#First and Lexington

[rabbitcruiser]

World War II: The first kamikaze attack on October 21, 1944. A Japanese fighter plane carrying a 200-kilogram (440 lb) bomb attacks HMAS Australia off Leyte Island, as the Battle of Leyte Gulf began.

[cricketpress]

Cricket Press will be set up at the...

Crafted Social FIRST CALL event!

Kick off spring & celebrate West Sixth's Lucky 13 on Saturday 29 from 10-4, by shopping the FIRST EVER FIRST CALL ART MARKET! Browse local art, sip local beer, and enjoy our birthday celebrations!

We'll have ALL our West Sixth Birthday prints (past & present) on sale (that day only)! We'll also have an assortment of our other art...including large & small screenprints and graphic novels!

It's going to be a fun day with a very cool selection of art vendors. We're very excited. Come join the party!!!

[itwoodbeprefect]

chocolate & peanut butter, aka "even i wanna make out with will right now" & other hits, aka hype reel for a thing i never ship until season 6 comes along and someone behind the scenes on this show loses their mind and/or has an epiphany

[readandwriteclub]

Fwiw that day I. Lexington the Brits did indeed pry em from the cold dead hands of the insurrectionists (or the bodies were still warm).

[deborabuerk-the-write-stuff]

The Historic Battles of Lexington and Concord Explained

The Semiquincentennial of the American Revolution, Part Two. On April 19, 2025, as the sun rises over the horizon, we commemorate not just a milestone in our family—the 70th birthday of my beloved husband—but also a momentous occasion in our nation’s history. Two hundred and fifty years ago, on this fateful day, the echoes of freedom began to reverberate across the colonies, igniting the flames…

[jewish-microwave-laser]

You are not qualified to run campaigns involving millions of dollars. I have seen screenshots that even within your own community you call each other zionists and racists whenever you cannot agree what to do with the money. How irresponsible and childish is that?

Link

This is a well-known Palestinian user and vetter explaining that they are completely confident that the pornbotlike ask sent by an account with a verified fundraiser was a result of "embarrassing behavior/a mistake in online interactions."

This would be more plausible if it was a one time occurrence, but this blog sent the exact same ask to (at minimum) three separate accounts:

Link

Link

Link

These asks are all identical, to the letter - that's how I found them. This is, needless to say, very strange for any person to do on tumblr, least of all someone who is raising money to try and protect their family from a genocide. glitzyboo, for example, does not post images of themselves or reblog anything remotely close to NSFW, so it's very very odd behavior for someone to tell them they are "pretty enough" for anything. It is even more suspicious when you consider the very long history of porn bots sending sugar daddy scam asks on this site.

I don't know what is going wrong here - who is mistaken about what, what part of the process is breaking down, but the story told in the above post, that this was an embarrassing social faux pas that happened one time and was sent by a real person who was horny, does not hold up to scrutiny.

[headspace-hotel]

by the way (i sadly cant share this document cause it was sent to me personally and i dont think its online) i've been reading a compilation of earliest writings by European settlers about Kentucky and its fucking wild

the main thing they mention is the river cane, everywhere. Cane cane cane cane cane on every page. Canebrakes stretching for miles and miles, dark woodlands of massive trees spaced wide apart with canebrake as the understory

But also they talk a lot about: Huge fields of strawberries that seem to turn red in spring with all the strawberries getting ripe. Raspberries. Groves of American plums, even some AN ACRE big just a huge patch of plum trees. Cherry trees. Huge grape vines growing up one in every four trees. Persimmons and pawpaws. Walnut trees. Hickory trees. Oak trees. And sugar maples. EVERYWHERE. And the canebrakes absolutely TEEMING with turkeys, passenger pigeons and quails

Reading the descriptions of looking out into a valley and seeing herds of 200-300 bison frolicking in the clover and river cane almost makes me want to cry...

It's crazy how much they talk about plum trees because plum trees are so rare now!

Really it's wild seeing how abundant the edible woody plant species and berries just-so-happened to be when Europeans first came. Right?

To me it seems like obvious pieces of evidence that indigenous people were actively cultivating this land. It was a landscape scale agriculture fully integrated with the ecosystem.

