#so they are actually just high fiving behind eclipse

[letsmcfreackingloseit]

I call them “Eclipse was not invited to the polycule and he’s going to make it everyone elses problem” and “The sexy beach episode” 

I know I said this last time, but I do still have some more potential content, but we’ll see if I ever get to them- crossing my finger for it!

As usual: The detective AU and character designs are made by @starlightcloudbaby and The Sleuth Jesters saga which these doodles are based off of is made by @naffeclipse!

Also have a little bonus depicting my favorite part about drawing y/n:

Best part of the process- adding muppet eyes to y/n’s bells XD

[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.

[shyywriter]

Playdate Trouble

Fandom - Five Nights at Freddy's (Security Breach)

Summary: Moon notices that Sun isn't quite himself. So, he decides to take matters into his own hands and tries to cheer him up.

Note: This is my first ever tickle fic, (so forgive me if it's not that great), and I've decided to write it about two of my favorite characters, ever. Sundrop and Moondrop from Security Breach. I've read a bunch of fics, of these two, and they've all been adorable. So, here's my attempt at it.

It was after hours, in the Pizzaplex, which meant that all of the animatronics were off, doing their own thing. They were all pretty grateful for this allowed free time, especially the Glamrocks, since performing for their guests, all day, could be pretty tiring. The only one who really wished that the day could last forever was Sunnydrop. The Daytime Daycare Attendant is quite boisterous and full of energy, so it was always sad, for him, to see the children go, and the daycare close. After hours was, probably, Sun's least favorite time of day, especially when everyone else was busy, and he had no one to play with. Moon, usually, likes to wander off, on his own. And, Eclipse takes this time to tidy things up, in their secret little room, behind the castle balcony. Not to mention, the Glamrocks would also be busy with their own things.

Right now, Sun was simply sitting on a bean bag, with his head in his hands, and a grumpy expression, on his faceplate. He was bored, and couldn't think of anything fun to do. He could go for a dive in the ball pit, or make some new puppets in Arts and Crafts. But, Sun has already done these things, a zillion times, and he wasn't quite in the mood for any of them. Just when Sun was starting to consider just heading over to his charge station, to power down for the night, he heard a deep, raspy chuckle, echo through the daycare. He looked up to see his twin, Moondrop, swimming through the air, on his wire. Sun sighed, sadly, as he watched his brother fly around, high up in the air. It looked like a lot of fun, and he always wanted to try it. But, the staff would never allow it since Sun was clumsy, and could often get, a little, carried away. They didn't want to risk him falling off, and getting hurt or damaged, badly.

Meanwhile, Moon had noticed Sun, sitting there, and decided to go and greet him. He lowered down and, once Moon reached the ground, his wire disconnected from his back loop and retracted back into the ceiling, leaving Moondrop free to walk around, on his own. Moon tiptoes over to Sun, with his wide grin, as he waves to him. "Hello, Sunny. Oh. Why so blue?", he said as he took notice of the Sun's grumpy look. Sun continues to sit there, hunched over with his head in his hands, as he looked down at the floor. "Oh, it's nothing." Moondrop tilted his head as he stared at Sun, his grin never faltering. It was clear to him that Sun wasn't feeling like, usually, cheery self, right now. It was, actually, quite odd to see him acting like this. Moon then steps in front of Sun, crouching down to look him, face to face. "Are you upset with me?" Sun's eyes go wide at the question, and he sits up, shaking his head, while looking at Moon, now. "No, of course not! I'm not upset at anybody. I'm just so...bored!"

Moon blinked as he stared at Sun. "Bored?" Sun sighs as he leans back in the beanbag chair, resting his cheek on his fist, as he looked off to the side. "Yeah, bored. There's never anything to do, when all the little sunshines go home. No one to play with." Moondrop looked down, in thought. Does this happen, often? Does Sun always get this way, when the Pizzaplex closes. Now, Moon was starting to feel, a bit, guilty. He would always go off on his own, not actually spending that much time with his brother. He never knew that Sun was this lonely. Moon then sat down next to Sun, looking over at him, with a sad grin. "Well. I could play with you. If that's what you want." Sun turned to look at Moon, with a surprised expression. But then, he frowned before looking back away. "No, no. That's okay, Moony. I know that you'd rather do something else." Sun didn't want his brother to feel obligated to do this, if he really didn't want to. After all, Moon didn't always like doing the same things that Sun did. And, who was he to force his brother out of his comfort zone. Moondrop frowned, as well, as he put his hand on Sundrop's shoulder. "But, I DO want to play with you." Sun didn't even respond as he continued to sit there, looking down, sadly. Moon started to look worried as he stared at Sun. He didn't like seeing Sun, this way. He had to think of something to put a smile back on Sun's face.

Moon thought to himself, trying to come up with something fun that they could do, together. "We could play hide and seek", he said, turning to Sun with a hopeful look. Sun, however, didn't seem excited by that idea, at all. "I don't really feel like playing hide and seek, right now." Moon frowned, trying to think of something else. "We could...visit Gator Golf. Monty loves to teach golf." Sun still showed no signs of excitement. "I'm not in the mood for golf, either. Besides, Monty's busy polishing is golf clubs." Moon huffed to himself, determined to find something that would spark Sun's interest. He looked down, on the floor, when he suddenly spotted something, out of the corner of his eye. It was a pink, fluffy, feather, simply just sitting there on the floor. It must have come from Arts and Crafts. Moon picked up the feather, eyeing it, with a raised eyebrow. He looked, back and forth, between the Sun and the feather, before an idea pops into his head, causing him to perk up. Moon then smiled, deviously, as he glanced over at Sun, speaking in a sing-song voice. "Oh, Sunny~" Sun hadn't even noticed the feather that Moon was holding, yet, since he was still faced the other way. "Hm?" Moon took this to his advantage as he, sneakily, scooted closer to Sun, still grinning, mischievously. "I know something we can do. Something very fun~"

Sun, still not bothering to look over at Moon, continues to sit there, sadly, not sounding too enthusiastic. "Oh, yeah? What's that?" Moondrop's evil grin widens as he approaches Sun, getting closer. "It's called..." Then, once the opportunity was there, Moon grabbed Sun, causing him to let out a startled yelp, before he uses one hand to raise Sun's arms above his head. "The Tickle Sunny Game." Then, before Sun could process what was happening, he jumps and squeals, upon feeling Moon start to tickle under his arm, with the feather. Sun, immediately, bursts into laughter and giggles, as he kicks and squirms around, trying to free his arms. "AAH! AAHAHAHAHAHAHA! WAIT, WAHAHAHAIT! MOHOHOHOHOONY!" Moondrop chuckles, deviously, as he wiggles the feather around in Sun's underarm, making sure to get at all of those sensitive wires. "Oh, look at that. You're smiling, again." Sundrop continues to buck and writhe around, squealing and laughing from the feather's soft touch. "EEK! AAAHAHAHAHAHAHA! NOHO, STOHOHOHOOP! THAT-THAHAHAT TIHICKEHEHEHEHELS!"

Moon smirks as he watches Sun wiggle and giggle underneath the feather. He feels a sense of pride wash over him, finally getting Sunny out of his funk of being bored and sad. "It does? Really?", Moon teases, as he trails the feather down to Sun's side. He then starts to wiggle the feather on that spot, hoping to get a similar reaction. "What about here? Does it tickle, here, too?" Sun lets out another squeal as his laughter goes up, a pitch. It tickled even worse, actually. But, there was nothing he could do about it, with his brother holding his arms up.

"OH, NOOOHOHOHO! NOHOHOHOT THEHEHEHERE! MOHOHOONY, PLEHEHEHEHEEEASE!"

Sun, honestly, couldn't believe how ticklish he was. He knew that he was programed with advanced emotions and sensitivity, as a means of being able to connect with the children. But, he didn't know that meant he would also be unbearably ticklish. Moon giggles along with Sun, enjoying the sound of his laughter. He doesn't let up, one bit, and continues his ticklish onslaught, not stopping until he's gotten Sunnydrop back to his bright and happy self. "Hehehe! What's the matter, Sunny? Aren't you having fun, yet? Tickle, tickle, tickle~"

The teasing only makes Sun laugh harder, as he tries to squirm out of the feather's reach, while still tugging at his arms. However, it was no use, as Moon was constantly following Sun's movements, with the feather. "OHOHOHO! PLEHEHEHEHEASE, STOHOHOHOP! THIS ISN'T FUHUHUHUHUN! THIS IS TOHOHORTUHUHURE!" Moon lets out an amused chuckle. It was obvious that Sun was fibbing. It was clear, as day, that Sun was enjoying himself. "Torture? Don't be silly. You're loving this." Moon then decides to tease Sun, a bit, slowly dragging the feather towards his belly. Sunny let's out more, high-pitched, giggles, unable to help the giddiness welling up, inside him. He watches, with a nervous grin, as the feather travels, closer and closer, to his tummy. Moondrop grins, evilly, as he continues to drag the feather, at a, painfully, slow pace. He then pauses right at Sun's belly, building up the anticipation...before he, suddenly, drops the feather and instead uses his fingers to tickle Sun's belly, relentlessly. Sun, practically, shrieks before he bursts into a fit of uncontrollable cackles. He definitely wasn't expecting that, and was not, at all, prepared for it.

"AAAAHHAHAAAHAHAHAHAA! NOHOHOHOHO! YOHOU BIHIHIHIG BUHUHUHULLY!" Moondrop chuckles, mischievously, as he skitters his fingers all over Sundrop's tummy, making it twitch and squirm. "Oh, I'm a bully, am I? Well, maybe, I shouldn't stop, then. Kitchy, Kitchy, Koo~" Sun continues to squeal and cackle, his heart out, as Moondrop continues to torment his poor, ticklish, belly. Moon then pokes at Sun's tummy dent, trying to find out what spots will get the best reactions. Sun yelps, in response, as he let's out a roar of funny laughter.

"KHKKKEEEHEHEHEHE! AHA-NAAHAAHAHAHAHAHA! *SNORT*"

Moon pauses at the noise he just heard. Did Sunny just? Moon smirks at Sun, with a raised eyebrow, before he pokes at his tummy dent, again. "What was that? Are you a piggy, now? Well, no wonder you like to squeal."

Sun continues to cackle and snort, absolutely hysterical. He can feel his systems heating up, as Moondrop continues to torment his tummy and dent. As much as he was having fun, he couldn't take much more. So, he decided to call it quits.

"NOHOHO! *SNORT* MOONY, STAHAHAP IHIHIT! HEHE-*SNORT*-HEHEHOHOKAY! OHOHOKAY, YOU WIN! IHIHI GIVE UHUHUHUP! *SNORT* UNCLE, UHUHUHUNCLHLHLHLE! *SNORT*"

Moondrop grins, victoriously, as he giggles at Sun's attempt to surrender. "Hmmm. Oh, alright." After giving his belly one last tickle, for good measure, Moon, finally, lets Sun go. Sun slumps over, on the beanbag chair, going limp, as he let's out a sigh of relief. He pants and wheezes, trying to catch his breath, still giggling, a bit. Moondrop grins down at his exhausted brother, as he watches him catch his breath. Now, THIS was the Sunny he knew and loved. Smiling and giggling, without a care in the world. Moon smiles as he pats Sun, on the head. "There. Now, wasn't that fun?" Sun, barely, managed to sit back up, still trying to recover from that tickle attack. His smile never left, as he turned to look at Moon. He felt a lot better, now. In fact, he couldn't even remember what he was sad about. "Oho, my goodness. I think my systems are crashing." After he, finally, managed to recover, Sun smiles, warmly, at Moon. He seems grateful for that "bonding time" they had just gotten to spend, with each other. "Thanks, Moony. That really was a fun game!" Moondrop grins, softly, at his brother. He then, suddenly, yawns, feeling himself start to feel drowsy. "You're welcome." Sundrop yawns, as well, also feeling pretty drained. The two animatronics then lay down, with each other, on the beanbags. They smile as they let themselves relax, feeling peaceful. Though, before they let themselves rest, Sun looks over at Moon, with a sheepish grin on his face. "Hey, Moony?" Moon, who's starting to go into rest mode, shifts his head towards Sun's. "Yes, Sunny?" Sun smiles, shyly, as he continues to look over at Moon. "Do you think we could...play that game, more often?" Moondrop chuckles and smiles, sleepily, as he rests his head against Sundrop's. "We can play, whenever you want." Sundrop smiles as he rests his head, as well. The two of them, both, close their eyes, as they go into rest mode, feeling happy and contented. Long story short, after discovering his new, favorite game, after hours had, actually, became Sunnydrop's favorite time of day. And, Moondrop's, too.

[anchoredarchangel]

Thanks for the tag @anincompletelist ! I’ve never played this one before 💫🤍

Rules: Post your favourite line or passage from as many of your published works as you’d like. Let yourself feel proud of your creations! Tag as many people as you post snippets, so your fellow fic friends can be proud, too.

beneath the cut because I’m wordy as hell oops.

From No Consequences:

If Alex revisits the metaphor about his brain at the best of times, this is the moment where the toddler holding the flipbook exchanges their sugar addiction for straight cocaine. The good stuff. High quality. This is Alex’s brain on drugs.

From Hope is a Five-Alarm Fire:

Alex stares at him without blinking the way other people probably look at renaissance art: like magnificence beyond the scope of words, a pinnacle of creation, something meant to be kept pristine, locked away from the ruining touch of the masses. Except he’s putting his filthy fucking hands all over it, leaving smudging fingerprints behind. And the art likes it. 

From The Cosmos in His Palms:

Alex thinks about Henry, about pulling the stars from the sky just to tuck them carefully in Henry's chest beside his heart to keep him company, so he'd never have to look for them again; about what Alex would be willing to do to put the cosmos in his palms.  He’d do the impossible. He’d defy the gods that put them there. 

From The Throne He Deserves:

Who kisses Alex like he’s the water in the desert and he doesn’t care if it’s a mirage so long as he doesn’t die in pain, and who fucks him like it might be worth the pain of dying just to do it again and again. 

From The Wait Before the Fall:

“This is not all that I am,” Henry tells him, turning back to the statue, something tumultuous in him settling, going just as still as the museum air. “Not anymore.” He looks up, that beautiful, defiant tilt to his chin; not to the man being crushed, but at the plaster of the woman—head draped in a lion’s skin, club in hand, kneeling on the shield in victory. Valour and Cowardice: Valour.

From A Spark and Flash Paper:

In a rare moment of courage, he does the latter. He chooses himself. No bloody consequences.

From A Sin Better Than Heaven:

“Imagine how I will feel to your cock,” he says boldly, and Alexander meets his eyes; the brown all but eclipsed by a full moon of darkness.  “I will not,” he murmurs, “because I intend to know with certainty.”

From The Very Portrait of Temptation:

Alexander’s mouth slows, a kiss longer and deeper and felt in every nook of him—the king's tongue sliding expertly past Henry's teeth, like a dagger through the widening crack in what remains of Henry's armor. This—it is everything, and everything that it is is enough to drive men to madness beyond the point of hysteria, enough to lose what remains of his wits, enough to foolishly hope for an unlikely change of fate. One where he is not a deceitful seducer, but rather a trusted confidante. One where he is even, perhaps, an actual lover, true as North.  A beautiful agony, most mad indeed. 

my tumbling has been iffy lately and I’m not sure who has already played—so if you see this and you haven’t posted one yet, here’s an open tag from me to you 💌

but also @firenati0n when you’re back I want to see!

[thenightcallsme]

ATWOW | Neteyam Sully, pt. 3

"All I could wish for is to hold Neteyam like this without the heavy sombre air that threatens to consume me. For a moment of peace, where I can look up at him with a loving smile and see it returned."

Synopsis: You and the Sully siblings have been captured by enemy Avatars while sneaking away to explore the forbidden battle field. Just when all hope seems to fade, rescue comes in the rainy height of eclipse.

