#it is very much rocket science

[whirlybirdwhat]

my dad offering support as i go off to college for the first time: its not rocket science!

me, studying aerospace engineering:

[ejunkiet]

Am I the dummie who has been wondering why she has been fighting a migraine all week while simultaneously devouring books on a tiny old phone with a speed she hasn't reached since she was 12?

Yeah. Eyestrain is real folks. I've swapped over to my paper white, which I've had the whole time, just didn't think to use for some reason sksksks

[thisplaceisamessage]

absolutely so fucked that i and no one i know can get a job without knowing someone in the company or industry. like even entry-level, no experience retail jobs. i need every hiring manager in this country to violently explode

[eurofox]

Idk, maybe I'm just in a bad mood bit I'm just so fucking sick of people falling for the 'feminism lied to us being a tradwife is the only fulfilling oath for women ' shite.

That's ALWAYS been an option if you wanted it, you could always STFU, and put your life in the hands of some bozo if you wanted to right this instant, feminists would never break down the door to stop you. But I guess without the sense of martyrdom is isn't as fun (sorry, fulfilling).

There's no shortage of evidence as to why women wanted other choices in life and fought to have them, but I think I just have to accept that some people really are just morons and there's no telling them.

[long-live-astronerd-ghost-king]

DPXDC prompt: Valentine's day spirit. Superbat edition.

When Phantom sets foot on the Justice League base many years later, he expects anything but not Flash pointing finger at him and screaming about "legendary child who made Superbat canon".

~~~~

Being in Metropolis because of a ghost hunt right in the middle of a battle between Lex Luthor and Superman was not the best outcome, especially considering that Jack had his three-year-old son with him. But without such a combination of circumstances, they would never have found out that "Ghost!" "Daddy, no!" Ectoblast that Jack shot at the target of their hunt touches Superman and..really hurts him.

There were two sides to Danny-the ghostbuster's son and the astronerd. It is clear which half of him did not have a chance to win.

Danny threw his space rocket toy aside and grabbed father's arm. In the next second, boy had already sunk his teeth into Jack's fingers, forcing him to drop weapon. Youngling quickly jumped off and picked up ectoblast and then ran towards Superman. "Fly away! I'll hold him!" Danny stood up to try to cover up ghost (or alien?) in case Dad took not one but a whole bunch of shooting things with him again.

Jack: Get away from my son, ghost. Superman: Sir, I'm sure this is some kind of misunderstanding, I'm not a ghost. Jack: Danny, come to me, he's trying to hide his identity and manipulate us. Danny: No. If the heroes are being attacked, then someone must protect them too. Jack: But he's a ghost.. Danny: Alien or ghost is not so important, Daddy. He's in pain, and he's protecting this city, not haunting it. It's wrong to try to catch him for experiments. I forbid you to do that. Jack: Danny, champ, you're wrong.

Lex: Hah, what an interesting substance. Despite the other aggregate state, or rather its absence, it is so similar to kryptonite. Superman: Lex, is this a portable lab? Now is not the time, in case you haven't noticed. Lex: There is always time for science. I think my colleague will agree, right? "Similar to kryptonite?" Jack muttered to himself.

Jack: So Superman wasn't my target. And we are not colleagues. There is only one insanely rich man with questionable moral values with whom I am ready to do work, and your surname is clearly not Masters. Lex: It's a pity, but still, if you want to carry out the delivery of your wonderful weapons or exchange experiences, then call this number. Luther quickly shoves a business card into Fenton's hand. Jack*throws it away*: Come on, son, let's go back to the hotel, you've skinned your knees.

~~~The Evening. The Roof of the mentioned hotel~~~

"My friend Sam is also very frightening. And she also likes dark.“ The boy paused for a minute of thinking. “You want to kiss your goth friend?" "W-What makes you think that, kid. We’re colleagues, I respect him very much and.." "So you want to. It’s okay, I’d like to kiss Sam too but I’m afraid she’s gonna hit me. You have the same problem?" "It’s a little more complicated for adults." Kal begins to explain but stumbles upon Danny’s completely unimpressed look. Yeah, this boy apparently has heard 'kids would understand when they grow up' lectures at least thousand times. "But you’re basically right."

~~~~

When Batman himself comes to their hotel the next day as a representative of the Justice League to make sure that Mr. Fenton has no desire to harm Superman in the future and to tell that Superman is not going to press charges because of the ectoblast that injured him, Danny refuses to leave the room.

Jack: Oh, Danny, I thought you dropped your space rocket yesterday, it's a good that Alicia's Christmas present isn't lost. Danny: Well, dad, I left it on the roof of a bad bad man, yeah, but Uncle Kal returned it last night and we talked for a while. Jack: About what? Space, my little star? *Father immediately assumes that Danny would like to ask about everything real alien*. Boy*blushes and shakes his head negatively*: No, not about it.

Jack: Then what it was about? Danny: Secret superhero things. I can't tell you. I agreed to withhold that information as part of a pinky swear. Batman: And what about me, young man? You can tell me, right? Batman couldn't resist talking with such a cute kid. The boy thinks only for a second before hurriedly trying to push his father out of the room. Danny: Dad, come out for a minute and don't eavesdrop. I'll tell you when you can come in. The big man laughingly obeys. Lil child checks the reliability of the closed door and runs up to Batman. Danny: And so, Mr. Batman, first promise not to laugh or hit Uncle Kal. Batman: I promise? Danny: Good. This is very important information. Batman: I'm listening.

Danny: He thinks you're terrifying and wants to kiss you. And since he is afraid that you will hit him for this, I recommended him to appease you with a pie cooked according to his mother's recipe. Well, you know, since you love sweets and his parents' farm has the most wonderful apples in all states. He rarely cooks himself, but he will try for you, so even if he doesn't succeed, pretend that you liked it, please. Batman:...

Batman: Would you like to work in intelligence for the Justice League when you grow up? Danny: Actually, I want to be an astronaut. Batman: Our base is located in space. Danny:

Danny: Hmm, then I'll think about your offer.

Batman: Great. It's a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Fenton. You can count on a job recommendation from me. Do you want anything as compensation for your consultation? Danny: Actually, yes. Mr. Batman, tell me honestly, are you a bat on a frugivorous diet like Giant golden-crowned flying fox or you are a Vampire Bat? Sam says that such a big bat can only be a vegetarian and uncle Kal said your son was more than happy to steal strawberries from his garden with Superboy but..

~~~

Batman tries to behave naturally for a week. However, the sweet tooth inside him still makes him clamp Superman in the corner and question him. "Where the hell are the pies you promised to cook for me, Clark?"

[tongue-like-a-razor]

Hotter Than Texas | Part I

(unofficially: Brother's Worst Enemy)

Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x F!Reader

Alrighty y'all, this is for everyone who has so patiently waited for me to make this a thing XD Not sure if I could squeeze a whole series out of this one but we shall see. Maybe at least a part 2. Enjoy!

Summary: Bradley Bradshaw is tasked with transporting a not-so-delicate package in the form of Jake Seresin's baby sister, who turns out to be Bradley's dream girl worst nightmare.

Aka it's a road trip, strap in.

CW: swearing, age gap (10 years)

The mission is simple. Collect Seresin Junior from the train station near the main gate of the base and deliver said cargo to the Seresin homestead in Eastern Texas on his way to Atlanta, Georgia for a long overdue visit with his grandparents. It isn’t rocket science. It sure as hell doesn’t hold a candle to the canyon run he pulled off just the other month. And yet, Bradley’s drumming his fingers anxiously on the hood of his Bronco as he leans into its frame, waiting on the trolley from downtown San Diego.

While Jake and Bradley have recently made peace after their longstanding cold war, Bradley isn’t exactly thrilled to meet another one of his kind. Besides, he isn’t one for small talk, and the prospect of spending the next two days with a complete stranger is downright daunting. He prefers music to conversation and he’s hoping that his road trip companion won’t be offended when he turns up the radio and forgets there’s anybody else in the car.

When Hangman had asked for the favor, he assured Bradley that he was his last choice – which wasn’t exactly a compliment, but Bradley appreciated the gesture, nonetheless. By the end of the term, there was nobody from their squadron left on base except Bradley, and he would be heading east anyway, might as well provide shuttle service while he’s at it.