Even more so because it started to collapse very soon after settlers came. The sugar maple trees were mostly killed by settlers hacking indiscriminately into them with hatchets for maple syrup making without caring about the trees survival, the livestock running loose destroyed the native clover and cane causing invasive grass to grow back, and the bison...reading about the bison is so sad!

The wasteful slaughter of bison began very early. Lots of writers talk about other settlers killing bison just to say they killed one, or killing several of them and barely taking one horse load of meat from them, or seeing traders killing bison by the hundreds just to take the most valuable parts and leave the body to rot...And the writers knew it was wrong! but they couldn't stop the others from doing it. So bison were basically gone from around Lexington before 1800 :(

Settlers even killed the bison for wool--this was fascinating to me, they described making their cloth out of nettle bast fiber and bison wool. Native Americans also used bison wool for textiles, but as far as I know they didn't kill them for it (tho i reckon they might have used the wool on a bison they killed)...the wool peels right off in big clumps in the spring. Same thing with mountain goats, indigenous peoples would just gather the mountain goat wool when it naturally shed. But the settlers were killing bison to shave the wool off and it said only the young ones had good wool so if they killed a bison that didn't have good wool on it they would just kill another one.

They destroyed the river cane not knowing that bamboo was strong and useful for practically everything. Destroyed the native pastures of buffalo clover, Kentucky clover, running buffalo clover and God knows what other extinct or undiscovered clovers. And now wild strawberries and raspberries are hard to find, American plums very rare, persimmons rare...

The settlers didn't understand this land, didn't try to understand it, they were full of greed and just tried to force their idea of agriculture and their idea of society onto it, and watched in bafflement as the natural abundance and beauty of the land around them fell into decay and ruin from their abuse.

[rabbitcruiser]

The first escalator was patented by inventor Jesse W. Reno on March 15, 1892.

[anoriginalderivative]

minneapolis? that’s in blaine????

The Pink Pony Motel of Minneapolis, Minnesota later became the Circle Court Apartments. It’s most likely gone now.

[railraptor]

Guess who's hella excited to have a Gun Runner to root for as we head into next year's Triple Crown.

Locked looked pretty good winning the Breeders' Futurity, going wide around both turns and being persistent down the lane....bring on the Breeders' Cup!

[sageshouldknowbetter]

I love how much Helly’s clothes have to say not just about her outie’s identity, but the origin of her rebellion as a whole.

Like… she breaks the dress code. Constantly. We know from The Lexington Letter that Lumon only allows white, black, navy, gray, and pastels. And what does Helly wear? Bright blues, green, orange, and at one point, even a dress that is unapologetically crayon-yellow.

For most of season one, the audience thinks this symbolizes Helly’s rebellious nature. Of course her outfits break the rules and stand out like a sore thumb in the muted halls of MDR — so does she! Helly is a new wild card spicing up the lives of her coworkers and shaking up the system. She doesn’t care a whit for Lumon and their stupid regulations, and her clothing reflects that.

But remember… Helly R. doesn’t dress herself.

Helena does.

If Helly could choose to break the dress code, she would — but she has no say in what she puts on every morning. It isn’t her who’s doing this. It’s Helena Eagan who wakes up and, every time she gets ready for work, purposefully dresses herself in ways contrary to her own father’s company.

Whatever her reasons, the point is this: the only reason Helly can unashamedly break the dress code is that no one has the guts to tell the CEO’s daughter to follow the rules. That rebellion, that defiant warmth? Only there because of privilege.

And isn’t that the point? Isn’t that so much of what Helly R.’s “moxie” is? Yes, she fights against MDR’s mistreatment and galvanizes the innies to revolution! Which is awesome! But a lot of it’s because when she first woke up on that table, something inside her went, “This isn’t right.

“This isn’t how people are supposed to treat me.”

It is SO deliciously ironic that almost every sliver, every atom of resistance Helly has against Lumon is an inversion from a sense of entitlement that they gave her in the first place. Helly R. goes to work with someone else’s power over her skin. It’s both the flaming crest of her defiance and a constant, quiet reminder that it is only there because she is not like the others. That she is only rebellious because on the outside… she is used to getting her way.