Pairing: Neteyam x Fem!Ometikaya OC (Gi'anya, or Gi for short)

Contains: established OC POV, crude language, a little fluff, mentions and descriptions of death and blood, guns, Neteyam being a comforting sweetheart, reader's thoughts getting carried away at the worst time cause yk he's just so sexy, possibly not proofread well enough so sorry for bad grammar or spelling or tense (I keep zoning out and fucking up the tense mb)

Word count: 4,174

find the rest of the chapters in my masterlist here :)

• • • • •

Rain softly pelts overhead leaves, dripping through the stratification of the Pandora forest. Large, fan-like leaves and flower petals bow towards the ground as droplets accumulate on the surface, launching back once the small pools roll off. Bioluminescent life lights up the surrounding forest in response to the eclipse’s darkness. Beside me, Tuk shivers. 

The five of us are being held in a line by the strange Avatars clad in human gear. Kiri and Spider are held by one man, Lo’ak held by the other, and Tuk and I are held by the woman. More stalk through the bush to create an impenetrable perimeter. The Colonel paces behind us, watching his surroundings with a gun drawn.

“Heads up, three minutes,” he murmurs. Radio static buzzes from his earpiece.

My heart sinks. Three minutes. We’re entirely out of luck. Although, a small part of me still hopes. It’s dark, the rain is light but still audible. The climate is practically tailored for the strategies of Na’vi offence. But, then again, three minutes is not long. Not long at all.

“Watch out six,” the Colonel murmurs to Kiri and Spider’s captor. He nods, ushering them to face the opposite direction.

Late birdsong, gentle rainfall, and the buzz of insects seeking shelter from the rain are almost deafening despite the soft melody. My mind is trained on the sounds, distinguishing what is actually an animal and what could be a damn miracle. Rain patter, chirping, buzzing… I listen and listen. I hope. I pray to Eywa that, if anything, the Sully’s will be safe—

My ears suddenly flutter, swivelling in a direction I cannot see. Distant yapping has caught my attention, so faint and high-pitched you would almost mistake it for the calls of the viperwolfs. Only, there’s a vibrato to it that is unmistakable. Tuk secretively glances my way. I raise and lower my brows in confirmation. Lo’ak turns to me. I return his knowing look. Three minutes.

The yip sounds again, this time louder, more piercing. The Avatars are scanning the bushes more intently now, trying to discern whether a creature stalks us, or the Sully’s have come to claim their children. Behind us, Kiri begins to chant beneath her breath, followed by a groan as an Avatar grips her queue harder, hissing for the chants to stop. She does not listen. Her voice grows louder.

The Avatar growls. “Shut. Up.”

They are his last words. I barely turn my head in time to catch a streak of wood and feathers cleaving through the rain. Obsidian lodges deep into his left temple. With a strangled cry, his body goes flailing, falling to the damp grass with a thud.

Orders are shouted between the Avatars as they shove us to the ground before rounding on the arrow's direction with guns drawn. There is no hesitation as they open fire into the night of the eclipse. The short explosions of light bursting from the barrels are enough the illuminate the trunk of a tree, where shards of bark go flying. Beneath gunfire, I hear Lo’ak’s name being called. Neytiri.

Lo’ak reaches for the tactical vest of his captor, ripping the key from a gas grenade. Green clouds burst into the air, and in the state of confusion, Lo’ak brandishes his canines and sinks them into the Avatar’s forearm. I nudge Tuk, who watches the struggle, with my foot, nodding when she looks my way. With a determined nod of her own, she does the same.

“Ah! You little—”

Beneath the cover of Tuk’s distraction, I manoeuvre my bound hands between my thighs and fish for a small, hidden knife, swiftly driving it beneath the hem of a tactical vest. He doubles over—a mistake on his part. I slam my shoulder into his approaching nose as I hook my foot behind his. The Avatar tumbles ungracefully towards the ground. In his attempt to clutch a bleeding stomach and broken nose, I launch myself onto the mass of muscle. It doesn’t take long to drive my blade into his neck, cutting clean through the mechanics of a throat mic. Beneath me lies the dying Avatar who gurgles and drowns in his own blood. I breathe hard, suddenly captivated by the sight in mortified realisation.

I have never killed before despite my adequate training. There has never been a need to. My life has not been void of death and gore, but at my own hands? Driven by the need to survive and protect Tuk, there was no second thought in my brutality. A part of me is satisfied at the wide-eyed look and weak clawing at my arms and legs which I easily brush away. …And then there is another part that is deeply sickened. Crimson blood coats my fingers. Small rubies of it have splattered across my chest and face from the rupture of his jugular.

I barely have time to process any of it before the deafening sounds of conflict come rushing back to me. The connection between my racing brain and reality is ignited as Lo’ak calls my name, pulling insistently at my arm

“Get up, Gi! Go!”

Lo’ak, Tuk and I stumble into the forest, wrists bound and bullets spraying at our feet. I barely catch a glimpse of Kiri and Spider escaping in the opposite direction. The group of Avatars are divided in their attempts to regain their valuable prisoners.

Faint glowing footsteps that fade in the moss are felt in our wake as we fly through outstretched branches and stray plant life. Deep shouts follow us. I hold Tuk’s hand in mine with a vice-like, white-knuckled grip, forcing her to reach a speed she can not achieve on her own. She pants and sobs. Lo’ak is a few steps ahead. Rain obscures my vision as we try to zigzag through the forest, but even though the Avatars are not familiar with this environment, they are not stupid. Losing them is beginning to seem impossible.

Suddenly, a searing hot pain shoots through my thigh. Every command my brain screams to run is left unheard as numbness takes over. Tuk’s hand slips from mine as I come crashing to my knees, the change in velocity driving me to the ground. Pained groans escape my lips as my hand flies to my thigh…which is drenched in blood. A bullet wound. Shit.

Somehow, in my state of agony and vulnerability, there is some luck; the bullet merely grazed my skin, but the wound is still deep and sizable. And it’s bleeding a dizzying amount. 

Tuk has come to a stop, swivelling on her heels to come crouching at her side. I shoo her away with wide, terrified eyes.

“Tuk, no—”

She ignores my attempt to push her away as she grabs my arms, trying to tug me to my feet. “Get up! Please, Gi!”

Lo’ak has turned back, remaining a few feet ahead as he hurridly waves at us to hurry, unaware and unable to see the blood streaming down my leg. “Quick!”

I struggle to my feet while trying to push her along. “Tuk go! For Eywa’s sake, run!”

But it’s too late.

A figure emerges from the foliage. I have my knife drawn in an instant, my hold awkward between two bound hands while simultaneously trying to hide Tuk with my body. The weight on my left leg with every step backward is nauseating—the fresh image of my first kill is no help. I hiss, all bared canines and wide eyes, trying to mask any weakness otherwise given away by my bloodied state.

“Put the knife down,” the male warns.

I growl.

“You’re not a Sully, but you have connections,” he continues with his gun raised. “You can either be helpful…or disposable.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

He shrugs and aims the gun at my head with sharper precision. My entire body goes tense. There is no way to escape this, and with Tuk cowering behind me, all I can think of is to shield her body from the spray. Maybe she can play dead beneath my bullet-riddled corpse and wait out the onslaught while Lo’ak makes an escape. Maybe…

“Disposable it is,” he hisses. “I don’t need you. Just him.”

His finger cradles the trigger. I drop my knife, swivelling my body to take Tuk’s body against my chest, my back brandished and ready for the killing blow. Tuk cries in protest as I whisper for her to play dead. Her nails dig crescent moons into the flesh of my upper arms. Lo’ak begins to yell—

And the bullets never come.

With a bloodcurdling, muffled howl followed by the heavy thud of a dropping gun, the Avatar goes stumbling back. I turn slowly to witness a horrific scene. Wide, faraway eyes stare into the dark beyond as the male clutches at his throat, trying and failing with disappearing strength to dislodge an arrow wedged through his neck. The arrowhead has cleaved clean through, finding rest in the trunk of a tree inches behind. I clutch the back of Tuk’s head, holding her close to my chest between my bound arms. My figure obscures her view of the dying male, but there’s not much use trying to hide her from the brutality—she just watched what I would do for her only minutes ago.

Seconds pass where Tuk, Lo’ak and I are deathly still as the male slumps, suspended from a tree by the neck. Carefully, I rise. Gunfire and shouting sounds in the distance, echoed the whirring approach of human-piloted Samsons. In this small clearing, nobody stirs… until two more figures emerge. My weak hiss dies on my tongue once their faces register. Of course. Lo’ak’s bow was taken—who else would have killed him? I recognise the precise craftsmanship of the arrow’s narrow body and tufted tail instantly.

“Dad!” Tuk cries out, voice breaking as she takes off towards her father. He drops to one knee and takes her in an unbreaking embrace, followed by Lo’ak.

Overcome by relief, fatigue, and raging pain, my knees give out and I sink to the ground with ragged breaths. The adrenaline has worn off now. Nothing eases the searing pain in my thigh anymore.

A figure drops down in front of me. Large hands take hold of my face, forcing me to look at amber eyes wide with worry. Neteyam turns my face from side to side, surveying for any damage in the darkness. Tiny bioluminescent freckles glitter across his skin. All of a sudden, it’s not just pain rushing back from my lack of adrenaline, but an unexpected wave of emotions. Tears prick in the corners of my eyes as I stare back at him in disbelief. I was going to die for Tuk. If not for Neteyam, who has discarded his bow in the wet grass, I would already be dead.

“Neteyam…” My lower lip quivers, my voice nothing more than a hoarse whisper. I speak his name as if he’s some sort of God who has graciously descended from the heavens.

“You’re okay,” he whispers, retracting his hands to take mine. He makes quick work of severing the bonds on my wrists. I don’t speak when he reaches forward to brush a stray tear from my cheek. His brow furrows. “You’re covered in blood.”

“Half of it isn’t mine. I…I killed…”

The sentence remains unfinished. My stomach turns as I speak, threatening to reject today’s meals at just the thought of what I did. The dead body only feet from us is no help.

Neteyam’s face softens from the hardened look of worry. “The first time is hard, I know.”

When a soft sob builds in my throat, Neteyam pulls me into a gentle embrace. The second my cheek presses against his chest everything comes spilling from me in an uncontrollable rush. I cry and cry within the comfort of his muscular arms, silently thankful for the calming air that always followed him, even in the midst of chaos. When a hand gently curves against the base of my skull, the floodgates open entirely, and I shamelessly cling to him. Everything is too much. The pain that seers through my thigh and numbs my brain, the slowly subsiding fear of death, the exhaustion of living a life dictated by the sky people. All I could wish for is to hold Neteyam like this without the heavy sombre air that threatens to consume me. For a moment of peace, where I can look up at him with a loving smile and see it returned.

“Thank you,” I blubber. Any coherence is lost. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

Bursting through the clearing comes a familiar sight: Neytiri. I barely catch a glimpse of her and the faint sound of Kiri’s voice. Further relief settles in. The rest are safe. Though, when I hear Lo’ak ask where Spider is, my heart sinks. Kiri’s wailed reply is something I wish I didn’t hear. They took him.

Neteyam’s chin rests on top of my head as he lets out a deep sigh. His shoulders slump beneath my hands, only to stiffen once more as his gaze shifts. There’s a moment of stillness before he pushes away with a horrified, downcast look. My leg. Crimson streams trickle down my skin, staining the grass and absorbing into the moist soil. His teeth worry at his lower lip as his fingers test the skin. I wince as he presses on the surrounding flesh. His concerned curiosity is deterred by the muffled noise I make.

“Fuck, Gi,” he murmurs beneath his breath.

“Bullet wound,” I explain. “It’s just a graze.”

“But it’s still bleeding.” With a huffed sigh, he brushes a stray tear from my cheek. Never has his touch felt more like home. “Next time you find yourself in places you should not be, you tell me.”

“What makes you think I’m leaving home ever again,” I mutter. “In my defence, I didn’t know I was going to end up here, anyway.”

Neteyam purses his lips. “I’m going to kill Lo’ak.”

“It’s not his fault, Nete. Nobody knew this would happen.”

“Gi, you…” To my surprise, his voice cracks, and even more unlike him, his words come out in a near-incoherent ramble. “I just watched you shield my little sister. You were going to die for her, Gi, Jesus Christ you had a gun to your head.”

I shake my head slowly. “Lo’ak didn’t know—”

“I don’t care about what he knew,” he interrupts with a feverish wave of his hand. “I’m not even talking about him anymore. Fuck, if I had listened to Dad and stayed behind, I don’t know…”

I am at a loss for words, completely thrown by his inability to speak a sentence in his usual phlegmatic way. His gaze is everywhere and nowhere all at once, fazing between this reality and some nightmarish alternate one. Neteyam, even in the most stressful and demanding moments, somehow knows how to remain calm, and even if his mind is a hysterical mess, his outward appearance, nor his words, betray him. It’s an admirable talent of his, the ability to remain unreadable. But now that talent has disappeared. I am looked at, held, and spoken to like he’s just witnessed my brutal death cradling his younger sister, only to be ripped away and dumped in a timeline where his arrow struck true.

There’s no use questioning his erratic behaviour. I’m not sure he’s even aware of it. All I can do is stare back, overcome by the palpable worry.  Deep down, I’m a little flattered, but I shove away the thought, appalled by the audacity. Really, there is a time and a place, and neither of that is now.

The two of us are interrupted as a large, calloused hand falls on my shoulder, its owner shadowed by two peaking sets of golden eyes. Jake Sully gives me a gentle squeeze and a tight smile.

“You did good, kid,” he says. “You did good.”

He was watching as I threw myself over Tuk, I realise. With a huffed breath nothing short of a thankful sigh, Jake moves his hand to the back of my head, his other on Neteyam as he pulls the two of us into a fatherly embrace. Fatherly. You’d think I could not know what it meant to feel fatherly love, but if someone asked me what it meant, my answer would be simple: Jake. I look up to Jake, I heed his advice, both in life and in the matters of the mind. There was always a safe and welcoming aura to him, loving and caring, and as I find myself engulfed by it now, my lower lip quivers.

You don’t know what you’ve got till it's gone; I’ve always appreciated everything I have, grateful my life has amounted to anything on its rocky foundations. But it’s funny how you never realise how meaningless life would be without it until faced with death. Without Jake and Neytiri, I suppose I’d be lost in this world.

I try my hardest to bite down on the bubbling sobs and hiccups, but of course, the shake of my shoulders defies me. A comforting hand runs over the uninjured stretch of my right thigh. The four-fingered touch is a dead giveaway as to who it is.

“Alright,” Jake claps his son on the back. “Teyam, help her onto your Ikran. She’s losing a lot of blood, so sit her in front of you in case she starts to lose consciousness. Gi, I need you to stay strong just a little longer. Then everything will be alright.”

Wiping away the last of my tears, I nod.

Neteyam is extremely careful as he hauls me from the ground, throwing one of my arms over his shoulder while one hand slinks tightly around my waist. I hiss at the first step I take on my left foot, my knee buckling ever so slightly. Eywa, I feel like I’m going to vomit. I beg that the nausea is just in my head.

“How bad does it hurt?”

I purse my lips as I take another step. “Like hell.”

“Sorry,” he says with a wince. “I’ll try lifting you up just a little…”

I shake my head, but not in protest to the upward pressure he exerts around my waist. “It’s all right. Don’t say sorry like it's your fault.”

It’s his turn to shake his head. “If I was quicker—”

“I don’t want to hear the rest of that sentence.” He opens his mouth as if to defy me, but decides against it. “I owe you my life. That’s all that matters.”

He’s quiet for a moment, possibly considering if my rebuttals are worth the moping. The silence is echoed by each muffled whimper per step I take. Instead, when he finally speaks… “At least let me carry you.”

“Why—”

Too late. Ignoring my question and the protest to come, Neteyam drops his hand from the arm that I sling over his shoulders and bends down swiftly, arm sliding beneath my knees. One second, soft wet grass tickles the bottom of my feet, and the next, I feel nothing. All the pressure on my thigh is relieved. He’s so precise that our stride is barely broken. 

“You’re going to get blood all over you.”

“I’ve had worse,” he counters.

I tsk, replying airily, “If you say so…”

Neteyam keeps his eyes on his father, who leads the way to the Ikran’s resting place, but as I look up at his face, I swear there’s the ghost of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. Strength to Neteyam is like crops at the height of harvesting season to a farmer; they go hand in hand, a reward of hard work that reaps many benefits, praise sometimes one of them. Humble in nature, Neteyam is not defined by cockiness and vanity like some of his warrior peers, though it’s definitely there if you know where to look. Now, I wonder if he finds some guilty pleasure in the little effort it takes to cradle my body against his broader, muscular stature. 