As the trolley whistles into the station, Bradley pushes off his car and straightens his back, watching the tinted windows as they zip by, a blur at first and then gradually separating as the trolley comes to a stop.

Bradley leaves his car to walk around the fence, not quite sure how he’s going to be greeting a person he’s never before seen, but it’s not like he’s going to fashion a sign for the occasion. He sticks his hands into his pockets, the breeze picking up his unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt like a parachute before it starts whipping around his torso in the wind tunnel on the platform.

He glances around at the commuters stepping off the trolley, trying to pick out the blondes that might resemble his colleague, when he feels a tap on his shoulder. He turns his head, just as you say, “Rooster, right?”

He blinks at you, slightly disoriented. You look nothing like Hangman, thank fuck, because Bradley can’t take his eyes off you and, as inappropriate as this reaction is, it would make it that much worse if you did. He gives you a sideways grin. “What gave me away?” he says.

“My brother told me to find the dorkiest guy at the station,” you respond, grinning at him.

Bradley chuckles. “So, you’re walking to Texas, then,” he says, stepping around you.

You laugh, struggling to redirect the wheels of your suitcase.

Bradley bends down to grab the handle. “I can take that,” he says, tucking away the retractable bar and lifting it off the ground by the strap.

“Thanks,” you say, cringing slightly as Bradley lifts the luggage as though you’re embarrassed by its weight.

But after the countless exercise drills over the years, Bradley hardly notices that it’s heavy. In fact, he could probably carry it over his head. He eyes you inconspicuously as you fall in step with him, wondering if perhaps that might impress you – not that he wants to impress you.

“Actually, he said I couldn’t miss you because you’d be a head taller than everyone else, and probably wearing a very bright shirt.”

Bradley looks over at you with a grin. “Hopefully I didn’t disappoint?”

You eye his shirt flapping in the breeze. “I found you, didn’t I?”

Bradley lifts your suitcase into the trunk of his car and walks around to open your door for you.

You give him a suspicious look. “Thanks,” you say.

Bradley nods at you, offering a hand to help you in. Once you’re seated, he shuts the door behind you and exhales unsteadily the kind of sigh that often accompanies a guilty conscience. There’s no way he could possibly get entangled in a mess of this magnitude. And a colossal mess it would become if he were to develop any sort of soft spot for his recent enemy’s baby sister. Bradley, being a sensible, mature adult, understands this unequivocally. But, when he rounds the car and climbs into the driver’s seat next to you, the notion that he’s not allowed under any circumstances to find you attractive flies right out his rolled down window.

This is because you’re already tuning the radio like you own the place and because you smell like a goddess. Bradley has no clue whether it’s your hair or your perfume or your goddamn essence that’s permeated his upholstery in under ten seconds, but whatever it is, he certainly wouldn’t mind smelling it on his sheets in the morning.

Fuck. He’s fucking fucked.

“This alright?” you ask casually, as if you didn’t just hijack a stranger’s radio.

He cringes at the stereo; he’ll have to work on your taste in music. “Got your seatbelt on?” he asks as he pulls out.

You turn around in your seat and pull on the seatbelt.

Bradley promptly hits the breaks and you lurch forward slightly, the seatbelt in your hand getting stuck on its way out. He looks over at you with an air of seriousness despite the small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “The seatbelt should be the first thing you do when you enter a vehicle.” Not fiddle with the radio, he adds silently.

You raise your eyebrows at him in amusement. “Okay, dad.”

Bradley nearly shudders at your response. He’s probably a good ten years older than you, so, really, while dad might be stretching it, you’re not too far off. “Keep up that attitude and you’ll be listening to Metallica the whole way home.”

You smirk at him. “I like Metallica, so joke’s on you, bud.”

Bradley starts driving again. “If you like Metallica, then why are we listening to this trash?”

Your jaw drops and you reach for the volume dial to turn up the song. “How dare you?”

Bradley rolls his eyes. Something tells him he’s in for a wild ride.

…

About two hours later, Bradley pulls into a small gas station just past the border into Arizona.

“Want something to eat?” he asks, leaning across the console to pop his glove compartment and pull out his wallet. “Or drink?”

You purse your lips. “I could go for a coffee.”

“How do you like it?” he asks.

“With a pinch of salt.”

Bradley gapes at you. “I can’t tell if you’re joking.”

You snort. “I’m not joking. You should try it! Cuts the bitterness in half, my friend.”

Bradley cringes. “The bitterness is why I drink it.”

You shake your head and declare wisely, “You’ll see.”

“That you’re a nutcase?” Bradley mutters under his breath as he exits the car. He jogs over to the convenience store, determinedly blocking out the seductive quality of your persuasive tone. You could probably convince him to drink a pint of his own urine if you set your mind to it.

Bradley drums impatiently on the counter, waiting for the clerk to finish restocking one of the shelves with chips. While he’s waiting, he glances out to check on you as if you’re a child under his charge. You’ve stepped out of the Bronco to stretch your legs and Bradley doesn’t like the way the two guys in the convertible in behind are eyeing you.

Bradley cranes his neck to check on the clerk’s progress and lets out a stifled sigh. When he looks back outside, he sees that one of the men has approached you and, well, Bradley isn’t about to wait to see what happens next. He drops a bill on the counter and calls out, “Keep the change,” to the clerk before practically slamming his way through the doors with the coffees in his hands.

Why it bothers him that some random dude might want your number is not of consequence. What matters is that Bradley gets rid of this asswipe before you start enjoying his company.

He strides confidently past the man chatting you up and stops right in between you and him, handing you a coffee.

“Careful, it’s hot,” he cautions moodily, not entirely sure how to go about handling a situation in which, objectively speaking, he has no real authority.

You meet his gaze with a small smile. “You don’t say,” you respond with all the sultriness of a blazing, desert sun.

Bradley’s gaze remains unwaveringly on you as he unhooks a pair of Ray-Bans from the neck of his muscle shirt and slides them over his eyes. “Ready to go?” he asks in a level tone, hoping he can avoid what is bound to be an unpleasant interaction with the man still standing behind him.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” the man speaks up. “Didn’t realize you were with someone, honey.”

Bradley keeps his eyes on yours for several moments longer, trying his best not to show the irritation he feels at the way this rando just called you ‘honey’. Reluctantly, he turns to face him, wondering what in the world he could say that wouldn’t make him sound jealous as fuck.

But before Bradley could speak, you slide casually into his side, leaning on him like it’s the most natural thing. “That’s just fine,” you say to the man. “No harm, no foul.”

Bradley looks down at your head as it nestles into his shoulder and then lifts his arm to let you move in closer. Trying to play it cool, he skims the tips of his fingers across your lower back, which is warm and feels like the perfect place to rest his hand.

Convertible guy promptly departs, and Bradley is left standing in an embrace with the one person on the entire planet for whom he should never catch feelings, at a derelict gas station on the outskirts of arid Yuma, Arizona, and the heat is really starting to get to him. Slowly, you start to peel yourself away and Bradley, sensing your withdrawal, drops his hand and recoils from you like you’ve burnt him.

Did it feel nice pretending you were his girl? Sure did. Is he going to erase it from his memory and never let himself so much as shake your hand again? Absolutely.

Read Part 2

Tag List

I’ll be tagging the rest in the comments probably tomorrow!

@joaquinwhorres

@katiemcrae

@sehnsuchts-trunken

@toomuchfluffs

@wintercap89

@lonelywitchv2

@callsign-jupiter

@rosiahills22

@olliepig

@coffeeaddictedmay

@boringusername3

@ratedtvpg

@mak-32

@annedub

@jules-1999

@black--lightning

@j-velvet

@xoxabs88xox

@cyanide-cryptid

@callsignvenus

@artemissunn

@gcldtom

@atarmychick007

@callsign-sunshine

@shanimallina87

@birdy-bat-writes

@wkndwlff

@chaosmxlcolm

@iminlovewithenchilidadas

@daniibzz

@avis15

@valhallavalkyrie9

@ijustwantedplums

@hal3ynicol3

@avengersfan25

@hallecarey1

@nik2blog

@kpopgirlbtssvt

@lilianashomaresparza

@lovingperfectionsblog

@bblpbb

@Elenavampire21

@SometimesAnAlice

@risingtripletaurus

@adaydreamaway08

@mattyskies

@desert-fern

@catsandbooksandstuff

@Topguncultleader

@avengers-fixation

[fadedin2u]

big flirt!

