conversation was hosted through cigarette ends, two older men sat adjacent from one another in the truck. Simon paid an ear.
“The same.” He answered, sitting back and leaving a weighted sigh. “Bad.”
The thump of an impatient fist against his thigh was one Simon had sidewardly eyed, painfully aware of his own crisp green camo. Against its purpose, it did little to blend him in. Each pocket was still with tact stitching, sleeves unworn by others’ demise and his teenage build was a patent sign of his rank. “Lost a dozen or so.”
Unscarred hands white knuckled a rifle, jaw tightening through the ins and outs of that sole conversation beside him. The truck battered against divots in the sand they drove through, his stomach churning with each time pressure had been applied to the breaks. “Bravo?”
“Bravo.” Spare ash from their smoking had tumbled over Simon’s boot, his eyes pointedly watching the grey flake and disappear. “Lost their sniper, stupid sods.” A brief pause for what was assumed to be an inhale, desert now surrounding every side of the four by four, not one clue was to be had of their exact location. “Y’wouldn’t put a young lad on his own up on ninety-two would you? Fuck sake.”
Young eyes reverted toward his gun, heavy and worn with scratched handwriting across the barrel. The day was a fleet. Two lives had been lost that morning, two men to his left on that last drive. Two neat bullets placed into chests that pried the last drop of life they had clasped so desperately to on that desert floor.
Simon watched them die from his dugout. A pit in the sand created by waves of wind, the seniors beside him wrapped a sole knuckle on his helmet in empathy. “Don’t let it stick with you, son.” Seven words that had shaped a military mindset from the beginning.
His eye twitched from the loss of life, watching the last breath leave a soul before going limp. The youthful silence was noted by the men alongside him, apparent trauma was something that hadn’t slipped yet only turned into a weapon the older he grew.
Trauma was key.
Trauma was valued.
Because what was a soldier without trauma? How could bullets take another life without the aid of anger. Not only had two men lost theirs, Simon had also taken his first. A fumbled mess at best, the worst way to go without dignity at the wrath of an eighteen year old child. His ungloved hands fingered at the trigger, equivalent to flooring a pedal in a car his knuckles turned white with the grip and his eyes involuntarily squeezed shut.
His arms had dropped to his sides after the fact, blood spats across his face from a point blank effort that had left a traumatic scene. His kill wasn’t nearly as neat and kind, though heavy and messy. The weight stuck with him, taking five paces backward to the colleague behind him who was only a year older at the time. “It’ll get better.”
And those three words paired with the prior seven had merged to find a mantra. Somewhere hidden between desolation and adrenaline had he finally understood the Who Dares Wins motto of the SAS, nevermind the surface level of Be The Best — an army effort that ironically felt below of his own expectation of himself. Who Dares Wins felt right. It felt deeper and solid, something that resonated and rumbled within his chest.
But for years, Be The Best was the phrase he aimed to please. His first deployment was a testament to that, eyes wide and glassed on the ride back to base that was missing two men save for their dogtags and guns. His hands shook uncontrollably as did his leg that trembled without conscious effort, he felt sick to the stomach and the blood on his uniform now felt like the rest of his life.
He noticed how no one spoke.
How hands aggressively rubbed at faces and boots were kicked up on the two ghost seats adjacent. The quiet wasn’t necessarily due to respect of fallen men but fatigue. Sleep never came for weeks and the start of a nightmarish routine had only just begun, this was living hell but it felt right.
It felt deserved.
The red water that had pooled by his feet that night in the shower wasn’t something he could ever wash off and anxiety had peaked.
By his first deployment, every corner he looked around was now subject to threat. Every fast movement was met with panic and his eyes had went longer without blinking. Hand pats on the shoulder were now cause for fright and the deafening blasts of machine guns made home in his house. Hell, they’d taken a room.
He became completely closed.
No one got in.
No one got out.
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simon 'ghost' riley taglist: @vamppxncess @crowbars @tallrock35 @fluffmonster @islanderr @blueoorchid @lea3773 @rayhawk05 @han11dh @melovetitties @fallonx @rvjaa @fuckmelifesucks @bhayatsara @local-spidey @konigsblog @penutjuice @babychoi03 @sheluvzeren @sparklingtragedy @maviee @wiserebelpartypie @daddylorianisastateofmind @bhayatsara @writingmysanity @johfaam0 @idkbbyx3 @gressseyy @shibble @maladaptivedaydreamingbum @hotgirlsshareaccounts @simpxinnie @cliosunshine @bloobewy @lazybutsmexy @iluvoaldmen @yyiikes @tieflingteatime @cosmoscoffee @lilvampirina @cinnabeanz @spencerreidisbae123 @paperbag-prncss @cookiecutta @sluttyforsimon @loveangelic @friendly-neighborhood-lich-queen @hayleybarnesx @reignthereigner
MY FUCKING TAGS BROKE
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ravensinthedaylight · 2 years
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Ready or Not, Here I Come - Mama!Nat x Daughter!Reader
Summery: Your mama, Natasha can’t find you during a game of hide and seek and gets slightly worried
Notes: ‘Calls’ as in shouting, I’m going to assume reader is too young to have a phone yet, loll.