I myself definitely find a thrill in it. A stupid thrill that could not be coming at a worse time.

“Oh, Mighty Warrior,” I tease. While I intend it sarcastically to lighten the austere air, it somehow comes out…sultry. “How virtuous of you to help this damsel in distress.”

I don’t miss the way his ears flutter, contrasting the accusing stare he gives me. “You want to walk?”

I pat his shoulder. “Here’s fine, thanks for asking.”

He rolls his eyes with a toothy smile. “Charming, aren’t you?”

With great care, Neteyam helps me up onto the bony spine of his Ikran, who looks back to survey me with an inquisitive squawk. I stroke her back once seated. Knowing I’ve found a steady spot, Neteyam follows, straddling the beast so that he settles right behind me. I had expected him to give me some room out of respect. We haven’t flown together since the early days of our endeavours—most of those joined rides were spent on Nala, my beastly Ikran, as he was so fascinated by it. Smaller bodies give more room, and then, we were comfortably seated apart. Now is an entirely different story. Neteyam shimmies his hips forward so that the curve of my spin fits flush against his chest. As he moves around me to link his queue with the creature, I notice with great dismay that I can feel everything. Most of that dismay is in response to the perverse enjoyment I get out of it.  Maybe I should get hurt with no way home more often. 

I blink hard for a few seconds, as if closing my eyes could shoo away the appalling thought like a cobweb in the wind. Eywa, get a grip.

One of his large hands takes a tight grip on the Ikran’s antenna while he slides his free arm around my midriff. Lean muscles flex against my skin as he pulls me impossibly closer. Against my will, the position I’m in sparks up questionable, almost pornographic imagery, so vivid I’m afraid he knows what I’m thinking. Thankfully he can’t see the ashamed flush of my checks.

“I don’t mean to invade your space,” he apologises as if sensing some discomfort. His voice is low and erotically husky, warm breath caressing the inner shells of my ear. Skin to skin, I can feel the way his heart beats against my back. It’s fast. Sangely fast. From the freshness of the fight, I tell myself, not allowing any hope. “But it would be nice if you didn’t fall to your death.”

“I promise I won’t pass out and inconvenience the flight home,” I say. Truthfully, I don’t believe it will happen. My focus is more on the sick feeling that brews in my stomach.

“I don’t know how good of a promise that is. I was just watching you rolling your head around. You look like you fought sleep for a week straight and now it's catching up.”

“I look like that naturally,” I mumble.

“Lies. You usually look more alive.”

The ride home is a foggy haze. All that really registers is the consistent envelopment of Neteyam’s arm around my body, his hand resting lightly on my hip. He tightens his grip and pulls me into his chest any time he thinks I’m leaning too far to the side. None of it is because of fading consciousness. …Well, maybe once or twice I do lose my balance. The onslaught of sickness from the man I slaughtered mixed with the raging pain in my thigh is overwhelming. Too overwhelming. All that keeps my sanity anchored is the feel of my childhood friend cozied up against my back.

If anything, Neteyam overreacts. I could sneeze and he’d think I was having a seizure. Each time I assure him everything is fine, and each time, he makes me swear I’m not putting on a brave face. And each time, I get a shiver as he leans down to remind me to stay awake. Beaded braids fall over my collarbone, his chin ghosting the space between my neck and shoulder. I’m incredibly relieved to escape the cradle of his body, swapping it for an arm around my waist to ease my limp towards the Tsahìk’s tent.

Mo’at tsks at the sight of me, and despite the harshness of her scolding, there is an overarching worry in the deep lines of her face. I’m left alone with her for a little while, the storytelling my job as Jake and Neytiri speak urgently in their tent, their children too curious not to eavesdrop. Kiri and Neteyam return as Mo’at gently wraps the plush of my thigh in soft bandages supplied by the humans. There’s an indescribable look on their faces and their shared glances are strangely unsettling, but I decide to leave the questions unsaid.

•

And that's all I have in me to write rn, it's so late and I'm stressing about my exams this week and going crazy cause my stupid ex keeps liking my tik tok thirst traps which is NOT ALOUD!! Pray for me pookies 😘😘 now look at this mf hes so fit

[phoenixcatch7]

The daycare attendant is so fascinating, I love talking about their designs. Like, if one were to build a da, taking into account everything we know about them, what would it involve?

I'm going to talk about their history, appearance, details, and potential theories behind their design, with a healthy dose of headcanon. And it's going to be LONG. I'll break it into reblogs to use multiple line breaks, but that requires I post it in unfinished stages, so bear with me.

First things first, what have we most recently learned? I said in another post that it's a theory that the attendant was originally created for the next door theatre before they were moved to the daycare full time. Similarly, we've just had proof of the existence of Eclipse, who's a absolute darling, if not at all up to date on the state of the plex.

Their arms were revealed to glow. In a dimly lit theatre relying on a light/dark gimmick, glowing forearms is both cool and helpful! But we never saw it in sb. Likely it's a conscious choice, given we see it after the plex is already destroyed, so it's not a lost or removed ability! It simply wouldn't have been very useful, with sun being in bright light at all times and moon trying for... A modicum of stealth.

Perhaps it's also a matter of battery, as another theory suggests the da, as the animatronic actively on patrol during the hourly recharge, and the first one you battle in the game, was originally supposed to be the source of the power upgrade that in the finished game is just readily available to freddy without explanation. Unlike all the other upgrades, which you have to defeat each other animatronic for. The increased power would certainly have been useful for both massively extended patrol times and those transformations, which certainly look power intensive! Booting up and switching over such all encompassing and high level programs has to be draining!

In a lot of the plex, but especially in the daycare, you see a lot of cut corners and animatronics not reaching their full potential (thankfully!). A lot seems hastily patched, from monty joining the band after Bonnie seemingly vanishes from the face of the earth, the constantly collapsing sinkhole in the raceway, the giant rubbish stuffed full sewer area like the underneath of a teenagers bed. Music man doubles as a cleaner. Moon works night shift as security (and a tva on the side lol).

In that regard, the da came across to me as very overworked, when I first encountered it. Sun was stressed and under a lot of strain, stretched thin. His barely contained mania is basically his whole character, besides his natural showmanship. He's jumpy, smothering, and basically five seconds away from wrapping Gregory in bubble wrap at any given moment.

What I found interesting was how he seemed tired. He talks about all these activities, but doesn't actually... Do any of them. He basically plonks Gregory down by the nearest distracting object (though it works against him, this obsession with having everything nice and tidy definitely read to me about trying to keep everything in your power when you have limited control) and doesn't let him leave from that spot. He doesn't speak or try and engage Gregory except to drag him back, he doesn't bother using the flying rope despite having the hook in his back. When he loses Gregory he just sits in a corner with his head in his hands. Whether he's playing hide and seek or crying or whatever you interpret it as, it's not exactly energetic. He's grubby and marked - either he or a staff member should be keeping him as sparkly as the other animatronics, and they're not keeping on top of it.

Moon, on contrast, uses the rope. He bounces and flips and jiggles and walks on his hands and pretends to swim. He's got no problem chasing Gregory into the tunnels once enough generators are flipped. He's not afraid to back off, either - he doesn't stop moving, but instead circles like a culture, muttering to himself. He most likely runs on the same battery as sun, but he's not afraid of using it. Not to mention whatever bizarre but super cool galaxy effect he can use on the hour change, possibly all the way across the map!

Eclipse, meanwhile, has a voice significantly less robotic than the other two, uses the rope, and activates those old glowing arms without a thought, despite the fact that sun and moon are slow and staggering by the time of ruin. For goodness sake, moon can't even get a proper grip on a child's arm, and is fended of by even a single torch beam, despite being completely immune to the torch and a game over if he even touched you in sb.

Theatrical expressive design

Eclipse as ring master

Child safety problems

Likely mechanics of mask/clothes

Implications of room

Chance of fazbear splurging on sign language/disabilities accommodation

Liklihood of bring connected to the Internet (not high)

Security desk barrier (they both can touch and climb on it only in cutscene)

Involvement of light levels

Human actors v endos.

Potential programming and maintenance.

[eurovision-revisited]

1997 Dublin - Number 7 - Paul Oscar - "Minn Hinsti Dans"

It's a quirk of the Eurovision random draw that was in place in 1997 that it manages to put certain songs in certain positions. For instance, Turkey always had a draw in the top half every year from 1985 to 1997. Mostly they were drawn in the first five songs. The only year this didn't happen was 1994, when they'd been relegated and didn't take part. There are enough artefacts of non-randomness to lead to the suspicion that someone was fixing things to a degree.

Another of those other quirks is the tendency of the more controversial or idiosyncratic songs to be drawn last in the running order. That happened in 1994 with Je Suis un Vrai Garçon. Here in 1997 there's Paul Oscar and four latex-clad, highly flexible women literally draped on a sofa. Paul is not only the first openly gay man to sing at Eurovision, but his staging is so sexual, so decadent, so overt, that to this day it makes you stop what you're doing to pay attention.

It's one of the first Eurovision acts where staging is an essential part of the performance. This isn't just a man standing in PVC trousers, singing into a mic. This is a man acting, dancing, moving in a choreographed way while singing. He has a cheek-mic. He has a prop. An actual stage prop that he interacts with. His dancers interact with him and also sell the message of the song. It's not a high-energy bopathon, it's a louche, lascivious, serpentine pose of a song. This performance has had so much thought and design put into it, it eclipses any other Eurovision staging to this point it time.

Somehow that white sofa is the most outlandish thing on this stage. There have been small props incorporated into acts going way back to the 1950s, but this the first time a whole act has been set around a central large prop like this by a delegation. There there are the camera angles and editing. They've been planned and programmed perfectly to fit to the track. Paul's moves are choreographed with that camera in mind.

This may all be commonplace now, but just look at the all the other songs in 1997 and notice how they nearly all start with a held establishing wide-shot of the stage, before cutting to a shot of an instrument or the singer before they start the first verse. Iceland begin with a close-up of one of the dancers panning along her body, then up to Paul's face via his fully spread crotch. The first cut is when he suddenly reveals his eyes from behind his bejewelled hands halfway through the first verse. It's perfect.

Minn Hinsti Dans (My Final Dance) is a self-penned, restrained, club track with pumping drum and bass track supporting the orchestra's contribution of legato strings and occasional harp flourish. It's a song from the final night of extravagance before The End. A night for caviar, bubble baths and blowing away everything that remains. It ends with the percussive pulse slowing as the song's heart stops. Regret is a dirty word. There is only the most unabashed and shameless pleasure until that final beat.

It didn't win, the juries were far too shocked to give it any points. Notably all bar two of the points it did get were from the five countries with 100% televoting. Sweden gave it 8 and the UK gave it 6. Paul Oscar jolted the Eurovision audience awake in so many different ways. This, this, is what we wanted. The directors of the various delegations must have been furiously taking notes. This could be entered in 2024 and do exceptionally well.

This wasn't the start of Paul's career, but it's the very solid foundation on which he's built a long CV of activism, recording, DJing and being one of the better known faces of Iceland's LGBTQ+ community. Truly one of Eurovision's pioneers.

[mariaferero]

CIA in North Island (Part 4)

Bob Floyd x OC

A new team member joins for a big mission at Top Gun

-----------------------------------------------------

"So our Bob actually slept over at a girl's house?" Hangman cackled, leaning back in his chair as we sat at the bar a few nights later after work.

"I did." Bob shrugged, fiddling with the glass in his hand.

"Well, look at that." Payback smirked, sipping on his beer.

"Has anyone told you guys you're almost alcoholics?" I chuckled, sipping on a soda after I realized I wouldn't do well drinking alcohol every night.

"Only daily." Rooster smirked, holding his drink up in a cheers motion towards me.

"So what's everyone doing with their day off tomorrow? Phoenix chimed, coming up beside me to rest an arm on my shoulder.

"Going on a date." Hangman smirked.

"I have a date with Netflix." Fanboy chuckled, earning himself a high five from I'm Hangman nonetheless.

"I think I'm visiting with my Mom. She said something about a bake sale or something." Payback shrugged.

"I'm having dinner with Maverick, Penny and Amelia." Rooster, explained a hint of a smile ghosting over his lips.

"I'm napping the whole time all the time." Phoenix declared.

"Probably the same." I laughed, earning myself a high five from her. "Bob?"

"I have no idea right now." He shrugged, offering me a smile.

"Well, with that in mind, I'm buying the next round." Payback declared, standing up.

"Just soda please." I yelled after him. He just waved at me, dismissing my words, even though we all knew he would still just get me a soda.

"Help me pick a song?" Bob offered, holding up a coin.

"Sure!" I beamed, jumping up, leading the way towards the hunk of colorful metal in the corner of the bar. Bob fell into step behind me, his hand falling to my lower back, helping me dodge drunken sailors wandering around the bar. Ever since he came to help me, he's gotten more touchy and talkative. "So what exactly are you thinking?"

"How about Take On Me?" He suggested flipping through the little book thing inside the machine to pull up the specific CD, but he didn't push the final button to select it.

"I say we play Total Eclipse of the Heart." I countered, smirking at him. He raised an eyebrow at me suspiciously, reaching to flip to my song.

"You do the honors." He offered, holding up the coin for me to take. I did just that, putting the coin in the slot and hitting play. Music came out of the speaker and I couldn't help but tap my foot along with the song. "Come on, or else Payback will replace us with random girls he wants to pick up."

I laughed, rolling my eyes at the joke, following him back to our table. Just as Bob had said, Payback had actually filled one of our seats with a random girl dressed in plainclothes. Bob moved to stand behind the chair, gesturing for me to take a seat. I looked at him, my inner you have manners why are you being nice to me alert system going off. He rolled his eyes, moving to go to the bar since Payback had given his beer to the girl.

"Why are you standing?" Phoenix giggled, now with another empty beer glass in front of her.

"There's only one, seat. I'm gonna offer it to Bob." I shrugged.

"Yeah, who cares. He has legs, he can stand." She sassed, pulling the chair out more so that I had space to sit. I did just that, slightly begrudgingly. "This is Emily. She's stationed here for the week." Phoenix explained, sort of hinting at the fact that sailors were known to hookup with short stations.

"Awesome." I murmured, unsure of what I was supposed to add to this conversation.

"Taylor, here's your soda." Payback suddenly zoned back into the real world and handed me a glass with sprite in it.

"Thanks!" I smiled, taking a sip.

"Are you also stationed here?" The girl –Emily– smiled, turning her attention to me.

"Sort of. I'm a government agent, so I'm just here to help with a specific mission." I shrugged.

"Cool." She nodded, turning her attention back to Payback.

"Hey, at least she has manners." Phoenix whispered in my ear. I couldn't help the snort laugh that burst through my lips at her words.

Everyone went back to drinking or talking to one another and I turned to people watching. Sailors were nothing if not strange. Bob appeared beside me, another beer in his hand. He offered me a smile, getting pulled into a conversation with Rooster. I watched Maverick schmooze with Penny at the bar and I noticed a younger girl sitting behind the curtain that led to the back room. She must be Penny's daughter Amelia.

"You good?" Bob whispered once Rooster was done talking with him and moved on to something with Phoenix.

"Yep, just people watching. How's the beer?" I smiled, arching my neck so that I could see him where he stood behind me.

"Fine. No different from any of the other ones I've had." He smiled, shrugging. "You want a sip?"

"No, thanks. I'm very picky with my beers, and your raving review didn't really convince me." I joked, sipping on my sprite.

"Fair enough." He chuckled. "So... um.... Do you think you'd be up to go for a flight tomorrow? Unless you have actual plans for your day off, that is."

"Where would we go?" I pondered, a huge smile plastered on my face.

"We could go to the Grand Canyon, try to get to Oregon, really whatever you want." He shrugged, a smile lighting up his face.

"What would we be flying in? Because I went up with Mav in some military contraption, and it was not really my idea of a good time." I laughed, choosing to lean back and rest my head on his shoulder to speak with him rather than crane my neck to be heard.

"We would take a normal small two-seater plane, don't worry." He chuckled, moving some hair that was slipping out of my hair clip.

"Then you have a deal." I laughed, turning around to offer him my hand. He took it and gave me a firm handshake. "I don't really care where we go, so whatever's easiest for you, I guess. And you better know that if you have a heart attack while flying, we're both going down because I am inept when it comes to aviation. I'm still confused about how I got this position as is."