MDNI 18+

summary: your friends force you to go out to a gay bar with them, and ellie buys you a drink.

content/tw: alcohol mention, subtop!ellie, slightly dom/switch!reader, reader and ellie are both drunk, face sitting(r!receiving), tribbing, strap-on(r!recieving), reader is called “girl” once or twice, afab!reader, reader is neither masc nor fem, college!ellie and reader, astrophysics major!ellie

notes: i left the ending written in away that i might add another part to this fic! lmk if u want that lol

┆ ° ♡ • ➵ ✩ ◛ °

“hey, 6 o’clock, there’s a certified hottie staring at you-“ one of your well-meaning friends tells you, motioning (not very) discreetly behind you.

you turn around and your jaw nearly drops. the girl staring at you is stunning, with her dark auburn hair and flannel worn over a wife-beater, sitting at the bar and sipping her drink. you make eye contact with her momentarily, and turn back to your friend, mary, with wide eyes.

mary laughs, “are you gonna go for it?”

your friends had forced you to go out to this gay bar with the intention of meeting new people after a break up that left you a complete wreck. it’d been about 3 months since your ex broke the news that they weren’t in love with you anymore, and it made any kind of romantic prospects leave a bitter taste in your mouth till this day. not to mention, you’re wayyy too drunk at this point to be on your A-game with flirting. you make a face and mary groans.

“come on, dude! she’s gorgeous, clearly interested, what else could you ask for?”

you make another face, “just because she’s staring doesn’t mean that she’s necessarily interested-“

“how about if she’s walking over to you right now? does that make her interested?”

you hear someone clear their throat behind you, and you give mary a murderous look before turning to the stranger with a smile.

she gives you a slightly awkward smile in return, “hey. i, um, i’m sorry if this is forward, but could i buy you a drink?”

your stomach is absolutely in knots, but you nod. “yeah, i’d love that.”

the stranger gives you a relieved smile in return, extending her hand to you, “i’m ellie. what’s your drink?”

you give her your name, “-and just a rum and coke, thank you so much.”

ellie’s clearly pretty drunk as well, which makes you feel a little better. she leads you back over to the spot at the bar she was sitting at, giving you her hand to help as you hop onto the excessively tall bar seats. she gives the bar tender your drink order and orders another whiskey on the rocks for herself.

“so, do you come to this bar a lot?” you ask, and inwardly cringe at yourself. ‘i basically just asked “so, you come here often?” great.’

ellie makes a so-so motion with her hand, “sometimes, not very often though. i study astrophysics so i don’t usually have the free time to deal with a hangover.”

your eyebrows raise and your drunk brain speaks before you think, “wow, smart girl.”

ellie’s cheeks flush a little, and she looks down, “i don’t know about that, but i’m really passionate about it, which is more than half the battle, i think.”

you scoff, “please, you’re literally studying rocket science. you can’t convince me that you’re not smart now.”

ellie laughs a little, “okay, then i’ll just shut up and take the compliment. thank you.”

the bar tender gives you two your drinks and ellie takes a sip of her own, “so, what do you do?”

you take a sip of your own drink, “i’m a student right now too, i’m actually studying-“

suddenly, you hear a familiar beat in the background, and you stop talking, a (likely goofy) smile growing on your face, “oh my god, i fucking love this song. nicki minaj literally cannot miss.”

ellie laughs brightly at that, raising an eyebrow, “i absolutely fucking agree. do you wanna dance?”

“really?”

ellie nods, taking a large gulp of her whiskey, “for sure. i couldn’t live with myself knowing i cheated a pretty girl like you out of a dance break.”

you giggle and nod, chugging the rest of your drink faster than you probably should. ellie takes your hand and leads you out the the dance floor where there’s a large crowd of people dancing together. you pull ellie against you, your actions emboldened by the alcohol in your system. ellie immediately goes to hold on your hips, your bodies moving against each other.

you don’t really think to much about how you’re dancing, just letting your body move how it wants to. before you even realize what you’re doing, you’ve turned around in ellie’s hold, grinding your ass back against her hips. when you realize what’s happening, you nearly stop, but when you feel the tight grip of ellie’s hands on your hips and the way she’s grinding back into you, you relax. you stand back up straight, and wrap your arm up and behind you, holding onto the back of ellie’s head, which is now tucked against your neck. when you feel her lips against your jugular, you inhale sharply, pressing more into her.

you feel her kisses trail down to your shoulder, and you thank your good luck for deciding to wear a tank top. you feel her pelvis digging into your ass, and you can’t be sure because the music is so loud, but you swear you hear her moan.

you turn back around in her arms, and before either of you realize what’s happening, you’re locked into a heated kiss. your arms wrap around her neck, and one of her hands sneaks down from your hips to squeeze your ass. you moan into her mouth, and she takes the opportunity for her tongue to explore your mouth. when you separate, you’re both panting.

“wanna get an uber back to mine?” she asks loudly over the blasting music, and you nod right away.

——

the uber driver for the ride back will likely leave ellie with a low rating, thanks to the two of you not being able to detach your mouths from each other for longer than 5 seconds, but you two eventually make it back to ellie’s apartment.

once you’re in her bathroom, you push her back onto her bed between kisses and straddle her. she kisses your neck and chest, pushing your tank top up. you take it off for her and you’re left in your bra. ellie grins and starts kissing the exposed parts of your breasts.

“god, you’re so fucking pretty-“ ellie says as she takes off your bra, immediately latching onto one of your nipples. you moan softly and hold onto her head, your fingers threading through her hair.

you feel her warm tongue smooth over the hardened bud before switching to the other to give it the same attention. as she does, her hands come up to squeeze your tits. she’s still sucking and nipping gently as she looks up at you, her doe eyes stirring the heat in your belly. when she unlatches; her lips are a little swollen and wet with saliva.

“what am i allowed to do? what do you need?” ellie asks, smoothing her hands down your waist and hips.

you shiver slightly, “anything.”

ellie starts kissing your neck again, sucking a hickey into the crook of your neck, “you’re gonna need to be more detailed then that, doll.”

you bite your lip, your tipsy brain racing, “i need you to fuck me.”

ellie pulls back, a wide grin growing on her face, and she kisses your collarbone. “jesus christ, i’d fucking love too… can you sit on my face first?”

your exhale sharply and nod. ellie lies back on the bed and you slide off ellie, kicking off your jeans, leaving your underwear on, before crawling back up ellie’s body.

ellie grips your thighs as you position yourself over her face. “fuck, you smell good… you this wet for me, babe?”

you nod again, your cheeks hot.

her smile is a little cocky as she looks up at your face, and licks over the wet fabric of your underwear. your legs jolt a little and you let out a shaky breath.

ellie shoves her face further between your legs, and you swear you hear her whimper. she pulls your underwear to the side, and licks a broad stripe up your cunt.

you moan, your eyes falling shut as you hold onto her headboard.

she pulls back, “i said sit on my face, babe, not hover-“

ellie’s hands pull on your thighs so you rest your weight on her face fully. ellie becomes borderline ravenous, her tongue lapping at your pussy, slurping you up as her fingers dig into the fat of your ass and thighs.

you bite on your fist to muffle your loud moans, but ellie will have none of that, her arm reaching up to pull yours away from your face.

after a moment, ellie sticks her tongue fully out, letting you rub your clit against it as you please. your breaths become more and more unsteady.

ellie’s hands on your ass help guide your hips, and when she moves to suck on your clit, the suction makes your orgasm hit you like a freight train, bucking your hips against ellie’s face.

when you’ve come down, ellie helps you off of your face, and rummages through her drawer to grab her strap.

you stop her, your hand against her chest, “i wanna feel you against me first.”

ellie doesn’t need to hear anymore, and quickly starts taking off her clothes as you take off your underwear. she moves so she’s on top of you, hiking one of your legs over her shoulder. the moment her wet cunt grinds into yours, you both moan, your eyes rolling back into your head.