[doyoulikethissong-poll]

Towenda Choir Orchestra - Inspector Gadget 1983

Inspector Gadget is a media franchise that began in 1983 with the DiC Entertainment animated television series Inspector Gadget. It was co-created by Andy Heyward, Jean Chalopin and Bruno Bianchi, and was originally syndicated by DiC Audiovisuel and Lexington Broadcast Services Company. Since the original series, there have been many spin-offs based on the show, including additional animated series, video games, and films. The franchise follows the adventures of a sympathetic but dimwitted cyborg police inspector named Gadget as he investigates the criminal schemes of Dr. Claw and his organization, M.A.D., and fruitlessly attempts to stop him. However, neither side is aware that it is Gadget's niece, Penny, and her dog, Brain, who are truly responsible for thwarting M.A.D.

The original Inspector Gadget theme song was composed by composer Shuki Levy, and was based on Edvard Grieg's "In the Hall of the Mountain King". The original French version has lyrics while the English and most dubs based on the English version are without. The theme is considered by many to be one of the most iconic and most recognizable theme songs in the world. Levy has been credited to the music of a huge amount of shows such as He-Man and the Masters of the Universe, She-Ra: Princess of Power, Digimon: Digital Monsters, Sylvanian Families, Heathcliff, The Super Mario Bros. Super Show! (poll #543), The Mysterious Cities of Gold (poll #545), and Lucky Luke.

Several early rap records sampling the Inspector Gadget theme song were released in 1985. The Kartoon Krew also released "Inspector Gadget" on ZYX Music, which contains vocal samples and quotes from the popular cartoon series, reenacted by the rap group for the song. East New York rap group Bad Boys & K-Love released a record on Starlite Records, "Bad Boys", featured on the UK hip hop compilation Street Sounds Electro 9. Following the trend, Slick Rick and Doug E. Fresh used samples from the Inspector Gadget theme song on their single "The Show". The theme song has been heavily sampled in the years since then. California-based punk band Lagwagon recorded a short instrumental cover of the theme song on their 1992 album Duh.

Go Go Gadget Score Results! 90,1% yes votes!

[a-cloud-for-dreams]

Also ALSO during the last chapter of ROD when Colt and Lyra have to leave each other and he's like "I'll forget my own name before I forget you" he gives her his leather jacket as a token of her relationship and she wears it as often as possible even after they're not together anymore since it makes her feel safe and nostalgic

I like to think he sneaks around to be with her even after he promised to never see her again because she stays in Cali for university (I ignored the Langston thing whoops). Colt gives her "Logan updates" since Logan wants to stay away to protect Lyra and she gives Colt "Mona updates" since she visits her in prison

I also like to think Colt and Logan reunite and they're part of the same gang again <3

[cece693]

POOR IMITATION

pairing: hannibal lecter x male reader synopsis: Franklyn Froideveaux didn't need an introduction—even if Hannibal was a firm believer in patient confidentiality—you knew the man had a huge obsession with your husband. However, rather than igniting jealousy within you, it provided you with endless entertainment.

The first time Franklyn Froideveaux saw you, it was purely by accident. He had just finished his Thursday session—another sixty minute spiral of anxieties masquerading as epiphanies—when he stepped into the waiting room to collect his scarf. There, beneath the copper leaf of the ceiling lamp, sat a man he’d never seen.

You balanced a stainless-steel bento of kaisen chirashi on one knee and two small stoneware espresso cups on the other, the arrangement so precise it looked curated for a magazine spread. Your suit was midnight blue, cut razor-slim through the waist, lapels rolled in a style Franklyn had only ever glimpsed on Milan runways. A silk pocket square—soft gray with a single cardinal-red stitch at the border—folded itself into an immaculate peak. Even seated, you radiated posture, the sort of spinal elegance that suggested ballet training or aristocratic rearing.

Client? Franklyn wondered, pulse skittering. Hannibal rarely kept overlapping appointments, yet here you were, looking effortlessly important. The thought that you might replace him knifed ice behind his sternum.

Then Hannibal emerged from the office, smoothing his waistcoat as always—but the mask slipped. A breath-quick, barely visible, yet seismic shift: his eyes warmed, mouth curved just shy of a smile, shoulders eased a centimeter down. It was the gentlest expression Franklyn had ever wrung from his psychiatrist—and it wasn’t meant for him.

Franklyn spent the subway ride home dissecting every detail:

Midnight-blue suit, super-150 wool, perhaps Savile Row.

Hair: swept back, a mild wave, no visible product—probably Oribe mousse, touch of sea-salt spray.