"Deal, I'll pick you up at your hotel at 10?"

"Sounds good to me. However, if that's our plane, I may actually need to go and get some sleep." I chuckled, setting my cup down and moving to stand up.

"I'll walk you to your car?" His statement came out more like a question.

"Sure." I smiled, grabbing my sweatshirt that I'd shed at some point throughout the night. "I'm gonna head home. I'll see you guys back on Thursday." I announced, getting a hug from Phoenix and a wave from everyone else. Bob followed me out of the building and towards the car quietly. "See you tomorrow." I smiled, up at him, opening my car door.

"I'll be there at ten." He nodded, gesturing for me to get in the car. "Drive safe." He smiled, closing the door for me. Bob stepped back and waved as I pulled the car out of the lot.

The next morning, I woke up and managed to pull on some nicer-looking sweatpants and a t-shirt before there was a knock on my door.

"You do realize it's 9:30." I sassed, opening the door to let Bob into my room.

"I brought food." He offered, a smile on his face as he looked at me, his eyes shining.

"You're forgiven. Sit wherever, I need to deal with my hair." I grumbled, moving towards the bathroom.

"Did a bird break in and make a nest in your hair?" Bob joked, sitting at the desk, pulling out the contents of the bag he brought with him.

"Is that sass I'm hearing, Bob Floyd." I laughed, yelling from the bathroom, running a brush through my hair.

"Who knows." He laughed along. "Hurry up, or your sandwich is going to get cold."

"I'm coming, I'm coming, chill out, man." I sassed, plopping down on the desk beside him. "Thanks for the food. Can I pay you back?"

"No, you can't pay for our first date." He deadpanned.

"This is a date?" I smiled, raising an eyebrow at his attempt at confidence. Instantly, his facade broke, and he started tripping over his words.

"Uhh.... yeah.... Uhh, I..... I thought..... If you're okay...... uhh." Bob continued to ramble, his face turning a nice shade of red.

"Breath, breath. I'm messing with you. I'd be honored to go on a date with the infamous Bob Floyd." I smiled, taking a deep breath before leaning over and placing a feather-light kiss on his cheek. If it was possible, his face managed to go at least another shade darker.

"Awesome." He almost whispered, going back to munching on his breakfast sandwich.

"So, have you decided where we're going?" I prompted, leaning back into the wall, sipping on the coffee he brought.

"I was thinking the Grand Canyon. It's pretty great, and I just think it'd be fun." He offered, glancing up at me to see my reaction.

"Sounds great."

--------------------

"Have fun at home, you lazy bum." Phoenix yelled at me as she walked out of the girl's bathroom.

"Whatever, alcoholic." I yelled back, stifling my laugh as I reached for my bag and slung it over my shoulder, walking out of the room. Before I could even get three steps before I felt a weight beside me.

"Can I walk you to your car?" Bob beamed, resting his arm across my shoulders. Since our date to the Grand Canyon, Bob started getting more affectionate. He would lean over and give me a kiss on the cheek before we had training. He'd hold my hand when we were next to each other. If we were at the bar and I was sitting, he would stand and rest his hands on the back of my chair or wrap an arm around my collarbone. I enjoyed it. I can't deny that. But it made me a little nervous, maybe a little uncomfortable in the sense that this wasn't permanent, and it was new.

"Of course." I smiled, taking a breath before leaning up and kissing his cheek, his lips turned up in a smile.

"How was your meeting while we were flying?" Bob smiled, holding the door open for us.

"Just fine. They're finalizing plans for the mission. It sounds like you guys will probably go next Monday." I explained, reaching around in my bag for my car keys. "Do you want to come over and get dinner?" I offered, smiling up at him.

"Sure." He beamed, reaching around me with the arm not around my shoulders to open the driver's-side car door. 'M'lady."

"Why, thank you." I chuckled, getting in. He closed the door for me before walking around to the other side.

"What do you want for dinner?" He piped up, sliding into the passenger seat.

"Can we make pancakes?" I gasped, realizing how good that actually sounded.

"Your hotel room doesn't have a stove." He pointed out. "But if you really want pancakes, we can stop at the grocery store and then go to my place. The navy put me up in a house with Fanboy and Coyote. We have a full kitchen, luckily."

"Okay, that works for me." I shrugged, give me directions, and I'll get us where we need to be.

After a quick stop at the grocery store, we drove to Bob's place. I parked the car, and he swatted me out of the way when I tried to grab the bag. We walked up to the house, and he unlocked the door. I could hear screaming coming from the inside.

"Is that Coyote?" I laughed, peering around Bob when we walked inside, trying to see what the noise was from.

"Probably." He shrugged, heading down the hall to what I assumed was the kitchen. "Okay, lead the way, chef." He laughed, taking the contents of the bag out and putting it on the counter, gesturing for me to go for it.

"I need a pan, a bowl, and a whisk." I declared, reaching behind me to pull my hair up into a bun, so it was out of my face.

"No measuring cups?" He raised an eyebrow at me, rummaging around the kitchen.

"Nah, those are for the weak of heart. I prefer to eyeball it." I explained, opening up the container of pancake mix.

"If you say so." He chuckled, placing everything in front of me. We successfully made a stack of pancakes, Bob occasionally coming to peer over my shoulder at the food, placing both his hands on my waist as he did it. Considering we made more that we expected to, Bob went off into the depths of the house to find Fanboy and Coyote to see if they wanted pancakes. I took it their answer was a yes, because I heard loud footsteps quickly coming my way.

"Taylor!" Fanboy cheered. "You've graced us with pancakes. You're awesome." He beamed, giving me a quick hug before grabbing a plate and serving himself some food.

"Thanks, Taylor." Coyote smiled, grabbing his own food. Bob walked back into the kitchen, coming up behind me as I started to clean dishes.

"We can do that later. Get some food." He rolled his eyes, pushing my lightly towards the plate of pancakes when I didn't move.

"Fine." I grumbled, making a point to give him a side-eye. He just laughed at me and whipped the hand towel in my general direction, like that would make me move faster. I made two plates, offering one to Bob, before sitting down at the table with Coyote and Fanboy.

"So, are you guys playing happy family while we're here?" Fanboy said out of nowhere, Coyote chuckling along with him like they were little boys asking an adult a question they knew they weren't supposed to ask.

"We're sort of dating." Bob declared, reaching for my hand under the table.

"Well, good for y'all, I guess." Coyote winked before stuffing his face with food.

"Be careful, Taylor. Navy men are red flags." Fanboy laughed at his own joke.

"Trust me; I know you are, Fanboy." I winked, earning myself a chunk of pancake flying in my direction.

"Don't be mean to me. Go back to making out with Bobby boy here." He stuck his tong out at me, gathering his plate and things. "I'm leaving. I don't like to be places I'm not wanted." He dramatically walked off.

"I'll leave you two to your dinner and make sure he doesn't spill syrup everywhere. Thanks for the pancakes again." Coyote smiled, getting up to follow after Fanboy.

With both of them gone, Bob surprised me by releasing my hand, grabbing the edge of my seat, and yanking my chair towards him. Resting his arm across the back of my chair, he beamed at me.

"That's better." He laughed to himself.

"Eat your pancakes, stupid." I chuckled, flicking his temple. "So we're sorta dating, huh?"

"I mean... if you want to be." He murmured, suddenly choosing to take an interest in his plate.

"I mean... that sounds nice." I made fun of him, earning an eye roll as he looked back up at me.

"So mean." He laughed, leaning forward to place a light kiss on my lips.

"I'm an angel; what are you talking about." I laughed along, reaching forward to grab a handful of his shirt and pull him in for another kiss.

Less than a week later, I found myself perched on a table in the navy hanger while Maverick and Cyclone debriefed the team on their mission plans. The group was to take off tomorrow and hopefully finish successfully. The whole thing was bitter sweet. They'd worked hard and they all knew what they were doing, but now I knew them all and if something happened, I think I would probably just crumple to the floor. It would hurt, there is no doubt about that.

"So Taylor leaves once we finish this?" Hangman piped up once everyone was done and the big boss had left.

"Yep, I'm back to D.C." I shrugged, spinning myself around on the table so that I could see everyone behind me.

"What are we gonna do without our token fed?" Payback laughed, getting up to come give me back a tupperware I'd left with him the night before since he had a bit of a cold.

"Go back to normal life I guess." I honestly didn't really know what to say. It'd been almost six weeks of pure chaos here getting to know these goons.

"She's going to go back to tricking grown men into believing she's stupid so that they speak about top secret information." Rooster joked. I'd told them all about one time I had to go undercover. It wasn't an intense CIA mission like you'd expect, but I did spend three or four months under an alias in Poland trying to bust a ring. Now Rooster loved to pretend I was a top secret spy who went on missions all the time.

"How do you know I'm not doing that now?" I quipped, earning an eye roll from Maverick.

"Because you're not stupid." Rooster shrugged.

"Your logic is foolproof, wow." Phoenix laughed, standing up. "Are we good to go?" She turned to Maverick.

"Sure, you're free, but don't do anything crazy tonight." He instructed, standing up as well. Everyone took the hint, copying his actions. Everyone headed towards the locker rooms to change. I decided I would just head home in what I was wearing. There was no point changing when I wasn't going out tonight.

"We're going to Bob, Fanboy and Coyote's place tonight to cook and hang out. It's nothing too big." Phoenix explained, coming up behind me, her shirt unbuttoned showing her tank top.

"Sounds good. I'll head home and change, then go that way." I nodded, fixing my bag on my shoulder.

"Just come with me. You left a shirt there last weekend and I have other stuff you can borrow." Bob added, appearing on my otherside. "I drove."

"Okay." I sort of just push out of my mouth, awkwardly looking around at the other pilots around us. Phoenix raised her eyebrow at me suspisciously while Payback and Hangman burst into some dramatic spew of words. Bob, just reached forward, grabbing my hand. He murmured something to Rooster before pulling me away from the group. "Did you swallow a frog or something?"

"Shut up, I'm doing my best." I grumbled, reaching over to give him a good whack with my bag.

"I haven't gotten to tell you today, but you look beautiful." He whispered in my ear as I walked past him through the door. "Did you drive yourself?"

"I did." I nodded, trying not to get too flustered by his words.

"Do you want to leave your car here, and I can take you to my place and home tonight, then pick you up on my way in tomorrow?" He offered, popping open the top two buttons of his uniform.

"No, you need your sleep for tomorrow. We will drive separate." I decided, rifling through my bag for my keys. He just nodded, grabbing his own keys.

"See you there. Drive safe." Bob smiled, starting in the direction of his car.

"Hey, Bob." I murmured, getting his attention. He turned around, looking at me. I took two steps toward him and leaned forward to give him a quick kiss. "See you there."

With that, I drove away, a small smile on my face the whole way to Bob's place. He pulled into the driveway, and I decided I should park on the street so that I don't get in Coyote or Fanboy's way. As I put the car in park, I looked up as my door opened on its own. Bob stood outside my car, a huge smile on his face.

"You look cute." I smiled, grabbing my bag and stepping out of the car. His cheeks turned a lite pink as he offered me his hand. Locking my car, I grabbed his hand, and we walked into the house.

"I have your shirt in my room, and you can borrow a pair of sweats if you want." Bob offered, pulling me up the stairs towards his room.

"I'll try them, but if they're too big, I'll just stick with what I got." I laughed, moving to sit on the end of his bed as he shuffled around gathering clothes. "Thanks." I beamed, taking what he offered, standing up to go find the bathroom.

"No, I'll leave. I need to go grab my things from the laundry room downstairs, anyway." He murmured, heading out the door, closing it as I went. I quickly unbuttoned my shirt and moved to pull on the t-shirt I'd left here. Giving the pants Bob had handed me a once over, I guessed they would generally fit me, so I peeled my dress pants off and pulled on the sweats. Right as I moved to stand in front of the mirror to deal with my hair, there was a knock on the door. "If you're not done, I can just change out here."

"I'm done," I yelled, going to open the door. "Thanks for the clothes." I reached forward and hugged him. His arms wrapped around me, sort of grabbing onto the fabric of my t-shirt.

"You look great." He mused into my hair, pulling me closer quickly before letting me go and heading back into his room, holding a pile of clothes under his arm. Before I could even offer to leave or close the door, Bob unbuttoned the rest of his uniform and pulled off his tank top. I couldn't help but stare at the gorgeous man in front of me. His shoulders were broad, even though he didn't always look the part with his general demeanor. The muscles on his back were prominent as he reached up and pulled a shirt over his head.

Before I could think another thought, and before he could turn around, I blurted out. "I'm gonna go put my bag back in my car." I practically sprinted out his bedroom door and towards my car. Rooster and Fanboy were coming back as I exited the house.

"Looking good, Taylor." Rooster chuckled as I passed them.

"Shut up, Bradshaw." I threw over my shoulder, unlocking my car before tossing my bag in the passenger side. Turning on my heel, I strode back to the two as they stood in the driveway. "What are we eating?"

"That's the million-dollar question." Rooster agreed, gesturing for me to lead the way to the house.

"I think Coyote got some steaks this morning before he left for work." Fanboy piped up, opening the front door.

"Sounds great. I can help get them started, and you can get changed. Rooster, gear up; you're my sous chef." I declared, heading towards the kitchen. Rooster followed after me, mumbling something to himself. "Grab the meat from the fridge."

"Aye, aye, captain." He joked, banging around the kitchen.

"Is there an earthquake?" Bob joked, coming into the kitchen, now dressed in his own shirt and sweats. He came up to reach above me before I could reach up and grab some seasonings, placing a kiss on my cheek before walking over to help Rooster.

"Girly, let me tell you!" Phoenix's voice boomed through the house as she entered. "Some Top Gun student tried to hit on me as I walked to my car."

"No!" I burst out laughing. "They look like children."

"I know! And what on earth do they think was happening? Why would I be on base if I wasn't in the navy." She groaned, coming to lean on the counter next to me.

"He probably knew and thought it was hot." I joked, knowing it would just irk her more.

"Don't get me started; men are the scum of this earth," Phoenix grumbled, pushing off the counter to go peer over Rooster's shoulder. "Hello, scum."

"I feel so loved." Rooster joked, shoving her lightly with her shoulder. "What do you want me to do with the food, Taylor?"

"Do you guys have a grill?" I turned to Bob and Coyote, who had apparently entered while we were all bickering.

"Yeah, it's in the back." Bob nodded. "I can help." He offered, reaching to take the meat from Rooster and prop the door open with his foot. We walked into the backyard, which I hadn't realized existed, but there was a smaller grill sitting beside the house. "Are you the head chef?"

"Indeed I am." I beamed up at him. "Now, let's get this moving. I'm hungry." I declared, taking the tarp off the grill and figuring out how to get it heated up.

Not even twenty minutes later, Bob and I were walking back into the house with a plate full of steaks. Someone had made a salad and what looked like a bowl of bread, and everyone was now sitting around the kitchen table or leaning against the wall.

"CIA agent and professional chef, is there anything you can't do, Taylor?" Hangman smirked, sending me a wink as he reached forward to take the plate from my hands and place it on the table.

"I'm full of talents." I shrugged, taking a seat next to Phoenix.

"Oh, Taylor, I didn't tell you... wait, why do I still call you Taylor?" The girl beside me piped up like the thought had taken all other thoughts from her brain.

"I don't know; none of you ever said anything else or asked if you could call me anything else. Plus, we work together, and I guess it's a step up from you all just calling me Agent Taylor." I looked around awkwardly, not enjoying the attention that was all suddenly directed at me.

"What even is your first name?" Payback piped up, looking at me skeptically.

"Lou," Bob responded before I could answer.

"You still seem like a Taylor to me." Payback shrugged, turning his attention back to a conversation with Coyote and Fanboy.

"Thanks?" I sort of confusedly laughed to myself, unsure of if I was getting a compliment or not.

"Well, Lou. I was telling Rooster and Jakipoo here that I was talking with Mav after our meeting, and he said I can get a teaching position here most likely unless I want to keep flying with our favorite WSO." She beamed at me, seemingly proud of using my first name.

"Congrats! I'm so proud of you." I beamed, standing up and giving her a hug from behind. She contorted herself so that she could reach around and return my hug.