“you feel so fucking perfect, so fuckin good for me-“ she rambles

ellie starts thrusting her hips against yours, and you watch her small, perky tits bounce with each movement. your hand trails up to squeeze one of them and she whimpers softly. when you pinch her nipple between your fingers, she moans gutturally and moves against you faster. you’re not at all in control of how loud you’re moaning at this point.

“look at you, sweet girl, so fucking gorgeous-“

it isn’t long before your oversensitive clit is being brought closer to another orgasm. you make obscene noises as you cum again, ellie’s eyes trained on your face the whole time.

“there you go- let me cum all over that pretty- ah, fucking- mmmh, pussy-“ ellie grunts before cumming a few moments after you.

you both take about 5 seconds to recover before she’s scrambling to grab the strap. once ellie has it on, you lick your lips, staring at it.

“can i ride it?”

ellie’s eyes go big, and she basically throws herself onto the bed, lying back and patting her thigh.

you giggle and climb on top of her, kissing her lips again. she kisses you back eagerly, grabbing your hips and thrusting her hips up, but you pull back.

“nope. hands off and stay still.” you order, and her already very dilated eyes look like pools of black at this point. she nods, biting her lip.

you take the strap and run the tip of it through your folds. ellie whines as she watches this, her hips bucking a little with her fists clenching the sheets below her.

“hey, what did i just say?” you ask, a mischievous smile on your face.

she takes a shaky breath, “sorry.”

you laugh a little, “so needy, ellie.”

you make eye contact with her as your hand travels down your own body, taking the time to squeeze and play with your own breasts. meanwhile, ellie looks like she’s practically salivating.

your hand travels down your stomach to your cunt, rubbing your own clit for a second as ellie watches, her mouth agape.

your fingers spread your folds and dip inside you for a moment, curling up and making you moan.

ellie is desperate at this point, “please, jesus fucking christ, i need you so bad, you don’t under-“

you withdraw your fingers, giving ellie a look. “hmmm… sounds like you need something to keep that mouth of yours busy, huh?”

you bring your slick-covered fingers up to her mouth. “open.”

ellie immediately opens her mouth and starts sucking off your fingers, whimpers muffled.

you giggle, “awww, you’re too fucking cute… now keep sucking on those, yeah?”

without warning, you sink down onto ellie’s strap and start bouncing. ellie whines, her eyes fixated on your tits as they bounce with you, still eagerly sucking on your fingers. ellie’s eyes fall shut for a moment as the base of the harness gives her clit the friction she’s craving.

you keep bouncing on her strap, watching the fucked out glaze in ellie’s eyes, half-lidded and fully dilated.

“awww… you just needed to get fucked, that’s all… look how pretty you are…” you tease and ellie starts whimpering like she’s gonna come from your words alone.

after a few minutes, you start to tire and you take out the fingers in her mouth, slowing down, “now, fuck me like you mean it, ellie.”

those words are all the permission ellie need before flipping you over and drilling her hips into yours.

“-pussy’s so fuckin- fuck, so fuckin’ tight for me, babe-“ ellie whimpers, tucking her face into your neck.

you would find it more amusing that ellie is acting like this strap is physically attached to her if she wasn’t making you feel so fucking good. you cling onto her as she fucks you, slamming into you just right, over and over.

“i need to cum, please let me cum- i can’t fucking-“ ellie rambles, and you cut her off

“i’m close too, baby, it’s okay-“ you pant, your eyes clenching shut as she fucks you into your third orgasm.

ellie’s hips bottom out and she grinds herself deep into you as she cums against the base of the harness, her moans needy and breathy.

when you both start coming down, she pulls out and tosses the strap away wordlessly, going back to cuddle against you.

you’re completely exhausted (and both of you still slightly drunk) as you let her spoon you, barely saying anything before slipping into a deep sleep.

———

“so you just… left? without even saying goodbye?” mary asks over the phone as you walk into the music building on your college campus, lugging your beat up guitar with you.

“what was i supposed to do? make her breakfast and thank her for the 3 orgasms?” you ask, holding the door open for a girl running in behind you.

the girl gives you a look and your face gets hot, realizing she overheard what you said.

“i mean… maybe? she was super hot,” mary responds, slightly agitated

you groan, “yeah, she was hot, but i barely learned anything about her and we were both drunk. not necessarily promising grounds for a budding relationship.”

you walk up the steps to the room you’re headed to, checking your phone again for the right room number.

“yeah, but still. she seemed like she would be cool,” mary justifies and you sigh.

“well, if i ever see her again while we’re not drunk and horny, maybe i’ll ask her out. but right now, that’s really not a priority.” you say, finding the right practice room.

mary starts to talk again but you interrupt her, “i’m sorry, mary, but i have to go.”

“wait, why? i know you don’t have class right now.”

“i’m taking those private guitar lessons to satisfy that extracurricular credit, remember? it’s my first lesson, so i really don’t wanna be late,“ you say, and mary sighs.

“okay, whatever. have fun, and i’ll talk to you after?”

you agree and end the phone call, looking to check the room number again before you walk in.

your forced, ‘make a good impression’ smile is immediately wiped off your face when you see the familiar auburnette playing the guitar in front of you.

she looks up at you and her cheeks go red almost instantaneously.

you say, “sorry, i must be in the wrong room- i have a lesson-“

ellie’s eyebrows raise and she lets out a slow sigh, “you, uh, you have a lesson?”

you nod, gripping your guitar case.

ellie laughs a little, like this is some sort of prank that was pulled on her:

“then you’re in the right room, because i’m pretty sure i’m supposed to teach you guitar this semester.”

you sharply exhale the breath you were holding in as the realization of what’s going on sets in, “but… you’re an astrophysics major?”

ellie chuckles again, “and a music minor, babe.”

you restrain the groan that you desperately want to make, your stomach sinking.

ellie pats the empty seat next to her, “well… let’s get started then. you know any bar chords yet?”

[lovelyverosika]

The winner takes it all…the loser has to fall

Hazbin Hotel! Adam x Fem!reader

Part 2 —> Part 1

Warnings: suicide & death

A/N: I wanted to say thank you for all the love on my first fanfic<3 Tbh I never planned a part two since I didn’t expect people to actually enjoy it and I lack of motivation but the support changed it. Also I finished it earlier than expected :) As before I’m sorry for any grammar mistakes. I hope you enjoy it!

3rd POV

All eyes on her, that was the situation she found herself in now. Under normal circumstances she would feel extremely happy. Getting noticed and seen has always been her dream but this was more a nightmare than a dream. Looks of confusion and hatred hit her as soon as she looked around. Humiliation was what she was feeling right now, a feeling she knew very well.

She didn’t even dare to look behind her, scared to face her husband and his reaction but she could feel Lutes stare full of hatred piercing through her body as if she was a sinner on Extermination day. Ironic isn’t it? Back then in hell this day filled her with pure despair. All that blood and screams made her cry every year. Y/N hated her days in hell even more than her days when she was alive. She got out of her trance as she heard Monika laughing from above her. As she looked up she found herself in a familiar situation:

Kneeling on the floor with tears streaming down her cheeks while someone looked down at her. Monika snipped with her fingers,making a picture of Y/N appear. Instead of the optimistic angel shining with happiness everyone could see a demon full of tiredness and sadness in her eyes. "You might wonder how I found out..well for those who knew her from her living days it isn’t rocket science that she killed herself. And we all know suicide is a sin.", Monika laughed as she looks down at Y/N and then at the other angels ,which whisper to each other in the courtroom. Y/N didn’t even noticed that Emily was hugging her,she was too lost in her own mind.

-Flashback-

Y/N was someone people would call a "trophy child", polite,smart and full of happiness,that changed as soon as she hit puberty. She started seeing imperfections she never noticed before, things she loved got boring and her grades were falling. In other words she burned out and lost motivation for basically everything. The only thing she didn’t gave up was dancing, for years she worked really hard for her dream to come true. She wanted to be a star, who can make people happy with her performances and be admired.