Bento: a chef’s tasting of raw fish, pickled daikon, paper-thin shiso. Franklyn googled the Japanese term on his phone and bookmarked three sushi spots that offered it to go.

Espresso cups: brown, not the white porcelain Hannibal served him—significant? Earthy tones, maybe.

By the time he surfaced onto Lexington Avenue, Franklyn had convinced himself of a simple equation: If I recreate the stimulus, I reproduce the response. Hannibal admired sophistication; Franklyn would become sophisticated. Easy.

He does not mean to become a stalker; he simply fails to notice the point at which observation tips into pursuit. Once Franklyn reached home, he sat infront of his computer and began to search for you. It was almost impossible to find anything on you. Franklyn didn't hear Hannibal say your name nor was there anything he could search that didn't elicit other unimportant hits—concert pianists, Roman senators, a British sitcom from the ’80s. Every permutation of keywords—“30-40 year old refined men from Baltimore,"—dissolved into digital static.

The elusiveness only whetted Franklyn’s appetite. Then, by some miracle, when out on the town, he saw you through the window of a tiny pâtisserie shop, holding a box of pale-green mille-feuilles tied with butcher’s twine. Franklyn’s pulse jumped. Providence! He darted inside, bell jangling overhead.

The patisserie was all copper fixtures and honeyed sunlight, a little jewel box smelling of butter and caramelized sugar. You had one hip braced against the marble counter, murmuring in liquid French to Madame Leroux about the relative virtues of Sicilian versus Sorrento lemons.

Bang.

Franklyn’s shoulder clipped the slatted door so hard it rebounded off the wall. The brass bell above his head shrieked in protest; every customer looked up. You turned, half-smile already blooming like citrus on the tongue. “Bonsoir,” you greeted, English shaded with play-acting Parisian flourish. “Can I help you find something sweet?”

Yes, Franklyn nearly blurted—your entire personal history, please, with a side of casual confidences about Dr. Lecter—but what came out was, “I…erm, heard the kouign-amann is life-changing?”

You glanced at the glass case. “Sold out hours ago. But if you’re intent on change, try the pâte de fruits. They crystallise disappointment into something chewable.” Your eyes glittered. “Name’s Franklyn, right? Tuesday afternoons?”

His throat dried. “You remember me.”

“I make a sport of it. People are puzzles, and I collect corner pieces.” You paid for your order—two citron tarts and a palm-sized gâteau St. Honoré—then stepped aside. “Tell you what: walk with me. I know a park where the ducks are shameless beggars. We can feed your pâte de fruits to them and ponder the ethics of enabling avian gluttony.”

Franklyn followed like a moon-caught tide.

Under a bare-branched elm you unboxed the pastries, handing one to Franklyn. “Eat,” you commanded, “so Hannibal won’t suspect you’re starving yourself for vanity. He abhors affectation.” A mischievous pause. “Unless it’s my affectation.”

Franklyn bit into the tart, lemon silk shocking his tongue. “You and Dr. Lecter…you’re close?”

“Close enough to ruin his tailoring budget.” You plucked a crumb from his lapel—too calculatedly intimate to be careless. “So. What’s it you really want, dear Franklyn? Therapy tips? His favorite concerto? Or perhaps you’d like the brand of salt he sprinkles on cantaloupe?”

Heat crawled up his neck. “I—I admire his mind. I thought knowing his circle might help me become the sort of person he could value.”

“Ah. Self-improvement by osmosis.” You tapped your chin, theatrically pondering. “All right. First lesson: he notices scent before speech. Skip cologne—choose tea. Something smoky, lapsang maybe. He’ll smell the difference.”

Franklyn nodded, eyes wide, scribbling invisible notes. You could almost hear the gears grinding. You tossed a sugared rind to an eager duck. “Second lesson: never present imitation as affection. He values the original.”

Franklyn frowned. “But if the original inspires—”

“Then draw inspiration, don’t Xerox it.” You patted his cheek. “Create something uniquely Franklyn. Otherwise, you’re just a shadow on a wall.” You left him with the ducks and an aftertaste of citrus and riddles.

Over the next days Franklyn raided specialty tea shops for lapsang souchong, practiced Chopin nocturnes until his downstairs neighbour threatened murder, and scoured thrift stores for vintage cashmere because you’d off-handedly mentioned Hannibal’s fondness for texture. Yet each session ended with Hannibal’s cool appraisal and a politely distant hmm.