"Why would you ever part ways with Baby on Board here." Hangman joked, flicking something at Bob.

"I guess it all sort of hinges on how this mission ends up." Phoenix shrugged honestly, a look of worry taking over her face.

"We're good at this. We've done it before, we can do it again." Hangman shrugged, Rooster and Payback echoing his sentiments. Although they were right and everyone was extremely qualified, after Phoenix' words there was a cloud over the room. Everyone sat and chatted about random things, so much, so it almost sounded like small talk. We ate and smiled and tried to ignore the fact that they were all going to go risk their lives tomorrow morning to try to complete this mission I had brought to the Navy in the first place. Bob stood directly behind my chair the whole dinner, unless he was eating. He has a hand around me in a sort of hug, or he was holding my hand or just touching me in some way like he needed it to anchor himself.

Faster than I think any of us were expecting when we all arrived at the house, everyone was leaving. I stood up, offering to help clean up as everyone else. Bob and I did the dishes as Fanboy and Coyote cleaned up the dining room area.

"I'll wash, you dry." Bob declared, handing me a towel. We stood there in a comfortable silence as we cleaned up all the dishes and put them away. "Do you want to come upstairs?"

"What are you insinuating?" I joked, smirking at him as I tossed my towel onto the counter.

"No.... No... I was.... Uh..." He started to ramble, his cheeks turning red as he started to look at his feet.

"Bob, I'm messing with you." I laughed, reaching for his hand before pulling him in for a kiss.

"Not that I don't..." He sort of mumbled into my hair as I hugged him. "But I was hoping we could just cuddle. I want to spend time with just you before I have to go tomorrow."

"I'd love to, Bob." I beamed, reaching for his hand as I pulled away. We walked slowly upstairs. I said goodnight to Coyote and Fanboy as we passed through the dining room towards the stairs. Inside the room is when I started to feel sort of awkward. Instead of letting my anxiety get the best of me, I sat on the edge of the bed and pulled Bob towards me into a hug, my face now buried in his shirt. He slowly ran his hands through my hair, leaning down to place a kiss on the top of my head.

"Have I told you how beautiful you are today?" He murmured into my hair, making me giggle.

"Floyd, shut up and come lay here with me before I have to leave." I scolded, pushing him away enough, so I could kick my shoes off again and pushing myself farther onto the bed until my back was against the wall. A small smile on his face, he did the same, crawling towards me. He took a moment before laying his head in my lap as I sat there. "You look cute." I mused. I couldn't help but smile at him as his blue eyes looked up at me, a happy little grin on his face.

We sat there in silence, looking at each other or just existing in the calm. I started running my hands through his hair as we sat there. He almost instantly relaxed, his eyes closing.

Probably thirty minutes later, I looked up at the clock on his night stand and saw the time. "I think I should go. You need sleep before tomorrow." I sighed, causing him to open his eyes and look up at me.

"Do you think.... Would you possibly want to stay the night? Only if you're comfortable, of course." He questioned quietly, gazing right up at me.

"Bob, as much as I want to, I really think you need to get good sleep tonight, so you're ready for tomorrow." I tried to argue, moving slightly. He got the memo, getting off of me.

"If you do really want to stay –again, not pressuring you– I think I would honestly sleep better if you stayed." Bob stated honestly, a slight pink hue showing on his cheeks.

"Are you lying to me?"

"I would never lie to you." He said, like it was the simplest thing in the entire world.

"Then, I'd love to stay, Bob." I smiled, leaning down to place a kiss on his forehead.

Without another word –a huge smile on his face– Bob pulled me down to him in sort of a hug. After a squeeze, he quickly jumped up and turned off the lights, coming back. He pulled back the covers and let me get in.

"You're not going to let me brush my teeth?" I joked, as he laid down beside me.

"Not now." He chuckled, wrapping his arms around me, pulling my towards his chest.

[golden-----hour]

25

4/17/23

I wrote a really good song. It is called Open Spring. It is five minutes. I started it last Monday and I have completed it. I just shared it with Seojin and her friend, who I’ve seen on Grindr. They were impressed with me. I shared it with Charlie as well, who brought me to a poetry reading tonight in NYC. They were really moved by it and that means a lot to me, because they are a really intelligent and thoughtful individual. They are also extremely emotional, which I appreciate. Right now, I feel elated, and therefore good. This morning I was inducted into Phi Beta Kappa, a prestigious honors society and I also went to the gym. I met Anne Wallen which was cool. I went to NYC and met a cool poet I guess who was a translator and liked that I was a polyglot. Charlie was showing me off. I felt important and real! I spoke French and German to a gay man. I walked on the high line with my eyes glued to Grindr. So what. 

I’m so tired. Yesterday I drank myself to sleep because I felt alone and pathetic and I do not feel like that right now! But, it still concerns me because I felt awful and I didn’t know what to do to make it better. I felt bad, bad, bad. I was talking to Amay on Grindr and I told him I know about the DL frat dude and his OnlyFans and how I saw him and Simon at the Yard together (future me, does this have context?) and he was like, “who are you?” and I said that “anonymity suits me tonight.” And yes, and whatever. I was a black hole of self. There was not one thing glorious about my suffering. I could not write or compose and even if I did, that would not have ameliorated the feeling. It is hard to be a person. Sometimes I live in a bad house (I am embodied.) I haven’t written a poem in a bit which is its own sort of forewarning. In my drunken state, I ordered AirPod pros. So what? I am about to literally graduate college. (In a way, I was never supposed to get here - when did I start living?)

Dear Murod, I still think of you most every day but more like you are the sun inside of my eyes and I close them and the whole landscape of my spirit erupts under your fire. More like if there is a sun inside of my eyes it is because I put the summer away like porn on my computer the colliding bodies inhibiting the inert electric wirings of my consciousness Like here is enough light to burn darkness into flesh and bone Like, Murod, you are the best collection of neurons I have ever grown. The amount of times I have slept in your smile. The soft pink feeling right at the center of my chest is what a prayer feels like answered. I have lived through enough epilogues. Or my ear, on top of your chest, I heard the ocean of your breathing and drowning seemed like a destination rather than a consequence. Like I look into mirrors and eyes blink awake to capture this looking. If the passage of time had a body it would be a good one, but maybe very sad, like a too big tree which has seen too many years of Earth. Dear Murod, I convinced myself I can speak to the seasons, you are the baby in the barn, summer is meaner than winter, whatever is behind the moon you are likely hiding from me, you are not dead either, and whatever eclipsed horrible worse feeling crouching behind this paragraph is beating like an about-to-be-dead thing. You do not know the depths of my perfect suffering. I am hiking a trail snuffing out your shadow. I am trying to taste the worlds you have endured with the memory of your tongue. Bright summer mornings where you woke up and the sky aglow a soft shade of blue like it would flake its magic into the next world I actually witnessed the fate of being a person and know more than I could ever release to you, my one true love, destiny is a poem I will never write and I am staring at it and only when I am not in that place can I really communicate to you with my most genuine sense of self that I am here.

[rphelperblog]

Greys Anatomy Quote Rp meme

“Why do we even try when the barriers are so high and the odds are so low? Why don’t we just pack it in and go home?”

“We may only be together five minutes every two months, but when we do we will savor every second. We know how valuable those five minutes are.”

“It’s a beautiful day to save lives.”

“Don’t analyze everything. Just do it.”

Intimacy is a four letter syllable for, here’s my heart and soul, please grind them into a hamburger and enjoy. It’s both desired and feared. Difficult to live with, impossible to live without.”

“You have to go back to the beginning to understand the end.”

“If you aren’t willing to keep looking for light in the darkest of places without stopping, even when it seems impossible, you will never succeed.”

“Knowing is better than wondering. Waking is better than sleeping, and even the biggest failure, even the worst, beats the hell out of never trying.” 

“You were like coming up for fresh air. It’s like I was drowning and you saved me. That’s all I know.”

“It turns out sometimes you have to do the wrong thing. Sometimes you have to make a big mistake to figure out how to make things right. Mistakes are painful, but they’re the only way to find out who we really are.” 

“Being aware of your crap and actually overcoming your crap are two very different things.”

“Sometimes you have to be a shark.” 

“Deal with your jealousy. Deal with your shortcomings. Don’t put your crap on me.”

“You never think that the last time is the last time. You think there will be more. You think you have forever, but you don’t.” 

“Maybe we like the pain. Maybe we’re wired that way. Because without it, I don’t know; maybe we just wouldn’t feel real. What’s that saying? Why do I keep hitting myself with a hammer? Because it feels so good when I stop.” 

“If you love someone, you tell them. Even if you’re scared that it’s not the right thing. Even if you’re scared that it’ll cause problems. Even if you’re scared that it will burn your life to the ground, you say it, and you say it loud and you go from there.”

“I love everything about you. Even the things I don’t like, I love. And I want you with me. I love you and I think you love me too. Do you?” 

“Not everyone has to be happy all the time. That isn’t mental health. That’s crap.” 

“Sometimes it’s good to be scared. It means you still have something to lose.”

“Just because people do horrible things, it doesn’t always mean they’re horrible people.”

Make a plan. Set a goal. Work toward it, but every now and then look around. Drink it in, ’cause this is it. It might all be gone tomorrow.”

“I want so much for you. For both of us. So much more than this. More than being stuck with someone who feels stuck. I want you to feel free.”

“You can have the worst crap in the world happen to you and you can get over it. All you gotta do is survive.”

“Breakthroughs don’t happen because of the medicine. Real breakthroughs happen because someone is scared to death to stop trying.”

“Don’t ever date a man who can’t handle your power.”

We don’t get unlimited chances to have the things that we want, and this I know. Nothing is worse than missing an opportunity that could have changed your life.” 

“Yes, horrible things do happen. Happiness, in the face of all of that, that’s not the goal. Feeling horrible, and knowing that you’re not gonna die from those feelings, that’s the point.”

“The expected is what keeps us steady. It’s the unexpected that changes our lives forever.”

“Bad things happen, but you have to move past it. Leave it behind. The sooner, the better. Or it’ll eat away at you and stop you from moving forward.”

“Don’t let what he wants eclipse what you need. He’s very dreamy, but he’s not the sun. You are.”

“The future is the home of our deepest fears and our wildest hopes.”

“Don’t look at me like that. Like I’m damaged goods. I’m still me. I’m still here.” 

“So you fight. Until you can’t fight anymore.” 

“How are you fine? How are you just completely fine? I am ruined, OK? I am dead, I am wrecked.” 

“Every kiss before the right kiss doesn’t count anyway.” 

“Promise that you’ll love me, even when you hate me.”

"It turns out sometimes you have to do the wrong thing. Sometimes you have to make a big mistake to figure out how to make things right. Mistakes are painful, but they're the only way to find out who we really are."

“Pick me, choose me, love me.”

“You’re my person, I need you alive, you make me brave.”

“You’re the love of my life. I can’t leave you. But you’re constantly leaving me.”

“The only way to fail is not to fight. So you fight until you can’t fight anymore.”

“It always feels like there is just one person in this world to love. And then you find somebody else, and it just seems crazy that you were ever worried in the first place.”

“Don’t let what he wants eclipse what you need. He’s very dreamy, but he is not the sun. You are.”

“You want to be a mess, be a mess. I don’t care. I can take it.”

“We’re hot doctors with babies, people are going to stare.”

“Pain comes in all forms. The small twinge, a bit of soreness, the random pain. The normal pains we live with everyday.”

“It’s good to be scared. It means you still have something to lose.”

“This is your starting line. This is your arena. How well you play…That’s up to you.”

“In medical school, we have a hundred classes that teach us how to fight off death and not one lesson in how to go on living.” 

“I know nothing good can come of me asking you to stay, so I’m not.”

“Intimacy is a four syllable word for here is my heart and soul – please grind into hamburger, and enjoy.”

“Friends are the family we choose.” 

“You are in a spaceship. You’re going to the moon. Enjoy the ride.”

“This is the way the world changes. Good people, raising babies right.”

“The problem is we are human. We want more than to just survive. We want to love.” 

“Grief may be a thing we all have in common but it looks different on everyone. It isn’t just death we have to grieve. It’s life, it’s loss, it’s change. And when we wonder why it has to suck so much sometimes, it has to hurt so bad.”

“It’ll hurt every time you think of her. But over time, it will hurt less and less. And eventually you’ll remember her and it will only hurt a little.”

“She’s my person. If I murdered someone, she’s the person I’d call to help me drag the corpse across the living room floor. She’s my person.”

“There comes a point when you have to suck it up and stop whining and start living.”

“Please don’t give up on me. Promise. Promise me you won’t.”

“Don’t let fear keep you quiet. You have a voice so use it. Speak up. Raise your hands. Shout your answers. Make yourself heard. Whatever it takes, just find your voice, and when you do, fill the damn silence.”

“Yes or no. In or out. Up or down. Live or die. Hero or coward. Fight or give in. I’ll say it again to make sure you hear me. The human life is made up of choices. Live or die. That’s the important choice. And it’s not always in our hands.”

“I’m up there waiting for you to come down the aisle and…I know you don’t want to come. If I loved you, I wouldn’t be up there waiting for you. I would be letting you go.” 

“The body is a slave to its impulses. But the thing that makes us human is what we can control. After the storm, after the rush, after the heat of the moment has passed, we can cool off and clean up the messes we made. We can try to let go of what was.”

[junhuiste]

twice twice baby (preview)

pairing: jake x gn reader x sunghoon

word count: 2200

tags/warnings: fluff, slight angst, college!au, hockey player!jake, ice skater!sunghoon, sports med assistant!reader, slowburn, mutual pining, cursing, slightly suggestive scenes

a/n: this is just a preview of the bigger piece i plan to publish much later, so it pretty much only has jake, sorry hoonists! also gonna address it here while we’re at it, but i wanna apologize to everyone who sent requests in! i have them all plotted, most drafted and written, but i didn’t realize when i moved back home how busy i would be with work, summer classes, and looking for an apartment! i will have them published before the end of summer though! this piece is coming out before only because i wrote it well before finals week lol

taglist: please let me know if you wanna be part of the taglist!

Being in a parallelogram (or was it a dodecagon? A triangle? whatever) with the two notorious ‘Ice Hotties’ at your college, Jake Sim, the captain of the hockey team, and Park Sunghoon, the world class figure skater, is easy. Geometry isn’t that complicated...right?

As you entered into the arena, a cold blast of air struck, prompting you to jump slightly in your tracks, cursing that it was men’s hockey season and not basketball anymore. Albeit arms shivering, knees wobbling, and barely being able to make any strides at all, you weren’t distraught and to some extent trembling because of the ice rink or the ice packs inside the pouch seemingly glued to your waist, or hell, even the unnecessary air conditioner giving its all. Really, did they need to keep that fucking thing on when it was already polar-arctic-adjacent inside the arena? Probably to keep the rink from oozing into water and having Atlantis actually come to fruition...whatever, fuck the cold!

“Y/N, let’s get on it. We’re a bit late.” The head athletic trainer indicated, speed-walking a little too quickly for your liking, but what were you to do when your chest was heaving upon arrival at the ice center? Suck it up? Collapse and crawl into a ball?

Nodding, even though she was practically scurrying and leaving your curtailing ass in the dust, you heightened your pace despite the fact that your legs were about to give out at any second. Weren’t cold spaces supposed to make a solid more rigid, not turn your legs to jelly?

The both of you finally reached the area where the players were situated to greet the head and assistant hockey coaches.

“This is Y/N,” your trainer (whom insisted you just skip the formalities and call her Mina) motioned to you, slightly yet noticeably panting, “a first year, but they’ve done men’s basketball, women’s soccer and some gymnastics last semester. They know their stuff!”

“Wouldn’t doubt it.” The head coach reaches out to grip your hand firmly.

“Pleasure to meet y—“ once more today you jump, this time not shaken by the frozen tundra or by the vehemently boisterous buzzer, though it was much more thundering than the buzzer at the basketball court for some reason, but by the announcers cheering, “first year, number three, co-Captain, Jake Sim!”

And the crowd? They didn’t just go wild, no, they were literally cacophonous, the ground beneath and the arena stands rumbling, practically rivaling the San Andreas fault. Craning your neck to look around the oval shaped space and just how many students from your school, clad in university regalia, were present to see guys battle it out with plastic sticks on frozen water, even that, the entire scene wasn’t what had your heart nearly palpitating out of your chest.