At the age of 21 she was faced with the fact that hard work is nothing compared to natural talent. The first time in 6 years she was supposed to be the main star of the show. But that would’ve been too good to be true. On the day of her performance they told her, they founded someone better…a natural talented girl named Monika. She was beautiful like a swan but her personality was rotten..wasted potential in Y/N’s eyes.

"Not everyone is born to be a star.", Monika said while looking down at the woman, who kneeled before her obviously crying. Blinded by rage and envy Y/N interrupted Monikas show,dancing with elegance and grace while Monika acted as if it’s supposed to be happen.

Y/N smiled at the audience as she continued to dance,. "Thank you all so much for your support but I am afraid that was my last show", she spoke as tears run down her cheeks. She thought about it often..just quitting everything including her life. She’s been working so hard her whole life for nothing. It was no secret that she had a fragil heart, being sensitive made her life twice as hard as it was. She couldn’t take it anymore, so she threw the axe she hid into the air right above her. She wanted to leave with an impact no one will forget. Her last words were "Thank you" as the axe hits her as she bowed.

Everyone was shocked especially Monika who stood next to her now lifeless body. Tragic isn’t it? But at least she had the impact she wanted happening,right? She was now know as "The dying swan".

It was too late when she realised that suicide wasn’t and never be the solution and that she wasted her previous life.

With her soul tainted by envy and sin she found herself now in Hell, a place ten times worse than earth.

It was hard but she survived, she found friends who shared a similar fate. Together they helped demons in need for 3 years. On the 4th yearly extermination everything changed. Y/N loved her friends dearly, so seeing one of her friends nearly getting killed by an angel made her act without thinking. Wanting her friend to live she threw herself in front of them. It was painful as the spear pierced right through her heart but it was worth it, after all she protected her friend, didn’t she?

With a smile on her face she made peace with the fact that she’ll die for a second time. What she didn’t expect was that she found herself waking up again, this time in heaven.

It wasn’t long until she befriended a seraphim called Emily, she was such a bundle of joy, which made Y/N feel better in no time.

How she caught the eye of the first man on earth and soul in heaven was a mystery to her but what she knew was that she despised him. He was cocky, rude and so full of himself and the sugar on the cream were the nicknames he gave her…"mini tits" and "sugar tits".

Because of their work they spent more time together and got to know each other. She got used to his antics and behaviour and started to enjoy his company, compared to others he was very nice and respectful to her. It wasn’t long until she fell in love with him. She realised it for the first time when he was actually starting to respect women in general. Respect for women was very important to her and seeing people change for the better out of their own will was something she cherished.

One year later, they started dating and Adam was surprisingly loyal and clingy,she didn’t mind it one bit. He brought light into her small and pathetic life and she cleansed him like a waterfall. All her anger, sadness disappeared while he was not used to all this love. Everyone in heaven knew they were totally smitten with each other. After another year she married him and they lived a happy life in heaven until now.

-Flashback ends-

Y/N buried her head onto Emily’s chest, not wanting to be seen in such a state. Everything was blurry and the voices muffled, all she could hear was her own heart beat loud and clear.

Adam didn’t know what to feel, his wife used to be a demon. Was he supposed to be angry, sad or disappointed, he didn’t know. She promised him to stay with him forever, she promised not to leave him like Lilith and Eve did. He knew that weren’t sweet lies, she was the first one to actually accept him as a whole, so why shouldn’t he accept her either. Sinner or not she was still his sweet and loving wife. The last thing Y/N saw before fainting was Adam standing in front of Monika.

Part 3

[luveline]

Steve zombie au with reader getting hurt at the new camp (like always) and Eddie offering support as a friend but Steve gets all jealous while trying to take care of HIS girl

for you my love ♡ steve zombie au —steve is riddled with guilty jealousy as you and eddie become friends. fem!reader 2k

It's a brave new world.

For starters, there are enough guns at camp and able bodied gunmen for fires in the daytime. There are warm meals eaten under the sun, songs sung quietly but nonetheless sung around the fire. There are happy children. There are books to be read to them, and batteries to power flashlights for story time under the stars. 

Things aren't perfect, but after the tragedy of The College, things are good enough. Steve can bring himself to leave your side (though not for the first few days where he's bed bound, and not for a few more after that). 

He can't lie, he hates that you like Eddie so much. His jealousy is a raging monster of stiff spines and dry eye twitches, insecurity that you've met someone new and that you trust them so quickly. 

You were cagey at The College, scared of Steve's friends and petrified Steve was going to break up with you. He couldn't understand at the time how you would ever think such a thing, but now, with Eddie sitting by your knee and a piece of string between his fingers weaving a cat's cradle, your eyes alight with delight, Steve gets it. He totally gets it. 

"It's not hard," Eddie promises you, letting the string fall from his fingers and into your lap. 

"I don't have a complicated brain," you say. 

"It's not rocket science. Even Steve can do it." 

Steve picks an overcooked Lima bean up from his discarded dinner tray and aims to flick it between Eddie's eyes. You're gathered around the campfire in your cold weather coats, a procession of young (ish) adults knee to knee chatting away the worthless hours. When the Lima bean smacks Eddie in the cheek, Steve could pin it on any number of the people gathered. Christopher is a renowned professional when it comes to bothering people, and Jonathan has that older brother's penchant for being irksome, but Steve owns up to it. 

"That's a touchdown." 

Eddie gives him the finger as he instructs you, completely unbothered. "It's those two fingers– No– Yeah, you got it. And then push this finger under this, and this finger… Nice." 

In another life, there's a Steve who doesn't care. He hasn't had to vy for your attention before besides sharing your friendship with Robin, and he's pathetically sorry about it —you should have friends. Steve thinks unabashed that you're the best person they ever made. All you want (all you've ever wanted) is to be loved and to give love back. He's known that about you for a very long time. And in his eyes you deserve what you want. 

You deserve to have friends. He can share Robin, and you can have friends of your own, too. You can have everything. 

Steve can't get a handle on how it's making him feel, is the issue. He's envious as a teenager with their first crush. 

"You honestly just need to practise," Eddie assures you, laying back in the grass with his arms behind his head. 

"You'll have to show me again." 

You stay sitting and Eddie shows you the pattern again without sitting up. You aren't flirting with one another. Steve wonders if that would feel better, to be jealous of something substantial, but you're doing normal things. Eddie is treating you with exactly the kindness and friendship you deserve. Steve wishes he managed it himself when you first met, because you're his best love and his best friend. 

Robin not included. (Robin is always included. Steve would die for her.) 

Like she can sense his devotion, Robin puts a hand on his shoulder, pulling his weight gently to the left. "You'll burn a hole in his leather jacket." 

"I hope he catches on fire." 

"What are you so worried about? She had plenty of chances to leave you for somebody new. Jonathan's been nothing but sweet to her the entire time they've known one another and she barely notices." 

Steve grimaces. "Jonathan likes her too?" 

"He wants to be her friend, just like Eddie. I, on the other hand, want to marry her." 

"Funny." Steve yanks grass up from its roots, the blades soft and cold between his fingers. There's an ice patch growing on his ass and thighs from the cold as the temperature drops. "It's fucking cold." 

"You can move closer. I need to go and find Sarah for a bit. Don't burn your new kicks, Steve, they were a great trade." 

Robin swapped a useless handgun for them to the resident portable blacksmith. Steve wriggles his toes in them gratefully. 

Steve and the remaining group move closer to the fire slowly. When the sky is black and smooth as velvet dotted only by stars like pin holes, Will comes running with a miraculous bag of marshmallows, trailed by his ragtag group of friends; Dustin with his fraying hat, Lucas, and a teenaged boy named Peter. 

Steve couldn't believe Lucas was alive at first. Eddie told the story to him when he was recovering in the shitty portable medbay. You'd been sleeping in the plastic chair by Steve's bed, your face pressed to his chest, a puddle of drool soaking into his t-shirt. He'd stroked your forehead for hours. 