Franklyn’s desperation calcified into brittle impatience, and it bled through his voice in therapy. “I’ve done everything the self-help books say—refined my image, broadened my cultural portfolio, adapted to the—uh—social milieu I want to inhabit.”

Hannibal folded his hands. “And who, precisely, authored that milieu?”

“I…I suppose it’s inspired by someone admirable. Someone refined.” Franklyn’s eyes flicked upward, searching for any change in expression.

“Admiration expressed through mimicry is flattering,” Hannibal said, tone as bloodless as a scalpel’s steel, “but only until the original notices his echo.”

The metaphor lanced cleanly; Franklyn winced yet forged ahead. “Hypothetically, Doctor, if a person were…emotionally available, would you consider—”

“You are mistaking hypothetical for hopeful.” Hannibal’s voice dropped an octave, the single word hopeful carrying the weight of a tribunal verdict. “Hope is best served tempered by reality. And reality, Franklyn, is that sculpting a façade does not change the clay beneath.”

A silence stretched, taut as piano wire. Franklyn’s next breath juddered. “So you’re saying it’s pointless.”

“I am saying,” Hannibal replied, eyes narrowing to flinty slits, “that authenticity cannot be reverse-engineered. The path to worth is inward, not outward. Until you accept that, every new habit will ring hollow—both to you and to anyone you wish to impress.”

When the session ended, Hannibal rose first—an unmistakable signal—while Franklyn lingered, one foot still caught in the snare of longing he had woven from your riddles and his own desperations. Outside, the corridor smelled faintly of cedarwood and oolong: your unmistakable trail. It mocked him all the way to the lift.

Hannibal wasn’t stupid; he knew Franklyn’s sudden taste for cedar-laced teas, vintage cashmere, and late-Romantic piano hadn’t sprung from self-discovery. Even if he hadn’t already smelled your laughter all over the poor man, the pattern was obvious: each new obsession followed within forty-eight hours of your latest outing.

Franklyn was devouring breadcrumbs you scattered with feline amusement, and the psychiatrist in Hannibal catalogued every crumb. But the husband in him seethed.

The following Thursday Hannibal left the office early and took the long route home—straight past the pâtisserie’s picture window. Predictably, Franklyn hunched at one of the café tables, oversized scarf bunched at his throat like a noose, notebook open to a page dense with half-legible French phrases. He was trying to charm Madame Rousseau into pronouncing them for him, and failing adorably.

Hannibal did not enter; he simply watched for a moment, head slightly cocked—predator evaluating prey already snared in its own trap. Then he continued on, leather gloves whispering together behind his back.

That night, while you diced preserved lemon into sun-bright cubes for the tagine, Hannibal recounted his detour past the pâtisserie. Each detail arrived as precisely as the slivers of peel slipping from your chef’s knife.

“I warned him not to Xerox me,” you said, flicking yellow specks into the waiting bowl. “Apparently he’s Xeroxing my accent now.”

“He is Xeroxing your life,” Hannibal corrected, voice flat as marble. “This game nourishes only your mischief. Franklyn is fixated, not amused. And I do not share.”

You set the knife aside and leaned against the counter, arms folded. “Jealousy, Hannibal? How…human of you.”

“Protective,” he corrected. “You are not a costume for him to don.” He closed the distance, hands going around your waist. “Tomorrow I end the sessions. I will transfer his care to someone equipped for his particular pathology.”

“A pity,” you murmured, brushing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I was the best circus he ever bought a ticket to.”

Franklyn arrived next Thursday with carefully mussed hair—your latest style—clutching a box tied with robin-blue twine. "For you, Doctor." He said eagerly. "Quince pâte de fruits. Rabelais—”

“I am aware of the quotation,” Hannibal interrupted, voice silk over steel. “Sit.”

Franklyn sat, box trembling in his lap.

Hannibal leaned back, gaze glacially calm. “We must speak about boundaries—specifically, the ones you have been trampling.”

Franklyn’s smile flickered. “I–I don’t under—”

“You follow my spouse,” Hannibal said. “You record his habits, mutate them into costumes you wear for my approval. You are not studying a role model; you are harvesting a persona.”