First year, number three, co-Captain, Jake Sim. Now that was enough to warrant a blood pressure monitor...and possibly a defibrillator.

Almost giving yourself whiplash from turning around too quickly, it was hard not to gape at the boy coasting across the ice, waving at the all too excited crowd. And even through his helmet and from across the rink, you could make out his dark, glimmering irises, like how the sun’s edges would peak through from behind during an eclipse. It was kind of charmingly sickening actually, that someone could be as radiant as he was, under all the bulky gear, even despite the temperature. It wasn’t convenient actually that it had to be men’s hockey this time, that you, as the athletic trainer’s sports medicine intern had to attend the games for. Yeah, it was for credits. Sure, it was for intern experience...but what was the point if you only expected to make a fool out of yourself trying to tend to Jake and his teammates’ possible injuries?

It wasn’t fair, actually, that you were hopelessly in like with Jake Sim and that he didn’t even know your name when you were in the same physics class. To be fair though, it was a class of about 400, an infamous weeder course that crushed the poor souls of innocent underclassmen, so to have him direct any sort of attention your way, even a mere glimpse, would be laughable. That was what happened when you sat in the back, though.

Of course it just had to be Jake Sim that completely bewitched you, and he didn’t have to twirl any fingers or fixate any potions to have you just so damn spellbound. All he had to do was show up to freshman orientation with that stupid inviting grin of his, and that dumb glint in his eye that no one else seemed to possess. No, of course he just had to show up and be almost too cordial to everyone in your orientation group, even though all the other students, including you, could not give a single damn about the campus tour. And yes, of course, he just had to have the masses absolutely enamored with him, both upper and underclassmen alike.

Consider all of that, with Jake’s insane schedule, not that you knew anything specific, just that he had games on Tuesdays and Thursdays, coupled with daily practices, but you were only privy to that information because Mina always gave you the athletic teams’ agendas for the month. So yes, trying to garner any attention from Jake was like floating right smack in the middle of the Pacific, sending some sort of signal through a marine radio, and getting no response back. Not a hint that anyone was coming. No helicopters whirring above, no boats sent out ashore. What would he want to do with the first-aid kid, the person that sat in the back, the person that was paying attention to something else at the moment, and not the fact that they had to observe players carefully for potential injuries?

Well, sorry to Jake’s teammates and Mina, but you just couldn’t pry your eyes off of number three. How he skated in such an agile manner while simultaneously defending assertively was certainly an image now seared into your mind. The way he commanded the court was just so—“You paying attention? Are you okay today?” Mina snapped you out of your nonsensical trance.

“Yeah, yeah of course! Always on my toes like you said...” your eyes told a different story, and deceived you at that.

“And there’s number three, Sim, with the first goal!”

Jake skated backwards to high five his teammates and to prepare to defend, and it was definitely a sight to see him so animated, feeling right where he should be in his domain.

“Ah, I see. Number three is it? I heard he’s a beast on the ice,” Mina nudged and winked slyly at you, “anyway, pay attention ‘cause if your little ice boy gets hurt you know we gotta move quickly.”

It was already enough to have your friends taunt you about your silly adolescent infatuation with Jake, now to have your mentor in on it too? Mina was right though, you were here to wrap ankles and tend to bruised hips, not ogle at the team captain.

“Gotcha. On my toes!” you winked back at her, semi-ready to do your job. If you could predict injuries before they even happened during the basketball and soccer games you should be more than capable of caring for the hockey players. Whipping your head around to finally and legitimately focus on the members, you really wished you hadn’t.

There he was, number three, adept and dodging the defensive players, with the puck sliding in tandem with his stick. Then, it happened all too quickly, in a tenth of a second, too much for everyone spectating to comprehend.

BAM.

Suddenly, Jake was on his back after he and the opposing player too combatively collided into each other. You blinked once and now he was supine on ice, clutching a leg to his chest. His teammates and the referees hastily surrounded him, but you could not watch anymore, you had to do what you were here for.

Running past both the coaches, lamenting what the hells and go go go! at Mina, you dashed to the edge of the rink, about to enter and slip on the ice, but stopped yourself, because you didn’t have skates on. Fuck. Mina and you always ran to the scene of the injury, and you’d only dealt with hardwood floors and grass fields, but never ice. There was no reason for you to just stand around though, as Jake was being lifted by the referees. As much as you wanted to glue your eyes to the catastrophe, you sprinted to the locker room to fetch the cooler.

“Everyone, move!” You shouted at the towering players standing in your way. Setting the cooler on the floor, you directed some of them to assemble a few of the chairs they were sitting on for a makeshift cot for Jake to rest his leg on. Nervously yet rapidly, you dug into your backpack for a splint, pre-wrap, and medical tape.

When you stood back up, Jake and the referees were at the rink’s entrance, with Mina extending her arms to steady him once he transitioned from ice to linoleum. And through all this he maintained the same tender-hearted curve on his face, beaming at Mina and thanking the referees.

One of Jake’s coaches and Mina propped Jake around their shoulders as he hopped on one foot to your nearby station. Assisting them in getting Jake to sit down, you were shaking slightly out of feverishness and hormones, even though it was the perfect temperature for snowfall, but forming a resistance to doing that was almost impossible.

Christ, you weren’t like this when Taehyun tore his ligament last semester at the basketball semi-finals, or when Yuna sprained her toe out on the field, yet it was due to that certain someone that you just could not find it within you to operate as you usually did. It was imperative that you got out of your own head; Jake was merely another athlete you had to tend to and someone you, quite frankly, had to get over, like now.

Once Jake was seated with his right leg propped up on the opposite chair, he took his helmet off and handed it to his coach standing guard next to him.

“Mina, you guys got this?” The coach hesitantly asked your trainer.

“Absolutely nothing to worry about, Coach Kim! We’ve seen worse than this; we’re good, right Y/N?”

You gave Coach Kim a measly thumbs up and he rushed to get back to the rest of the team to continue with the game, deliberating who would substitute in now that their best player was on the sidelines.

While Mina undid Jake’s skates and kneepads, you assessed him before you could get started, asking him what kind of pain he had in his leg, how much it hurt on a scale of 1-10, and if he could wiggle his toes.

Sharp and kind of aching, I think. 8.5-ish, actually maybe just 8. Toes wiggling.

“Um, okay. Good that your toes are still intact, which means you’re gonna be okay, but is there any other part of your body that hurts?” You tried not to sound like a complete buffoon, trying to enunciate your words properly like you did with several other injured athletes; Jake shouldn’t have been any different. He was, though.

“Yeah, I feel like there’s a bruise on the right side of my body somewhere,” he said, motioning to his abdomen.

“Okay...I’m gonna take your shoulder pads off and you have to take your jersey off so we can ice it, is that cool with you?” Your brain was bouncing off the walls at the mention of “take” and “off”. Come on, this wasn’t fucking NASA, although it might as well have been, as he was a universe and a half to you (in a melodramatic way of sorts).

“Yeah, yeah—for sure. Thanks.” Jake flashed an acknowledging smile, to which your cheeks heated up at. There was an injured boy in front of you—no time for shits and giggles and teenage elation.

As you aided Jake in removing his shoulder pads and jersey, he winced a bit, while trying to hide it at the same time. 

“Are you good? I’ll get some ice on that soon, I promise.” You gradually eased into your ‘medic’ mode, trying to expel as much of your nerves as humanly possible.

“Yeah I’m okay, just hurts a bit. Thanks again,” he could not stop giving you that demure yet brazen demeanor, and to be around a smiling Jake meant a tense you, regardless if your subconscious plan to initiate Nerves Exodus was kind of working.

When Mina stood up, all finished with undoing his skates and knee pads, she asked Jake to repeat what he stated about his pain earlier to you back to her. Before walking to where the coaches and other players were, she chaffed at you, with a mischievous lilt to her words, “you can handle it from here right? The star player’s in your hands.”

Audibly, you ‘mhmmed’ her, and when you were out of Jake’s sight, rolled your eyes, making sure she noticed that. You were glad though, that Mina was your trainer and not some old, stern fart like she had when she interned in your same position; it made for much more “effective” mentoring and communication, especially because she left you alone with the athletes, so you were able to think of what to do next for yourself, and if there were ever any mistakes—which there were none of to date—she would help you work through them.

Holy shit, Mina left. It was just you and Jake.

[goldeneyedgirl]

hey! i just wanted to let you know that i adore your jess content :) you've done a great job characterising her, she's so fun to read about! of course also in conjunction with alice (and jasper!) eagerly awaiting more content if you decide to spoil us- until then i'll be rereading <3

Thank you so much anon <3 I love writing Jess so much, and I try really hard to make her distinctive from Jasper. The next fics I have planned that involve Jess are some scenes from the Eclipse battle training - I'm still kind of deciding how to post my Jess/Alice series because I don't want to rewrite the entire series because I'd get bored really fast (and we've heard it so. many. times) but some kind of linked scenes that show them throughout the series. I don't know. I'll probably post to tumblr as I go; I need to write more human Jess/vampire Alice because that one is just fun (Jess is honestly not sure what is more traumatic: coming out to her family, or Alice being a blood-sucking immortal.)

For 3some verse, there's the Five Fights fic, and the follow-up to Watching Not Seeing where Bella is awkward and Jasper is protective. And there’s the beginning of one where Edward makes his protest of Alice being friends with any of her classmates aside from Bella known. That verse has spun off into its own thing where the Cullens (with a focus on Alice, Jess, and Rose) actually make friends with their classmates.

And so I bring you another chunk of the OG Jess/Alice fic that will hopefully see the light of day at some point. I don’t *think* I’ve posted this before - I checked and couldn’t see it, but hit me with the link if I have, and I’ll find something else.

Since 1953, they have been formally expelled (or, as the fancier schools say, ‘requested to withdraw’) from six schools. That does not include the schools where they simply gave up out of frustration and rage; or the places they have had to leave behind because of an ‘incident’ (and not just Jess’s; Emmett has a rotten track record too. Alice’s isn’t clean, either, but she cannot really find it in her heart to feel shame about that hate-filled man in Minnesota), and does not include the places that barely tolerated them.

Not the entire family, just Alice and Jess. The rest of them are acceptable. And in a lot of those places, it is only respect for Carlisle that keep them in school, and fear of Emmett that keep the worst of hate away.

Up to a point, people assume they are close. Two girls, closer than sisters, in a patchwork family. Alice’s arm looped around Jess’s waist, fingers entwined in the hallways. They are permanently entangled; even when Jess is Rose’s fraternal twin and in a different set of classes, they are only apart as long as they are forced to. They simply return to each other, the gentlest and most persistent of magnets.

They are two sides of the same shield, really. Jess will rip anyone who makes Alice feel wrong, feel dirty or indecent to bloody ribbons (this is not an exaggeration. No one speaks of their time in Maine; the house was quietly sold once they left) and Alice will wrap herself around Jess before allowing any of the vicious accusations seep into her skin and turn into guilt. It is Jess that draws more attention, too – at six feet, she towers over almost everyone in the high school hallways (except for Emmett) and makes Alice appear even daintier, younger.

Jess is the obvious target for terrible things yelled across streets, from bars, and muttered across a locker room. Jess prefers to pretend not to hear those slurs, but Alice will not. She will meet the accusers’ gaze, and demand to know why, why they wanted to put so much hate and cruelty into the world. She wouldn’t deny anything, and it would be up to Jess to drag Alice away, trying to calm her down.

//

They aren’t married. This is something that is very loudly never mentioned by the rest of the family.

The truth is, marriage is a human institution. No one expects vampires to be married; the Cullens are an exception.

And for a good portion of their life together, it’s not possible. Human laws do not permit it, not in America. Oh, Carlisle can officiate or something, but Alice likens it to cotton candy – pretty to look at, sweet in the moment, but devoid of any sort of substance. And as much as she would adore the party, adore everything about it, it’s truly not necessary. Rose and Emmett get married every decade, and she lives vicariously through that.

And Jess hates being the center of attention.

Since she took Jess’s hand in that diner and Jess followed her out, they have been unbreakable. Of course, Jess gave Alice the only thing she had from her human life, the dented locket with the initials JMW still visible on the front, and that is more valuable to her than any diamond ring.

Jess gets irritated that every mention of gay marriage and gay rights in school means they are looked at pointedly as if they should stand up and profusely thank everyone for allowing them the basic rights of humanity. Jess doesn’t want to be called gay or lesbian or whatever terminology people are using. She just wants to be left alone. The only one allowed to comment or joke is Emmett, and only about Jess – Emmett has learned the lesson that any jokes at Alice’s expense will end with him missing an extremity.

Alice doesn’t care much for the labels either, but she gets it – the classmates, the neighbours, Carlisle’s co-workers, everybody they come in contact with, they use Alice and Jess to humanize the highs and the lows. They need poster children in their small towns, and no one is more photogenic than Jessamine Hale and Alice Cullen. They actually think about the concept, contemplate it, and that’s all Alice really wants. For people to think.

Rosalie asks, out of nowhere one day, if she ever liked boys.

Alice shrugs. “I don’t remember.”

And she doesn’t. There has never been someone who makes her stomach flutter like Jess, who makes everything okay just by being there. There had been one friend of Carlisle’s who had eyed her off, had made a rather vulgar offer to her on the quiet.

She’d never told Jess about that, mostly because it would be very antisocial to set fire to one of Carlisle’s friends. She had just stared at him, all wide-eyed, innocent and confused until he gave up trying to explain what he wanted.

She knows Edward’s poor little mind and Victorian sensibilities have been absolutely blown wide-open, having them in the house. There were two weeks in Vermont where he couldn’t look them in the eye, the time in Colorado when he fled to Denali for a month. He should be thanking them – unless he turns out to be gay (and Jess has fifty dollars on that), his future bride will be much, much happier thanks to his unwitting education.

But eventually, Rosalie – and Alice too, she supposes – get their answer. She likes watching movies and swooning over the actors with Rosalie, giggling and joking around. Jess scowls at her, and she grins and pounces on her, curling into Jess’s side. Emmett makes several comments about the actresses, and Rosalie throws the remote at him, and Alice joins in. Maybe it’s the fact that she remembers nothing of being human. Maybe it’s something to do with her gift. Or maybe she is exactly as she was back then – gender is irrelevant when it comes to Alice.

Or, more truthfully, everybody is irrelevant. They are not Jess.

And when Rose looks at Emmett, contemplates everything they are to each other, she understands a little.

//

The day Bella Swan arrives at Forks, Jess is having a bad day, and Alice is trying to distract her. That distraction turns into Jess putting her hand up Alice’s skirt – well, Alice twisted around to face her and Jess’s hand happened to be on Alice’s leg and slipped underneath her skirt, Alice had squealed in surprise, Jess had started to laugh, and Edward stormed off, sick of the pair of them.

She was wearing tights, anyway.

And that’s how Bella Swan is introduced to the Cullens. It’s not how Alice saw it happen originally, but at least they’re memorable, even if Edward was being a drama queen.

What Alice hadn’t seen was how uncomfortable her and Jess would make Bella. And that’s soul-crushing – they were meant to be best friends, but now they just aren’t.

They can’t be.

Rosalie might be all prickly, and prefer to old-fashioned euphemisms for Jess and Alice’s relationship, but she accepts them. She goes lingerie shopping with Alice, knowing full-well that it’s going to be Jess who rips them off with dark eyes, and willing hands. She watches Jess win play-fights with Emmett, and Alice teasingly calling out, ‘my hero’, and reminds herself that in this story, the princess slays the dragon for love of the other princess; there are no knights or princes in Jess and Alice’s story. And Rosalie took her time, but she understands that it is okay, now.

That neither of them ever went looking for a prince, or a knight.

Bella doesn’t ask outright, and Alice doesn’t offer any information. Jess is simply a shadow; albeit one who is trying to resist exsanguinating Bella.

It is the other students who whisper things to Bella, and Edward who confirms in with an air of superior despair. And so, Bella looks away from Alice; at a point just beyond her face, at her scuffed sneakers, or her school books.

//

[volturi-stuff]

Blood Moon

Demetri Volturi x fem!swan!reader

Warning: Angst?