Eddie and a whole bunch of Hellfire members didn't quite manage the escape rendezvous orchestrated by Hopper at the start of the apocalypse. You and Steve must have just missed them when they set out in Eddie's van for safety. The story goes that Eddie's shit with directions, and while he managed to get to Michigan eventually, it was hard. They met up with a group of much older people who were able to take some of the weight off, eventually finding a group of military soldiers who'd been drafted to protect a politician's family. Their group kept growing and growing. While they never set up camp somewhere permanent, they've kept it together. If Eddie's group (or moving community) had managed to make it to The College, Steve thinks they might have survived the attack.  

But you're together now. Hawkinites reunited, Hopper alive and well and nursing new plans. 

"Hopper give those to you?" Christopher asks Will. 

"How's that fair?" Eddie asks. "Family favouritism." 

"I have to share them," Will says. 

"Oh, well. Never mind. Accusation renounced." 

The teens kidnap Eddie and run off to find sticks for marshmallow roasting. You turn to Steve with a smile that makes him feel worse rather than better, so subtly devoted. 

"How's your arm?" you ask, leaning into his shoulder. 

"Aches." 

"Can I have a look?" you ask. 

Steve offers his arm with no qualms. You fight to push back the sleeve of his coat and jacket. His wound is closed and healing nicely, but the infection must've been in his muscle or something because the ache won't go away. It feels as though he's done a hundred pull ups with one arm alone. 

You don't touch anywhere near the site. 

"I think it's looking better." You thumb over one of his little moles. "Pretty." 

"You're pretty." 

"You're prettier," you say, folding his sleeves down again with infinite care. He thinks you might be batting your lashes at him. That, or he's whipped to the point of delusion. "You feel okay, hm? You're mopey tonight. Do you want to go sleep?" 

Steve shakes his head vehemently. "And miss marshmallows? No way." 

You both notice that your question of mood went unanswered. Luckily for him, you dip down to rub your cheek against his sleeve. "Love you." 

He loves you too. He says it under his breath, pressing his cheek to your head for as long as you're willing to stay there. 

"Y/N-kins, Steven," Eddie says, returning with a handful of long branches covered in foliage. "I have a job for you." 

You pull leaves off of the branches. It should be an easy job with the three of you sitting criss cross applesauce yanking the twigs naked excitedly, but you pull with too much enthusiasm and stab the meat of your thumb. 

You hiss and look down. Your noise draws Eddie and Steve's attention in tandem, Eddie closest to the injured hand. 

"Oh, shit," Eddie says, pulling his sleeve over his hand. He presses it to your skin as a surprisingly fat rivulet of blood springs and drips down to your wrist. "Here, don't get it on your clean coat." 

Steve doesn't know why he does it. He isn't proud. But he thinks, That's my girl. Eddie's being friendly, and Steve knows that's all it is, but he can't stop himself from batting Eddie's hand away and moving in protectively. 

"Cop a feel somewhere else, Munson," he bites. 

"Steve!" you say, laughing. 

Eddie rolls his eyes, sitting back in his spot with a laugh of his own. "Ridiculous. I wouldn't cop a feel ever 'cos I respect women–" 

"Nice," you say. 

"And if I were trying to flirt with her, Harrington, I'd definitely do it better. But as you both know my heart is promised to someone very important. I'm busy keeping the memory of metal alive, I don't have time for stealing girlfriends. Not that you're not worth stealing, Y/N." 

Steve dabs your hand. You wink at Eddie playfully. "You keep her alive, Eddie. Are you gonna play some more rock songs for us tonight?" 

"Duh." 

"How do you manage to hurt yourself every single day?" Steve asks, distracted from the conversation by your cut. It can't be a quarter of an inch long but it's bleeding in a rush. 

"See how it got faster when you came to save me?" you ask Steve. His heart drops, but you continue, "My heart gets faster when you're close. My blood pressure rises." 

Steve tries not to show how pleased he feels at the compliment. You tap his elbow knowingly. 

Steve assesses your cut. It stops bleeding just as soon as he leaves it alone and the kids arrive with their marshmallows, putting an end to Steve's makeshift medbay. 

Someone puts a couple more logs on the fire to get it roaring now that night is creeping in. Steve insists on roasting a marshmallow for you. 

"I have one working hand left," you protest. 

"And knowing your luck, you'll burn it." 

"I'd never control you like that," Eddie says, deadpan.

Steve stabs Eddie with a stick that's lightly smouldering at the tip. You tell Steve off, but when he presents you with a roasted marshmallow for eating you give him the world's greatest thank you kiss. Another after you've eaten it, your lips sticky with sugar. 

"Do you want mine?" Steve asks. 

You wrap your arm around his waist for a lopsided hug. "No. Don't ask me again though, I might say yes." 

"Do you want mine? Seriously, honey–" 

"I'll have it," Eddie says with a shit-eating smile, eyes trained on the fire where he toasts his own marshmallow. 

You wave your hand at him. "No, you won't." You lift your chin to kiss his cheek. "It's yours. Don't let it burn, handsome." 

Alright, Steve might have jumped the gun on the whole jealousy thing. 

[sergeifyodorov]

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.

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.

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.

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.

153

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.

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.

[pupcuck]

CAROL OF THE BALLS !

ft. leon s. kennedy x fem!reader x dante (dmc)

tags. i made them brothers, cucking, threesome, age gap, size kink, ass play, leon eats his cum so incest, cum eating, creampie, p in v

note. SORRY FOR BEING LATE AGAIN i have been tweaking :3 but um whatever! ignore typos or i’ll detonate :3 feedback n rbs much appreciated !!! ooc bc dante is literally a well-meaning old man but i have to make him sleazy for porn without plot purposes sorry!! i also cut the smut short bc. bc i wanted to get this out so sorry if it’s jolty 😭

tumblr has started to remove fics that use tw non-con, tw incest and any nsfw tags in general. for this reason, as i’d like my fic to appear in the tags so i can have the same reach as other authors, please understand that this fic contains dark content under the cut. reading this comes at your own risk.

Your love for Leon, much to his dismay, is no match for your pursuit of cock. His poor girl, you suffer from this awful disease at such a young age, the kind that tears a family apart - wandering hands they call it. In Leon’s terms, it would be something more akin to cock-driven. That’s your motivation, and if you see one you like, you’re gonna get it. Fuck, you’d do rocket science on the spot for a nice, fat cock. Unfortunately, it just so happens to be his older brother that you’ve set your eye on. And Leon’s older brother is the most shameless asshole since, like, god, Mark Antony? That guy was obnoxious, right? Fucking his best friend’s wife and all.

Dante is that obnoxious but amplified tenfold, if you can even imagine that. He’s got a big mouth to match his stature, and, you guessed it, he’s got one hell of a dick stuffed into those tacky leather pants. And you’re taking a very obvious gander at what sort of goodies he’s got tucked away. You’re playing footsie with him under the table for fuck’s sake. Leon can tell by the way you’re slouched too far back in your seat, but it’s mainly ‘cause he dropped his fork and when he lifted the table cloth, he found your foot rubbing along Dante’s inner thigh while his fingers toyed with the frilly cuff of your sock. Bringing you home for Christmas was a mistake. You’re too precious to give up and too hard to reign in. He should just store you away in a jar of some sort, poke a few holes in the lid so you can breathe, a bird cage perhaps, or maybe a crate?

Knowing you, you’d manage to get your paws on Dante either way. A cage would be no problem, just slip it right on in through the gaps! A makeshift gloryhole if you will. Honestly, he’d prefer you to pick Vergil over Dante, at least the guy has it all together, at least he’s not a washed up loser who can’t pay his bills, at least he’s not Dante. You’d think as the younger sibling you’d turn out better, right? It’s like baking a cake, the first time it’s shit, and the second time it’s better. Not soft in the centre, not burnt to a crisp on the sides - just don’t work like that around here. Instead, Leon’s parents had the stronger, taller, hotter, bigger one first, then little Leon to top it all off. Little ‘cause he’s 5’10 with insoles only.

Oh yeah, you can ask around town. Leon Kennedy? That guy’s decent, nice face, nice smile, nice guy. Dante? One that walks around like his dick is weighing him down, fuckin’ pornstar face, can tell if a girl likes him when she’s got her ankles behind her head – yeah, I know him, he broke my parents marriage up, and he fucked my sister, and my auntie, yeah, the one that came over for the holidays. I don’t really mind ‘cause he gave it to me after too! Oh, no way, I couldn’t do that with Leon, he’s more of the settle down type, don’t you think?