Readers Age: 4 Years Old
Requests: Open
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“Ninety-Nine... One-Hundred! Alright Malysh! Ready or not, here I come! Mama’s gonna find her little loon!” Natasha called out into the hallway of her section of the compound.
You both had just gotten back from spending the weekend at the Barton’s farm, over the weekend you had developed a love for the game of hide-and-seek from the two eldest Barton children.
So far this was yours and Natasha’s third game, and Natasha was just as into it as you were since she just could’t get enough of seeing your cheeky little grin or hearing your adorable squeal whenever she found you.
“Y/nnnnnn! Come out, come out where ever you are, манчкин.” 
Nothing.
Hm, you were learning fast. The first round you had come out of your hiding spot straight after she had called you, always being a child to answer when called so that you wouldn’t give your mama a scare.
Natasha made sure to make her steps heavy, knowing that you would giggle if you felt as though you were tricking her.
“Could my little Y/N/N be under the carpet?” She called out as she lifted the carpet gently. “Oh? She isn’t here!” She called out, pretending to sound shocked.
Although she was a little but when she didn’t hear a sound afterwards.
You were really getting good at this game. Clint had thought you well. She could imagine his words of ‘the student becomes the master’
“Ohhhhhh Y-NNNNN!” She sang. “Mama’s coming to find youuu.”
Nothing. Huh.
For the next minute Natasha played it the way she usually did, making silly little comments as well as looking at the spots where it was plain-fully obvious you weren’t hiding. But you were beginning to worry her by remaining quiet.
You were a quiet child, of course. But usually during games like this the more your mama called the more you wanted to run to her and make sure that she wasn’t actually worried, plus you loved the cuddles that you would receive.
“Y/N? Sweetheart?”
If you just giggles or let out a huff or something she would gladly keep pretending for another five minutes, but there wasn’t a peep out of you.
“Come on honey, Mama can’t find you anywhere. She gives up!” 
Natasha thought that that ought to do it. But it didn’t. Still not a sound. 
And due to having received a small dose of syrum during her time in the red room, her hearing was better than the average person’s, making it easier to hear around your’s and her’s apartment in the compound. Which helped whenever you had a nightmare or needed to get up at night due to a tummy ache.
Natasha was panicking now, switching into protective Mama mode.
She began to search all of your previous hiding spots where you had hid in perviously. But nothing.
She would have heard the door open if you went to go somewhere else in the compound.
“Y/N! Come on sweetheart! Why don’t we go find Uncle Thor? He and Loki just got back from Asgard, you love Uncle Loki!”
You did love Uncle Loki, he was one of your favourite uncles and if something wasn’t terribly wrong you would have zoomed over to her that very second from where you were supposed to be hiding.
“Malyshka please. Are you stuck? Do you need Mama to come get you?”
Natasha wandered aimlessly around the apartment, not entirely sure what to do. She didn’t want to leave incase you got scared if you came out of your hiding spot because she wasn’t there.
It wasn’t until she noticed a little pair of kids’ shoes sticking out from under the rack that she felt huge relief.
Natasha pulled a few of the coats to the side and smiled in relief and at the adorable sight in front of her.
You were fast asleep, your head resting on her slippers. 
She should have known how tired you would be. You had been running wild with the Barton kids all day, you had stayed awake the entire car journey back chatting away because you felt that if you fell asleep Natasha would be lonely, you had then played another two games while running around with Natasha. She’s surprised you hadn’t fallen asleep sooner.
After she quickly snapped a picture of you on her phone she put it away and went to softly pick you up, you were light, so it was no problem.
“C’mere sweet pea.” She murmured as you let out a small grunt.
“Mama.” You whined slightly.
“Right here Moye Serdtse.” She cooed softy as you lay your head on her shoulder. 
“Did I win?”
Natasha suppressed a laugh. You had won in scaring her if that’s what you meant, which of course it wasn’t.
She studied your red locks that you inherited from her, and said something that she had known since the day she she discovered your existence. “I won.” She said lovingly. She had won, she had won in life because she had you. What else could she ever need?
You huffed, not understanding what she really meant. “Next time I will.”
“Maybe.” Natasha chuckled. “Let’s go sweetheart, you can sleep in my bed.”
You smiled up tiredly at Natasha as she moved some hairs from your face. “Yes please, Mama.”
“I love you. Malyshka.”
“Iluvoo too...” You replied, half asleep on your Mama’s shoulder already.
Taglist: (Comment to be added)
@wackymcstupid @battleg03 @griffin-girl-r @natashasnoodle @tynix @violetromanova @blackwidow-3 @simp-erformarvelwomen
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