A/N: WELCOME!!! My new series!! This takes place in the beginning of eclipse! This is very different then what I usually write!lemme know if ya wanna be on the taglist!♡

Y/N Swan, never felt like she had a true place in this world. Her family always ignored her, Bella mistreated her, and Charlie was always busy with trying to get Bella to feel loved, and feel wanted, he neglected you. You got the fact she was separated from her family, but you were too. You lived with Charlie, while Renè got Bella. That was the agreement, and you were fine with that. Everything was fine, up until Bella met Edward. Then the whole, Italy thing happened. You and Charlie were going ballistic waiting for her to call. But needless to say, you were furious at Edward.

You spent your nights alone in your room, binge watching teen wolf, or listening to music. You had no friends, but you really didn't care either. You preferred staying in.

It was a very quiet afternoon, a little too quiet. Charlie had gone off to work until nine twenty-four pm. You had time to kill, until he got off, like you always did. You decided to do your homework on your computer, you had a twenty five paged essay due tomorrow for English class, and Mr. Gibson, was a very strict teacher.

You changed into a hoodie and some black ripped leggings, topped with a orange beanie. Basically your everyday attire.

You sat in front of the computer and began your essay, when Bella basically busted in your door screaming like a lunatic.

"Y/N! You said what to Edward?!" She screamed in a high pitched annoying voice.

You simply told him to 'go find a nice ripe hole, crawl in it and die, like the worthless monster he is' for the way he treated Bells.

"Snitch told? Wow, okay." You said rolling your eyes. "I apologized, I didn't mean it to go that far, I was angry. You know I'm a pacifist, you know I don't mean harm." You calmly said typing up your English assignment. Even though it was hard to focus with her yelling.

"You had no right, Y/N! You ruined everything he thinks he isn't good enough for me even more now!" She yelled in frustration.

"As he should. He isn't good enough for you, I speak the truth, point blank periodt." You said continuing to type your paper.

"Yeah, you speak the truth, that's why you're gonna be alone forever, like you are now." Bella said spitefully, and then soon regretted it.

You looked at her with tears in your eyes, it had felt like your heart had been ripped out of your chest. You knew your sister didn't really like you, but you never thought she'd say that. That was your biggest fear, and she knew it.

You got up closing your computer and pushing past her, grabbing your boots, and ran right out the front door.

"Y/N! I'm sorry! Don't leave, dad will be home soon!" Bella begged as she followed you outside. "It's dark!" She screamed.

"As if you care!" You yelled back.

You took off running down the street as fast as you possibly could, before she could see you cry. It was slightly raining making the weather more colder than it actually was. You had no clue where to go, as you had no where to go.

You hid in a dusty ally filled with crates behind your favorite coffee shop. You usually came here when you needed to get away. She was right, you were a nobody. You slid your back down the brick wall plopping on the wet ground covered in leaf's and twigs. That's when you broke down in tears sobbing.

That's also when you heard it, twigs snapping. You flung your head around to see a guy who looked as if he was a vampire as well, he looked nothing like the Cullens, he was tall, pale, and very nasty looking with dark red eyes. He had stubble on his face, as well as a nasty grin.

You moved and tried running away, but he had other plans, in a swift quick movement, he threw you to the other end of the ally, your back hitting the brick quite hard, a loud scream escaped your lips as you fell to the ground with a thud.

He then leaned down in front of you and whispered, "This is from Victoria." His voice was deep and raspy, you had the urge to vomit as soon as he opened his mouth. And your last dying thought was, how this was Bella's fault. You were about to die and it was her fault. You didn't wanna go out like this, you tried pepper spraying him in the eyes but that did nothing. It just made him more angry.

He leaned in and bit your leg. You screamed in pain and felt a burning sensation go throughout your body. But just as your vision went blurry, he was viciously yanked away by someone much taller and leaner than the other vampire.

But the only thing you could hear was your screams and sobs. The agony spreading throughout your body was unbearably painful. Undoubtedly the worst pain you've ever felt.

The man then crouched next to you, just a few seconds later, and whispered, "It's okay Amore, I'm gonna make it stop." He whispered in a thick accent that made you feel a fluttery feeling, even with the pain. And with his promise, he then began sucking the venom out of your leg. You screamed loudly again in pain, but the pain soon faded. It barely hurt now, you were just left with a dizzy feeling. He quickly pulled away making sure you were still okay.

His presence alone made you feel safer, like you were wanted, like there was a true plan for you, other than the painful loneliness that was your horrible life.

"It's okay, you're okay, let's get you to the hospital." He whispered as he wrapped a cloak around you, instantly making you warmer, "May I pick you up?" He whispered again in his gentle accent. You nodded and winced quickly after. And with your permission he gently picked you up in his cold arms. You rested your head on his chest trying to forget about the pain and events that had occurred before. He ran you to the hospital in a blink of a eye.

you felt very safe, and very drawn to this stranger. Like it was fate he found you. The words just slipped out, "M-My angel.." You whisper mumbled, and the next thing you know, everything around you got extremely blurry and you passed out.

Demetri's pov:

I dropped her off at the hospital, but left my cloak on her hospital bed. For the first time, I didn't care about anything else except for her safety. It took every fiber in my body to stop from killing her. It wasn't without difficulty, but I managed to somehow do it. I was going to meet with the rest of the coven, hoping they wouldn't notice my disappearance.

That's when I saw Scarlett, outside the hospital. She was wearing her usual, black and gold cloak with her hood up to keep from getting seen by any humans. "Uh, Excuse me? Excuse you! What are you doing Demetrius? My father won't be happy about you saving some random human!" She said in a annoyed tone.

"Aro, can deal. She is my mate. You would do the same if that were Jane!" I said and took off running towards the rest of the coven. She stood there glaring for a second, before following close behind me.

"What took so long?" Jane said emotionless as always.

I looked at Scarlett with pleading eyes. I knew that if Aro got word of her, he would kill her for being human.

Scarlett smirked and kissed Jane on her cheek, "Demetri got thirsty, we fed." She looked back at me and mouthed, 'you owe me' I kindly nodded my head. I'd do anything for her, as long as she didn't tell. I did owe her big time.

"Mhm, Well..." Jane looked at Scarlett, and ever so slightly twitched her lip up into a slight smirk, and back at the chaos we were dealing with in Seattle. "We have a bigger problem, then Demetri's thirst."

I let out a unesasary sigh, thanks to Scarlett, I had time to come up with a idea on how to hide her from the Volturi. This definitely wouldn't be a easy thing to do, but I had to try.

[irondadfics]

I’m looking for fanfics where Peter is Tony’s biological child and he goes missing/gets kidnapped as a young child. He is raised by someone else and doesn’t know he’s Tony’s son. I’ve already read Lost Boy and Things I Almost Remember on archive of our own and I wanted to find stories with a similar plot.

WHEW! It’s kind of a long list, but we did our best finding several fics that feature both BioDad!Tony and Peter being kidnapped at a very young age. ENJOY!!

PETER IS TONY’S SON BUT THEY WERE SEPARATED WHEN PETER WAS A CHILD REC LIST

Lost Boy by winterda

Isaac Stark disappeared from a crowded park a few months shy of his third birthday. There were never any signs of him, and no arrest were ever made in connection to the case. It was as if the toddler had simply vanished off the face of the earth. Twelve years later, Peter Parker has a really bad day, which only get worse when his prints are put through the system.

Things I Almost Remember by IcedAquarius @icedaquarius31​

Peter's past is not as it appears. It all starts one day with a genetics project and slowly spirals into something Peter never could have imagined.

hydra's not a home by tempestaurora @tempestaurora​

At 6 years old, the son of Tony and Pepper Stark, Peter, is kidnapped, never to be seen again. Or, so they thought. Ten years later, while raiding a HYDRA base, the Avengers come across a new, enhanced individual, working for the enemy: in black spandex, with a tendency to stick to walls and shoot webs from his wrists, the Black Spider is a pain in the ass in more ways than one.

If They Knew All About You by MsHermia

Tony Stark had lost his son when he was only 2 years old, stolen away in broad daylight with nobody the wiser of what exactly happened. Years later, Tony has just made it through the disaster with Ultron. He is trying to keep himself and the team together but relationships are strained and tempers are running high. Then a random turn of events leads to his path crossing with that of a particular vigilante. They are strangers to each other, or so they think.

Peter Parker is on top of the world. After a few shitty years, losing his parents and then losing his Uncle, things are finally looking up. Sure he lives in a crappy little apartment with his Aunt but he might have just found his mission in life.

------

This is an AU story obvious by some of the tags. I'm starting out a few weeks after Age of Ultron took place. Civil War will be a thing. Other than that I'm not too concerned about sticking to every canon detail and storyline.

Finding Their Way Home by ElliahRose

Peter Benjamin-Edward Stark went missing on a Tuesday. For months the entirety of the New York police department, as well as anyone else the Starks could convince to join, searched for the tot. He was only three when he was taken and for four months, two weeks, and four days, Tony Stark and Pepper Stark (nee Potts) worried and fretted over their beloved child.

Peter Benjamin-Edward Stark was murdered on a Friday. A ransom call gone wrong spelt the end of the child’s life. The world grieved as the kidnappers gleefully told the devastated parents they’d find his body in the morning.

They never did.

Twelve years passed and the family was still grieving, and Tony Stark worked tirelessly to find his only child’s killer and gain justice for his son.

Meanwhile Peter Parker was having literally the worst day ever. He just wanted to help make the world a better place, but instead he got stabbed. That's just his luck, isn't it?

missing, presumed dead by hailingstars @hailing-stars

They hadn’t had a funeral for Peter.

There hadn’t been a casket or a service inside a church.

There had been, before Tony decided in his heart that Peter was gone, candlelight vigils and pleas on the media for whoever had taken him to bring him home. Neither of those did any good. Neither of those brought Peter home.

OR

Tony Stark's son gets kidnapped when he's two. Twelve years later he comes back.

I told you to be better (and you became the best) by HaruK

Tony was blessed with a healthy baby boy, and for once in his life, was actually happy. Until everything derailed and he had to send his son away to keep him safe, because those related to the Stark family, one of the worlds biggest and most targeted families in the black market, always end up hurt. With a new name and identity that Tony himself doesn't know, the young baby was wiped off the map, his existence erased, never to be heard of again. . Years later, Anti-hero Iron Man meets a local superhero vigilante and Tony becomes surprisingly close with young Peter Parker.

The Curly-Haired Boy In The Paper by Svn_f1ower @svn-f1ower​

When Tony sees the blurry, grey scale photograph of someone he thought he had lost years ago, he follows the trail to a newspaper company, to a hospital, to an adoption agency, to the police station and finally to May Parker's house.

hold him tight & don’t let go by jessicagoddamnjones @farremoved

Peter Stark went missing when he was four years old.

Eleven years later, he’s found.

Only now he’s Peter Parker by day, Spider-Man by night, and he doesn’t like the idea that his entire life is a lie.

Rise from the Ashes; Just to See You Again by Mintstream @iwritedumbshit​

Tony Stark didn't expect Mary Fitzpatrick, or the news she delivered. He didn't expect that he would become a father, or that he would actually enjoy it. He didn't expect Penny to love him just as fiercely as he did her.

He didn't expect to lose her so soon.

In the wake of the loss of his daughter he tried--tried to do right by her. He became Iron Man, he was an Avenger, he protected his world because he couldn't protect his daughter, but through it all, he hoped to be reunited with his daughter.

He didn't expect to be alive when he was.

AKA the biological daughter kidnapping AU no one asked for. Hope you read, and hope you enjoy.

Updates on Saturdays.

Coming Home by inkinmyheartandonthepage

AU – Peter Stark was kidnapped when he was just three years old. Tony and Pepper never stopped looking for their boy. Years later, Peter finds his way back home.

A Change In What We Knew by Imissyoutoo @imissyoutoo

Tony scoured the floor behind Steve as though his one-year-old son had somehow crawled to him, before finally, he looked up. The realisation dawned on him like an eclipse; the decaying darkness hiding the sun. Hiding his son. Because his boy wasn't there.

”Where is he? Steve? Where's my son Rogers?!” At only a year old, Tony Stark’s son is taken, leaving him shattered. Little does he know, his journey to find what is lost only begins twelve years later. In the most unlikely of places, and all because of two words.

”Hey kid.”

I Found You by honestchick

Tony had a son; he raised him for two years until someone kidnapped him. Tony was devastated and heartbroken. And who would have thought in Starks Expo, he’d be able to see his son once again?

move back home forever by chasingflower @evahmohns

The results say he’s not actually Peter Parker.

They say he’s Peter Stark. You know, the one who’s been missing for 10 years.

Yeah. He knows.

Soon You'll Get Better by lostinmorewaysthan1

Peter Stark was kidnapped. That was all anyone knew. He vanished into thin air, no traces left behind, when he was eight years old.

Six years later, on one of the final raids on the HYDRA bases, they find an enhanced assassin, with super strength and the ability to climb walls. No one imagined that it would be Peter. Least of all Tony.

With no memory and brainwashed by HYDRA, Peter Stark goes home and tries to recover.

Let This Road Be Mine by CommunicationFlail

Ten years ago, five year old Peter Stark disappeared. When the trail went cold, the case was closed. Now new evidence has been brought to light and Tony will stop at nothing to get his son back. No matter how many fakes he has to meet. His son is out there, and he will find him.

Return to me, the one I love so endlessly by SuperHeroTiger @superherotiger

James Edwin Stark was born on the 10th of August 2001, and for the first time in his life, Tony Stark cried tears of joy.

All the fears, all the dread that had once consumed his soul washed away with a single look at the baby’s gentle features, so familiar and yet so distinctly unique at the same time. Tony made many promises that day. Promises to love his son, to protect him, to always be there for him.

On the 10th of August 2002, James Edwin Stark was stolen in the middle of the night, and his father’s world came crashing down. Shattered and alone, Tony whispered the same promise he’d made to his son the day that he was born.

‘…My love for you is endless…’

Fourteen years later, hidden away from the world in a forest of pine, Peter Beck would dream of a day he might get to see the towering city of New York. And when a wounded stranger stumbles onto their property a week out from his birthday claiming to be a famous billionaire from New York, his dream might just come true.

Once Lost Now Found by FreckledAvenger11

Peter Parker was just trying to get used to life without his uncle. He wasn't expecting to find a familiar face in an article about Tony Stark's missing son. Follow Peter on his journey to discover just who he is. Is he Peter Parker? Is he Spider-Man? Or is he someone else entirely? Just who is he and what secrets died along with his parents in that plane crash?

So He Walks The World Alone by Miola014

This is a story 'bout a broken boy With his headphones in just to block out the noise Of everyone around him telling him the way to go So he walks the world alone Wondering if it gets better Or if he's always gonna feel empty forever So he gets lost tryna find another way back home As he walks the world alone

Or

The Kidnapped Peter Stark AU that I promised y'all!

[onebatch2batch]

Karen as an art student reacting exactly how I would to seeing Frank Castle in a coffeehouse AU

--

As an art student, Karen prides herself on what she produces. She’s won scholarships, she’s sold paintings, she has an Etsy shop—she has done everything she can to establish herself as an artist. But she also hasn’t drawn anything worthwhile in months and she’s going fucking crazy. Around her, the coffee shop is an ASMR in live action; cups clink against dishes, muted conversation eclipsed by grinding beans, paper rustles. Karen sits alone and stares into her coffee mug, trying to think of the last thing she created and actually applauded herself for. 

It’s too far back for her to be pleased about. She sighs and takes a sip of her coffee. As she does, she takes a slow glance around. There’s a couple across the room who have their heads bent close together. The girl looks guilty, the boy unhappy. An older gentleman sits at the bar with the newspaper, shoulders hunched. There’s some college kid with a laptop a few seats away from her, headphones in. And in the corner—Karen pauses. In the corner is a man. 

He’s in a navy sweater—that’s what she notices first. The color goes beautifully with his tan skin, and she’s a little jealous considering she’s been pale as a ghost since August. His jeans look worn and comfortable, and his boots thick and heavy. There’s a large cup in front of him that he seems to have forgotten about. His elbows are braced on the table, thick fingers holding his paperback book aloft. The cover looks familiar, and after a moment she realizes it’s Catch-22. Karen absorbs all of these small details before allowing herself to look at his face. 