No one has actually said that and yes, he is more of the settle down type, but Leon has had his fair share of flings, and contrary to popular belief - missionary is not the only position he knows. He knows how to put a girl on her knees, no stranger to it. Maybe, just maybe, his dick is the problem. It’s not small, not quite big, it’s adequate, or perhaps it’s inadequate and that’s why you’re offering to wash the dishes alongside Dante. Leon hasn’t seen Dante do a household chore since 1976, that’s when Leon was in the womb if you didn’t know. Meaning he hasn’t ever seen Dante do a single chore, not even pick up his own underwear the fucking slob. And don't even get him started on you. The girl who struggles to get the vacuum working when Leon’s not around, then you do it half heartedly for five minutes before complaining about your back aching.

He’s pacing outside the kitchen like a guard on duty, listening in on your conversation with Dante, it’s absolutely thrilling. Leon couldn’t think of a better way to spend his time, he just loves to hear his girlfriend flirt her way into his brother’s pants.

Oh, your hands are so big, Dante! Wow, they’re so much bigger than mine. My goodness, Dante, you could pick me up, like, sooooo easy! I wonder what else is big! Has your hair always been that colour? No, that’s so not true, Dante, doesn’t make you look old at all! It suits you, don’t look a day over twenty. Duh, of course I’m joking, I like ‘em old anyway. Do you babe? You should go ahead and suck his old man cock, sure Dante wouldn’t mind, and it’s not like Leon has any say. You’re young and fickle - this is what he deserves for dating a girl your age. What more do you know than dick?

“It’s okay, he won’t wake up,” Your voice is muffled in his ears, distant despite you being less than an inch away from him. He shifts, feels around for your warmth, clasps an arm that’s way too jacked.

Leon’s brother is remarkable really, he turns over after a struggle with the bedside lamp, sees Dante’s teeth gleaming, your little hands splayed flat across his chest. He’d go at him, make a feast of it, he wishes for the tearing of Dante’s throat to be biblical. God, Kane and Abel have nothing on them. “You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.” His digs his nails into hardened muscle.

“Please, baby,” You beg him, beg is an exaggeration, from you it’s a command. Like, not Oh, please, Leon! May I suck and fuck your brother while you lay beside us? More of a Please, shut your mouth and let me have this, Leon. I haven’t had good dick ever since I started dating you.

He falters, “No, babe,” Leon shakes his head, lip curling upwards in both disgust and wonderment at the boldness of your request. “No, are you crazy?”

“C’mon, Leon,” Dante pouts, and it’s disturbing to see a grown man with no upper lip do that. “She just wants to have a little fun.”

“Don’t— don’t get involved, this is between me and her.” His attempt at assertion is only met with amusement.

“Leon, please?” You bat your lashes. Beat. His heart hammers in his chest. Then Leon closes his eyes like a good boy, he’s always been great at taking orders. Whatever. Fuck his brother to your heart’s content.

“He not treatin’ you right, sweet thing?” Dante murmurs into your neck, his thick fingers parting your slippery folds, rubbing deft circles on your twitching clit.

He grits his teeth so hard they squeak. Leon treats you perfectly well. Surely, saying otherwise—

“No, Dante,” You pout up at his brother, a small hand curled around his wrist as he pushes his fingers knuckle-deep into your slick cunt.

Stupid bitch. Leon has never been inclined to call a woman a bitch, total lie, but Claire told him it’s not appropriate, and Claire is usually right about most things. Not right now though, girls are fucking brutal.

“No?” Dante coos, “My little brother can’t please his girl? Can’t get this little cunt soaked?” There’s a wet smack, and you gasp.

“Don’t do that.” Leon can’t help himself, it’s like he insists on making a fool of himself. “She doesn’t like that.”

“Do it again.” You plead, “Dante, please, feels so good.” The crooked smile Dante gives him is humiliation at its finest.

He draws his hand back, spanks your cunt, the fleshy part of his palm mashing against your clit. “You don’t even know what your girl likes.”

“I do.” Leon’s chest aches, his dick aches even more, feels like it’s about to over-inflate and pop.

“Bet you like it rough, don’t you, babe?” Dante asks, presses his nose into your neck, licks a stripe up your jugular.

“She does not.”

“Yes.” You nod crazy like a dashboard bobblehead.

Dante raises his brows when he glances sideways at Leon, “He’s not givin’ it to you is he? You want him all up in your guts, baby, don’t you?”

“Yes, yes, god, please,” You whine, clit thrumming beneath Dante’s fingertips. “Want it here.” You bring Dante’s hand to rest on your abdomen, “wanna feel you here, please.”

“Dirty little bitch,” Dante coaxes an orgasm out of you with his fingers alone.

“Don’t speak to her like that.”

“I’ll speak to her how I want,” He retorts, “She likes it, ‘s why you’re gettin’ me all wet, isn’t it, baby?”

“Mhm,” Your eyes follow his every move, and Leon has never seen you so enthralled during sex. He’s used to you laying on your back like a dead girl, legs over his shoulders, letting out the occasional grunt of discomfort.

His head dips low, the sheets are long forgotten, crumpled at the foot of the bed. Dante’s big hands spread your cheeks apart, licks into your cunt, flicks his tongue over your clit— and you moan like you never have before. Back bowing off the bed, covering your mouth with a balled-up fist, chest heaving.

“That good, baby?” Dante hums, his teeth scrape over your clit when he pulls back the hood, and you squirm.

“So good, so good— ‘s so fuckin’ good, god!”

Alright, can’t be that good, now you’re just putting it on to piss Leon off. You’ve never sucked his dick well enough for him to moaning like that. Then again, his dick doesn’t have a million nerve endings. The sounds Dante is making are downright lewd, unnecessary even, you’re dripping all over his face, his chin wet and shiny with your pussy— then he makes the jump. A move that’s bold even for a dude as outrageous as Dante, his pink tongue follows the natural trail from pussy to asshole. Licks the puckered rim till you relax, and there’s no resistance from you whatsoever. You’re just letting this grimy bastard eat your fucking ass? Even Leon hasn’t gotten that far, not that he’s asked, not that he’s ever thought about it - something about the second hole just feels wrong.

Dante spits on it, manages to get his thumb in nicely, then he sits up, leaves you empty. “Just a little girl takin’ big things, aren’t you? How am I s’posed to fit in this tight cunt without breaking it?” He tilts his head to the side, eyes droopy like he’s drunk on pussy juice alone. Probably is. Shit is potent. Especially when you’ve been nose-deep.

His brother only smiles, gives a pointed look to Leon’s dick straining against the fabric of his boxers, the sticky wet patch. “That’s why she wants cock so bad, huh?” Leon is not small. His dick is just right, it’s fine, it’s sufficient. There’s nothing wrong with it, but he cups a hand over his bulge to hide it from Dante.

Dante shucks off his pants, and yeah, Leon really is the little brother in every sense. He might as well just kill himself at this point, there is no winning against a dick that fat. Shit’s so big it’s hanging downwards, so heavy it can’t even hold itself up. Some big fucking balls to level it out. Jesus, is he seriously admiring his brother’s dick right now? Listen, it’s just got some real weight to it, and Leon has to say he’s impressed. Only seen this breed of horsecock in porn.

“Gosh, Dante,” You’re lovestruck, cockstruck, a trembling hand reaches forward to cup his heavy balls, then wrap it around the base, and it’s honestly so big your thumb and middle finger struggle to meet.

“Don’t throw her around like that, oh my god.” Leon frowns, catches your head from knocking against the headboard when Dante manhandles you onto your front. “Just be careful.” If you told Leon he’d be watching his brother fuck his little girlfriend from behind with a thumb in her ass, he’d say, yeah, sounds about right. Some shit that would happen to a guy like me.

“She can take it.” Dante says, then he’s sheathed inside with a single glide of his cock, no resistance whatsoever. You’re that wet. Dripping down your thighs. God, he’s never seen you get so worked up. “Can’t you, babe?”