Silence detonated between them. Franklyn’s mouth opened, closed.

“You're married?! But—no rings,” he stammered. “I assumed—”

“Jewelry does not define the covenant,” Hannibal said, enunciating each word as though they were fragile porcelain pieces he refused to let Franklyn fumble. “Nor does its absence diminish it.”

Franklyn’s eyes clouded, flicking toward the bare hands resting atop Hannibal’s knees. He seemed to stagger beneath the weight of this revelation—one he felt entitled to but had never earned.

“But all the books say clear communication is essential in a therapeutic alliance,” he protested, voice threading into a whine. “You never disclosed something this…this significant.”

Hannibal’s smile chilled the air. “My privacy is not fodder for your growth. I am your psychiatrist, not an exhibit to be catalogued.” He tapped the robin-blue box. “And this”—he allowed a flicker of distaste—“is an attempt to buy admittance to a room you were never invited to enter.”

The sugared quinces inside rattled as Franklyn’s knuckles whitened. “I only wanted to show gratitude—”

“You wanted to ingratiate.” Hannibal’s voice dipped, neither loud nor hurried, yet it cut through Franklyn’s excuses like a piano wire through soft fruit. “But gratitude marinated in envy curdles into obsession.”

Franklyn swallowed. “I can fix this. I’ll stop.”

“There is nothing to fix here except your understanding.” Hannibal slid a cream-embossed referral to his hands, the motion precise as a bishop’s blessing. “Dr. Bloom specializes in attachment pathology. You will meet with her twice weekly, beginning Friday.”

Tremor replaced tension in Franklyn’s shoulders. “You’re dismissing me?”

“I am protecting both my marriage and your psyche from further injury,” Hannibal said. “Consider it an act of clinical mercy.”

A brittle pause, punctuated only by the ancient clock’s tick. Then Franklyn rose, the robin-blue box still cradled like a dislodged organ. “I…I hope—”

“Hope,” Hannibal said, “is most useful when tethered to reality. Good afternoon.” Franklyn managed a jerky nod, turned, and shuffled to the door. It clicked shut behind him with the quiet finality of a scalpel tray settling into place.

That evening, you lounged in Hannibal’s couch, legs draped across his, sipping the sencha Franklyn had supplied as some sort of peace offering to prevent the inevitable. “You told him.” Your grin curled feline.

“He left me no dignified alternative,” Hannibal replied, brushing a finger down the side of your face. “Besides, it was time.”

You grabbed his hand, tracing along the vein at his wrist, marveling—as always—at the absence of jewelry that nevertheless bound you tighter than gold ever could. “Perhaps we should buy rings,” you teased. “For Franklyn’s peace of mind.”

“Peace,” Hannibal mused, “is rarely forged in precious metals. And I cherish the subtlety of us.” A pause. “Would a ring prevent you from twirling it during lectures? From leaving it inside a cadaver’s thoracic cavity by accident?”

You snorted. “That was one time.”

He bent to kiss the laugher off your mouth, savoring the quiet metallic tang of burnt tea on your tongue.

“In any case,” he murmured against your lips, “I find the absence of visible claim arousing.” His teeth grazed the curve of your jaw, gentler than a diamond bit yet infinitely more possessive. “Only we know. And those bright enough to discern the music beneath the silence.”

[sweettu1ips]

PAIGE BUECKERS x FEM!READER

SYNOPSIS: As the sun sets over Martha’s Vineyard, childhood memories rise with the tide, pulling two hearts back to where it all began. Y/N returns to Cape Cod for her sister’s wedding, where the sea’s salt lingers and old whispers fill the air. Amid vows and laughter, a once-innocent bond stirs into something undeniable. In the golden summer light, they must choose—rekindle their love or let time pull them apart.

WARNING(S): mixture of everything :) ⋮ plenty of fluff ⋮ a sprinkle of angst ⋮ with an ounce of smut here and there ⋮ readers last name is LEXINGTON ⋮ MINORS DNI (18+)

| MAIN MASTER LIST ⋮ ANGST ⋮ ✪ | FLUFF ⋮ ꕤ | SMUT ⋮ ⚠︎ |

⌞ CHAPTER ONE⌝

⤷ THE TIDES BRING YOU BACK

⌞ CHAPTER TWO ⌝

⤷ BETWEEN THEN AND NOW ⋮ coming soon

⌞ .... SERIES CURRENTLY UNDER CONSTRUCTION....⌝

𖤓 so, so excited to get started on this series! I will be publishing some oneshots in between, just in case some of you don't want to read the series! I also changed Paige's siblings names because I honestly don't feel comfortable writing them into fics...