Karen likes to think she has a good, albeit unorthodox taste in men. She’s always liked a man with striking features. This one is no different—his sharp chin meets an even sharper jawline and there’s a five o clock shadow on his face that makes him look a little rugged. His nose is a bit on the larger side, and crooked like he’s broken it once or twice before. A high forehead gives way to a thick head of short, dark curls. And finally—his eyes. From this distance she can tell they’re dark but nothing more. His brow is lax as he reads, tongue darting out to wet his lips. Karen zeros in on his mouth, on his defined cupid’s bow, as her hands reach automatically towards her sketchbook. 

She needs to draw him. It would be a crime not to. 

Coffee forgotten, Karen takes her fill of examining him. Her hand begins quick, soft movements as she creates his general outline. And then, glancing between her page and the way his shoulders move as he absentmindedly stretches, she begins to sketch with more surety. The man keeps his eyes on his book, eyes flitting back as forth across the words. As she draws, Karen wonders what his name is. He looks like a John, maybe. Or a Pete. Something simple and plain to juxtapose his features. Something that he can hide behind when he wants to go unnoticed. 

He seems like the kind of guy who would prefer to be unnoticed. 

Karen finishes one sketch and makes a face. Absolutely not—she’s gotten the nose all wrong. His forehead is too low. His shoulders too slumped. 

She starts over. 

On and on it goes. She draws four sloppy versions before she realizes he’s put his book down. By the time she registers that he’s watching her, it’s too late. Her pencil falters in her grasp. Their eyes meet. 

Oh no. Mortified, Karen looks away, into her coffee mug. Maybe he just happened to glance at her when she glanced at him. Maybe it doesn’t have to be awkward. Or maybe she’s made him feel awkward and he’ll leave. The thought causes a pang to echo in her chest and she looks up to ensure that’s not the case. 

Hot man with striking features is coming towards her, mug and book in hand. 

Ohh no. 

“Hey,” the man says once she’s standing before her. His voice is raspy, almost hoarse, and undeniably sexy. It makes her spine tingle. He cocks his head slightly, glances down at the sketchbook. “What’re you doing?”

It’s too late, he’s seen the sketches. Karen can’t tell if she’s more embarrassed at their slipshod quality, or that she’s been caught. She habitually rubs the corner of the page between her fingers—a nervous gesture. 

“I’m just sketching, I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.” There, that’s a good way to put it. Casual. Apologize. Don’t stare too hard at the way his brows raise, mouth pursing to the side. 

He blinks. “Sketching me?”

She must be flushed pink now. Karen clears her throat and straightens her posture. “Yes, I won’t anymore if you don’t want me to.”

“No, no, I don’t mind,” he says quickly. “I just—what for?”

She blinks up at him, at his genuinely confused expression, and it all clicks. “Well,” she says carefully, “because you’re attractive and gave me some inspiration.”

Now it’s his turn to blink down at her, and then he laughs once. Then again softer, dropping into the chair in front of her, rubbing his jaw. “Sorry, ma’am, I mean—you think this face is attractive?”

It’s self-deprecating, but gracious. He’s comfortable with the thought that people don’t find him attractive--and that won’t do at all. Karen raises her brows, her embarrassment forgotten. “Want me to show you?”

The man takes a long pull from his mug, eyes never leaving hers, and then he nods. Karen grins, flips to a new page, and begins to draw. 

—

She gets lost in the marks of her pencil as it scratches over the thick page of her sketchbook. Her soft graphite circles give way to darker, stronger lines that slowly form into the man sitting before her. When she glances up to reference him, he’s watching her curiously. She’s pleased to note that his ears are a little pink, but he doesn’t move much. Occasionally he lifts his mug to his lips, causing her pencil to falter as she watches, and then once his face is revealed again she continues. 

This goes on long enough for her to develop a cramp, but Karen powers through until she’s finished. This could be the last time she ever sees the man before her, and she wants to get it right. She needs to prove to him that he’s wrong about himself. 

“It’s the nose, isn’t it?” He jokes when she finally stops, staring down at her page. The likeness is as close as she will ever get to him with this medium, and she wants to keep it to herself just one more moment before giving it away. 

“I like your nose,” she tells him after a beat too long, and then shoots him a look that tells him she means it. And then she turns the sketchbook to show him. 

The man rips his stare from her face and looks at the drawing in silence. After a moment he reaches out to take it from her, holding it delicately between his hands. She searches his expression for a clue of what he’s thinking, but his brow is smooth and mouth unsmiling. Finally, he hands back the drawing and folds his arms loosely on the table. 

“That’s fuckin’ incredible,” her tells her, and the air whooshes out of her lungs in relief. 

“Thank you. I’m Karen Page, by the way.”

He accepts her handshake. His palm is dry and warm. Calloused. “Frank, Frank Castle. Nice to meet you, ma’am. But I still think you’re crazy.”

He says it with such a rueful grin that she has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. “Well, think I’m crazy all you want. That doesn’t stop me from knowing that the couple in the corner are fighting because the girl was staring at you, and it doesn’t stop me from wanting to draw you again.” 

Frank glances at the corner, where the boy is shooting him daggers. He huffs, then turns an amused look on Karen. “Well, can’t say I know what to say to that other than thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Would you like to keep it?”

Frank taps his finger on his coffee mug consideringly. His eyes trace the online of her drawing. “Only if I can buy it.”

“No way, Frank.” She likes the way his name fits in her mouth. It suits him far better than Pete. She wants to say it again, but she settles for: “I was just practicing, is all. It’s yours.”

He takes the drawing and slides it carefully between the pages of his book. Then he looks at her again and smiles. “Then how ‘bout I buy you dinner tomorrow night?”

It catches her so off guard that she’s already nodding before he’s finished talking. Once it sinks in that he’s asked her out, he’s already plucked her pencil from her hand and written his number on a napkin. He pushes it towards her and grins again. 

“No pressure. You call me, if you decide you wanna.”

Karen takes it and carefully writes his number next to her previous sketches of him. She glances up at his pleased look, and instantly knows she’d gladly spend a lifetime trying to catch that expression on paper. 

But she’s happy to start tomorrow, with dinner.

[keltonwrites]

I bought a house in the middle of nowhere

“Yeah, I loved it, but she’d never move there.” It was something akin to that, at least. He didn’t mean any mischief, no deceit or planning. It was an honest take on what, at the time, was true. I saw the road into town on Google Maps, noted that it was closed during the winter, acknowledged the reality that a person can own a snowmobile, and I said, “we are not moving there.” But, all good truths are just dares in the making.

And here I am, living in the “there” I said I would not. Two years ago, I left my job at Headspace for a life reset. It was pre-pandemic, and Ben and I were planning a big road trip. Our perfect paradise in Topanga, CA, had crystallized itself as many people’s perfect paradise, and those “many people” all had more money than us. Our options to buy a home were nil, and home-buying was essentially all we wanted. Ben’s a builder and I’m a world builder, and we wanted somewhere to invest that didn’t belong to someone else. We packed the car with the tent and the bikes and the dog and all the things that come with tents and bikes and dogs, and off we went on our own Tour de l’Ouest, looking for a place to call home. We knew what we wanted, knew our odds of finding it, and hit the road anyway. Here was the dream list — concocted by two pie-in-the-sky dummies who married each other:

Not rainy or consistently windy

Notable access to the arts

Remote and challenging to get to/close neighbors

Wild West influenced architecture

Progressive community

Exceptional trail access out the front door

High-speed internet

In our budget

And my personal favorite: had to “feel right” Good luck to us with a list like that, but thus began our hunt. We camped in the snow, tried every dirty chai in the Rockies, and explored every town we could. Whatever a good time it was, it felt useless. Every town Ben was OK with, I hated. Every town I was OK with, Ben despised. And the few places we both loved required money we just didn’t have. We came home with our sails down, limping into the harbor of our rental. But as is the way with romantics, our dreams began to slowly eclipse our reality. Books fell victim to Zillow and Trulia. TV was replaced by the MLS. All writing time was dedicated to Realtor.com. Hours were spent pouring over maps, county records, and updating spreadsheets that tracked price per square foot compared to beds and baths. Over time, all that internetting led to one singular town of 180 people at 10,000 feet in the San Juan Mountains of Colorado with a road that said “Closed Winters” on Google Maps. Look, I don’t know what happened. Ben found this town on a map, I said don’t be ridiculous, and after a year or so of him telling people I'd never move here, here I am, being ridiculous. Was it reverse psychology? Maybe. Was it the charming “town plan” that mandated all houses be rustic cabins and forbade AirBnB? Could be. Was it the fact that when I looked at Strava’s Heatmap, it showed what seemed like thousands of miles of trails just out the front door? I mean, yes. All these things played a part, but all I know for certain is that one day I woke up and said, “we’re going to move there.” Ben doubted this conviction (and the realities behind it) thus cementing it into place in my head. In a town of 180 people there’s only ~60 houses, which means maybe 2 or 3 get listed per year — but my spreadsheet had the proof: we hadn’t missed our chance yet in this tiny town. The data showed a strong likelihood there would be at least two houses listed within the calendar year. This, however, was also our last chance. The spreadsheet also showed that if we didn’t find a house this year, we wouldn’t be able to afford one the next. We called a realtor, made our case, and harangued her until she believed us that we were truly the kind of yahoos who would move to an avalanche field and stay there. And then it happened. A pocket listing. It was a darling home built in 1890. It had the beds, the baths, and the views. We were the first and only to know. We put in an offer, they agreed, and we would come to see the house in a few weeks. But in those few weeks, the circumstances changed. The sellers lost their own sweet deal, and they couldn’t sell yet. Their agent promised we had right of first refusal, it was only a matter of time. Ben lamented, I preached patience, and we went to see the house that was no longer for sale anyway.

It was a quiet winter morning in Covid when we drove across the packed snow to meet our realtor outside the house. The sun was out and the 13 degrees Fahrenheit felt warm. I unzipped my jacket, mask on my face. I took long videos and talked about where I would set up my office and where we’d put the bikes. As we closed up and I settled into a future where this house would eventually be mine, our realtor told us there were comps in the area — other residents quietly interested in potentially closing out. Would we like to see them? Sure, let’s.

One home came with an incredible commercial kitchen. The whole house was a whopping 3500 sq ft if my memory serves me correct, which falls under the category of “houses too big to find your cat in."

Another home had an open-air-to-the-kitchen bathroom.

The third was dark and overpriced with cracked windows and open beer cans scattered about.

And then, plans changed.  “Hey guys, there’s actually one more house we can see.” The last house we saw was a log cabin, nestled in the hillside by itself, with massive A-frame windows looking out onto the peaks beyond. Inside was a labyrinth of a life lived long and large. The cabin was built and loved by a man we’ll call Jack. Jack was 82, and as we walked toward the front door on that sunny winter morning, he exited with two beers in his pockets, headed to the mountain to ski. Jack was an attorney — in his life he’d been both criminal and defender — and from the stories, somewhat interchangeably. There were artifacts from running in the same scenes as Hunter S. Thompson and Willie Nelson; there were stuffed birds, bad books, sheet-covered couches, smoked spliffs, and piles and piles of mouse shit. Every inch of the house was lived in, and not just by people. You think millennials like plants? No. This man likes plants. The biggest monstera deliciosa I’ve ever seen, spanning some 10 feet wide and 15 feet tall. Draping cactuses, spider plants, massive aloes, and an ambitious hoya carnosa clawing its way to the top of the massive fireplace. But there were problems. I’m trying to be diplomatic saying the house was lived in. The wood by the door handles was dyed black from years of hand grease rubbing against it. The carpet in the upstairs was soiled almost everywhere with bat scat. Newspaper was stuffed between the massive logs to keep the wind out. There was cardboard taped over almost every window, blankets nailed over the others. Half the doors wouldn’t open. It was unnerving to touch the crusted light switches. It was early enough in the season of Covid-fear that touching anything felt like gambling. On our way back to our rental in the bigger neighboring town, we shared our awe and our no-ways, lamenting how long we’d have to wait for the little 1890s fixer upper. That night, I sent the video I took of the cabin to my parents. “Can you believe this?” I asked. And do you know what my dad said? “Great log construction.” After that, the cabin was all we could talk about. “Could you believe those plants?” “Did you see how big those logs were?” “I just googled Jack, look at this.” “Do you know what the insulating factor of logs is?” “How much did he say he was asking?” It came down to the plants. Amidst all the chaos in that house, the tender care of those decades-old plants sung the clearest. This wasn’t just a place Jack lived in, it was a place that wanted to be lived in. We made an offer the next day.

Jack had six months to clear out his 30 odd years of collecting, and the town had six months to speculate about the worrisome Californians moving to their high-altitude, high-risk town. The town itself is an old mining town. It rests in a high valley, surrounded by peaks over 13,000ft, and is over six hours from the nearest major airport. Five people died around this town in avalanches this past year. The dirt road into town is littered with avalanche fields, warning visitors to not stop when driving in. The other way out is a pass road, only drivable in the warm months, but you could skin out if it was dire. Most August days, the high is in the mid-60s. The valley is blanketed in wildflowers, and the aspens littering the mountainsides suggest a promising fall display. The town had a heyday, a low day, and now it’s a community of preppers, adventurers, appreciators, and “get all these idiots away from me”ers. We don’t know these people yet, but the ones we’ve met have the same like to live hard attitude we do. Heli-ski guides, ex-CIA agents, woodworkers, bakers, teachers, just a general can-do group of people. The kind of people that see a California license plate and peer with skepticism between the thin gap over their sunglasses and under their caps.

You might say I’m romanticizing the place, but the residents are worse. Like all good old-timers, they’re full of threats: “wait’ll you see the snow drifts,” “let’s see how you do outrunning an avalanche,” “good luck with the winds,” “the last Californians didn’t last a year.” God, what does that remind me of?

“Yeah, I loved it, but she’d never move there.”

With every taunt, my teeth ground more enamel, fingers rolling into a clench. And maybe Jack recognized this intensity, because on the day of closing, he hosted a gathering for us in the town's open space. He had us introduce ourselves to the skeptical locals, and I made my case in court, eyes narrowed and lips curled. “I’m the daughter of a smokejumper and wildlife biologist. I grew up watching the wind and the door. I’ve lived in big cities, small boats, and more than one cabin. I always take the stairs, I never use air-conditioning, and I’m a very good shot.” I’m just a girl, standing in front of a town, asking them to give her a fucking chance. Jack stepped forward to speak. “You know, I had my doubts about a couple Californians coming to look at my house. But these people? These are the nicest people you’re ever gonna meet.” And then I helped Jack set up his cot so he could spend his last night under the stars in the town that kept him young. Cooper ran circles with the other dogs. People brought homemade cocktails and bowls of dip and we felt welcomed. Even the mayor, a fellow writer, came and she struck up a conversation. “I hear you’ve got a little bit of a following on social media!” She teased. “I guess, nothing wild.” “Well I just wanted to let you know if you ever geotag this town, I’ll drag you out of it.” She grinned. This was a special place. And every visitor who couldn’t handle the realities of being here threatened the very wellbeing of the people who lived here. This town survives on a delicate balance. They source their own water, manage their own roads, and fervently protect the land and the people around them. Their stories about racing avalanches, snowmobiling in the dark of night to the doctor’s house, hunkering down in each other’s homes as the storms pass — these stories were bylaws. You can join when you’ve proven you’re ready to join. By their own projection, they are hardy and steadfast people, and when they see a Californian, they see something fleeting. Many years ago, I worked in the British Virgin Islands. The people born and raised there were called Belongers. At the customs office, the placards above the lines literally read, “If you belong, stand here” and “If you do not belong, stand here.” Whether or not we belong isn't up to the town council, and it's not up to these residents. It's up to years spent drifting my old Mustang in the snow on the way to school, up to Ben's months and months spent in the backcountry, up to my years of reading fire reports and assisting with evacuations, up to Ben's ability to read the landscape and the weather, up to my doggedness, his diligence, and our pathological love to do difficult things well. It’s up to us, to these old logs, and to this valley. Doesn't mean we'll belong, but it does mean we'll try. And for the record, the road is open in the winter. But do these sound like the kind of people who’d tell Google that? Next week, a tour of the house that we get to call ours — stuffed with newspaper, run by plants, and filled with mice. P.S. Here's where we get our mail.

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