“Yes, please, just give it to me please, Dante,” Now that’s begging, not that shit you were doing earlier. “Wan’ it so bad, please, might die, Dante.”

“Alright, okay, baby, only ‘cause you asked so nicely.” He snickers, wraps his arm around your front and then fucks into you so hard the bed rocks. Headboard hits the wall. Stuff you see in movies. God, his poor girl, you’ll be ruined once Dante’s done with you.

“Oh my god, oh my god, Dante,” You mewl an endless string of expletives, arch so your hips push back onto his fat cock, and your eyes roll back into your head, and there’s spit trickling down your chin— Holy fucking shit. It’s like watching a porno play out. Hell, it might very well be a porno. C’mon, where’s the camera, is this Dante’s new side gig? Is this keeping his lights on, his fridge full, his water running? Wouldn’t put it past him.

Once he creams your hole, Dante’s quick to spread you apart with his big hands, you’re still gaping. “Go on, Leon.” He says very simply, smiles the way he always does when he suggests something outlandish. “Clean her up.”

Leon’s never eaten pussy from the back, it’s impolite. Crude. That’s the general consensus, right? And Leon’s a feminist, he’ll eat a pussy that sits itself on his face, he’ll snuggle up between a thick pair of thighs - but from the back, oh, it’s just obscene. Still does it though. Eats his brother's thick cum from your hole, sucks on your swollen clit, laps till there’s nothing left that’s dirtier than his own tongue. Then he goes to bed with a hard dick and the taste of his brother’s cum in the back of his throat. He’ll sleep it off.

[janayuga]

Inofficial-official continuation of my older pokevillains post.

I will yet again push my personal pokevillains agenda and spam u with my headcanons.

Also reminder that villains are different ages here- for example Ghetsis is around 30-40 here while Cyrus is 18-22.

Archie

- was a grunt for Team Rocket back in the day and worked under Giovanni’s leadership

- was very popular among his peers for his open and friendly nature

- secretly dated Maxie

- only initially joined Team Rocket for a quick buck and never agreed with their philosophy

- secretly released pokémon from time to time

Maxie

- was a low level researcher/scientist and also worked under Giovanni’s leadership

- had a deep hatred for Archer ( gay-gay violence)

- lived off of caffeine and instant noodles

- assigned Archie to his own projects so they can spend time together

Ghetsis

- was a history professor in Unova

- is of royal descent (not my own hc but german pokewiki claims this for some reason and i’m not gonna question it)

- being closeted af and having a severe lack of bitches makes him unbearable to be around

- always wears long clothing and gloves because of his several injuries inflicted by his (mistreated) Hydreigon

Giovanni

- since his mother is still the leader of Team Rocket, Giovanni is living his life to the fullest

- this fucker is spoiled rotten and has an ego the size of mars, beware

- went on a 6-month vacation/visit to Alola and dated Nanu there

- he dont know much much a bag of milk costs sm

Cyrus

- he moved out from his parents place the second he had enough cash saved up

- goes to university and studies Computer Science/ or Physics and Mathematics

- aces all his classes so he has a lot of spare time to focus on his special interest in Sinnoh Legends

- only leaves his apartment for grocery shopping or mandatory classes

[efplanning]

grandparents part 3 outta 3, baby!!!!

Long text under the cut,

espeon evolved at a young age. when he had begun to develop a mysterious illness in his brain that couldve been fatal if his body didnt evolve into an espeon to combat the potentially terminal disease early on. it didnt really impact him past that point in his life and recovered very well but...

his own unconventional evolution piqued his interest in how far an eevees adaptive abilities could be pushed. But from what he could tell no one else had been able Really look into that.

but espeon had always been fascinated by evolution in general helping his parents with their work. espeon was born around the time they started the research facility in kanto after they had moved there together. he had made impressive advancements in the field of evolution studies himself. wrote books, publicly spoke on the topic and just. generally became a respected authority on it all, over the course of his life.

over the years he had also found the time to start a family. not very present in their lives since he was extremely busy with his work. his oldest and youngest did not have much interest in their family's line of research at all but his middleborn always had a respect for the work his father did.

However, as successful as he was in his field...he still wasn't satisfied with his personal knowledge of his own species's natural abilities...

---

one day espeon had gotten an offer from team rocket to be a lead scientist on some project. something about cloning mew. they said that they would assist him with anything he wanted. give him any amount of money he wanted for him to be on the project. he made a big show of kicking them out of the facility, however...he secretly contacted them telepathically before they got very far away telling them he would work with them.

the project progressed and espeon became fascinated with not only the science and technology involved in what they were doing but the ethics as well. And how they could just...do it. But then again he'd never personally cared about whether an experiment could be considered cruel to its participants. Always being ruled by his own curiosity and his want of knowledge in that regard...

As he felt like the progress was going smoothly on the project...something went wrong and Mewtwo broke out. He was prepared for his offer to be rescinded but...team rocket kept up their part of the deal they agreed on and gave him as much protection and money for whatever he had in mind as they could...

he wanted to see how far an eevees natural adaptation could be pushed. Even though he knew the route he was going possibly wouldn't offer reliable research he didn't particularly care as long as he could sate his own curiosity in the topic...he only had three test subjects after all.

Espeon couldn't let his kids evolve for the sake of his pet project to work. Not only did he do experiments that physically harmed them on occasion but since eevees also evolved w emotional stimuli he messed around a lot with that aspect of it too... his eldest evolved on her own one day the first chance she got. after an argument w him she left home on her own. Soon after his youngest followed her lead. Left with only his middleborn he still did what he could...

Begrudgingly the experiments came to an end. leaving him still unsatisfied but he understood that there was little point in continuing on.

---

as the years went on he actually did try to have a *decent(by his standards at least) relationship with his grandkids despite his son being "overly cautious" and not really wanting them to have to interact with him in any way if they didnt have to...

when one of his grandchildren evolved into an espeon he immediately took them on as an assistant of sorts in hopes that they would be able to take over the family business. However his expectations were not met and he was disappointed more than anything.

When he eventually passed around his late 70s(?) he kind of had no other choice but to put his son in charge of the family labs seeing as everyone else he thought of as a possible option was either no longer in contact with him or dead.

He died about 2 years before EVs egg was laid.

[a-dinosaur-a-day]

as a lifelong dinosaur enthusiast who moved towards interest in ecology in recent years what you said about paleontology being very holistic is very interesting to me. can you list, like, some examples of how that is? and if you think the same could be said of ecology as a field? especially if ecology n evobio share the disproving capitalistic ideology thing

all three are 100%

capitalism operates on a misunderstanding of nature and has an implicitly impossible objective

"infinite growth" in a universe with finite resources is not possible. the end.

and one thing we see throughout the fossil record, and in modern ecology, is how the limitation of resources leads to major changes, thus demonstrating that said limitation exists

furthermore, none really make money. the people who buy dinosaur crap are not that many. the fossils don't lead to profitable technologies or franchises (I'm excluding fossil fuels from this conversation, which are the Exception, but every inherently anticapitalist field has *some* Exception) and most paleontologists are ridiculously broke, and even our top paleontologists don't really get far beyond 100k in terms of salary (which is depressingly low compared to other academics in geology and biology)

it also demonstrates the interconnectedness of all life and how our history is the history of the world, not just the history of humans or even mammals

how much our evolution isn't just dependent on our genetics, but on our ecology, the things that live with us and shape us through life

disproving bioessentialism, the inherent assumption of many other destructive ideologies such as racism and transphobia

how even the rocks have importance far beyond what we give them as they are the primary recorders of our planet's history

how small humans are and how little right we have to bleed the planet dry like we're currently doing

and how, like all species that specialize too quickly and too largely, we are careening towards our own destruction in the process of the planet needing to heal.

I hope that last sentence isn't true, but the fact that we know this at all is thanks to paleontology and environmental science.

All of these fields poke back against the capitalistic, white-supremacist world. So it's hard to get into them, it's hard to stay in them, and it's hard to make a living in them.

Ftr, this is why I study paleoecology specifically, but I think paleoecology should be in common parlance as equivalent to brain surgery or rocket science bc I think I'm breaking my brain