First chapter will be published!

xoxo,

J.

© sweettu1ips.tumblr 2025 do not copy, translate or claim any of my writing or works as your own.

[alltimecharlo]

do you perchance know why almost EVERY willmack blog is convinced will smith is like a huge momma’s boy and that his family won’t leave him alone😭 I know his family comes to a lot of his games, but some blogs spin it in such an evil way

i'm back with another willmack lore drop/literature review/whatever you want to call it!

today's topic: will smith hockey's close-knit family!🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒🩵

will's relationship with his family, and his home town of lexington, mass, is definitely an interesting one. both are clearly extremely important to him.

below is a post from the official battle of lexington ig account (yes that exists) detailing will and his family’s deep roots in lexington, as well as an excerpt from this article which shows how important will's heritage is to him and his family.

A third-generation Lexingtonian, Will’s family is deeply woven into the town’s fabric. He attended Hancock Preschool (like his dad, Bill, 40 years earlier) and Bowman Elementary, spending his childhood at @HaydenRecreation, skating on frozen ponds and backyard rinks.

as we know from cat's podcast - will's family attend the re-enactment of the battle of lexington every year! he thinks it's cool and is kind of history nerd. will is also at least the third 'william smith' in his family (following his father and grandfather) technically making him 'william smith III' ig? although his dad goes by 'bill'.

when will had to move to michigan for the usa development program, instead of billeting with a host family like most kids do, will's family bought a house in michigan for two years (whilst keeping their house in lexington ofc) because his dad felt it was 'important to be there at a critical stage of his life'

will had fellow massachusetts boys will vote (arlington) and ryan leonard (amherst) living with him! both wsh's and will vote's mom spent two-week shifts living with the boys and cooking/shopping for them. this basically meant that will's mom was able to cook for him and provide family support fairly regularly whilst he was playing his hockey, so she was very present in his journey! (momma's boy) in fact, will's mom said 'she feels like she has two more sons.'

will's dad was working back in boston often and grace was already attending bc! speaking of bc, will is the 14th member of his family to attend the school despite initially commiting to northeastern at the tender age of 14 (his friends from st. sebastian were commiting there too). and he luckily got to tell his grandfather before he died that he was committing to bc.

will regularly met up with his sister, grace, in his freshman year whilst she was a senior where they would meet for lunch or attend SUNDAY MASS (wsh catholic allegations need their own post i fear...), which grace really enjoyed and appreciated ☺️

with his enitre family being so local (will’s three aunts all live in lexington with their families, 10 cousins in total. his grandmother polly, 87, never misses bc home games), will often had over 40 people (FORTY!!!) attend his bc home games to support him.

as we can see at the top of this post^ at his first game with the sharks, this tradition clearly transferred over to the nhl as well, despite will now playing his hockey 2000 miles away. '20 people were in the stands for him, including his father, who was celebrating his birthday.' !!

a large number of will's family were also in stockholm for worlds and got to see him win gold! (he's waving to them in this gifset :) it is obviously very important to the smiths to show up for each other! as will's mom says:

“When are you ever going to have this experience with your 17-, 18-year-old son in this unbelievably exciting (situation)?” Colleen Smith asked. “And be experiencing it with them, not just from afar. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime thing that we’ll never forget.”

will's dad was also present on the sharks' dads' trip like mack's. here they are sitting at dinner altogether! (oh, to be a fly on the wall here...)

SO, to answer your question: wsh IS a huge momma's boy and his family certainly WON'T leave him alone but i really don't think he'd have it any other way. his family clearly means a lot to him and seeing as they've always been there for him every step of the way, i think he appreciates their presence more than ever now in the nhl :)

will has also been very vocal about how helpful living with the marleaus has been for his rookie season! this gave him a similar ‘family’ environment that was nice to come home to, especially during a tough season 🩵

'It was awesome, I’m so happy I did it. They’re definitely going to be a family that I’m going to be connected with my whole life now. I learned everything—not even with hockey, just off the ice and how great the people are.'