@singersdd replied to your photoset “jakeoettinger: “gotta keep the players happy. flirt a little, wink a...”
Love your Blue Line nonsense. Those stories have helped keep me sane since March. Dad!Killian is my fav.
@lkles08 replied to your photoset “jakeoettinger: “gotta keep the players happy. flirt a little, wink a...”
Can't wait for more Blue Line. I was late to the party and spent far too many days doing nothing else but reading your stories!!! Love them!
I’ve meant to respond to these (exceptionally) nice messages several times in the last few days and my only excuse is that I have been screaming about ACOTAR and not even remotely surprising my husband when I shout “OH SHIT” when something dramatic happens in the books. That’s a real thing that happened, by the way. I swear.
But, seriously! Thank you! I am always, always, always here to talk all things Blue Line and dad!Killian and grandparents Emma and Killian and every single thought I have about Roland Locksley when he grows up. Some of which I have told to @shireness-says in order to ensure she feels feelings. Like, I’ve got a lot of thoughts about adult Roland Locksley, professional hockey player.
Although Matt is totally the one that winks during faceoffs.
“washingtonburakovsky: i love how tylers shamelessly watching the caps...”
It's Killian and Peggy while she's home with a cold & happy at the moment.
Listen, I am only human. Albeit a human who really is very concerned about how much hummus I’m going to consume while social-distancing. But the point remains. And when I see solid ideas, I feel compelled to write about them. We’re going to go the teething route, though. So, sorry other anon, that Blue Line masterlist has another thing on it now. Here’s like 1.5 K of total fluff.
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They had tried everything.
Anything. All of it. And then some.
They were bordering on desperate now, a growing frustration over the last few days that had not happened when Matt was this age. Nothing helped.
Peggy twisted and turned and tossed and whined, which didn’t follow the alliterative rule that Killian had apparently come up wth, but he was more than willing to blame that on his absolute and complete exhaustion.
Sleeping, it seemed, was a luxury neither he nor Emma could afford anymore.
Not when they were so busy reading lists and searching for some kind of an answer, typing word combinations that Killian wasn’t even aware existed in the English language until some time in the realm of four that morning. That was after the pacing. But before the bobbing — moving through a variety of rooms in their apartment because some website on the third page of the Google results promised it would work.
It didn’t.
He hadn’t expected it to.
Nothing good ever came from the third page of Google.
“Ah, no, no, nah—c’mon,” Killian mumbled, reaching out a hand that he didn’t think should feel quite that heavy in an attempt to tug Peggy’s fingers away from her mouth.
Every inch of him ached, and that might have also been a byproduct of the only-recent end to the season, an admittedly not great end either, a second-round loss that would probably grate on his nerves even more than Peggy’s tooth-related screeching, but none of those words were particularly positive to begin with.
So.
He wasn’t sure he’d ever had so many opinions on words.
Matt was going to stay with the Vankalds for the rest of the weekend.
“We’re not doing that,” Killian continued. Peggy made a noise. Not words. Figured. She was a baby. “I know it hurts, but you can’t start sticking your fingers in your mouth. Did the medicine wear off?”
Still no response.
It really had not been this bad for Matt.
That seemed unfair.
For all parties involved.
“Alright, we’ll get the ring thing and that’ll probably help and you won’t mention how that rhymed, right?”
That got him a gurgle and a wobbling lower lip.
Killian’s head dropped — whether from exhaustion or the overwhelming obstacle of a teething six-month-old, he wasn’t entirely sure. “We’ve just got to make sure the ring thing isn’t frozen, ok, Pegs? And then you can have that and maybe some more medicine. Where do you think Mom put the medicine box?” Killian swayed on the spot, trying to look in the kitchen without walking, rocking his head to a rhythm that didn’t exist when the TV was playing a game in the background.
The Capitals and Penguins.
In the Eastern Conference Finals.
So, maybe Killian was just a masochist.
It was the first time he’d watched a game since his ended.
Peggy squirmed again, tears welling in the corner of her eyes while her unoccupied fingers curled forward to reach for something. There wasn’t a shirt there anymore — a product of lunch and mashed bananas were disgusting anyway, and Emma had postseason stuff to do at the Garden.
Killian needed to pick his shirt off their bedroom floor at some point.
“I know, I know, I know,” he chanted, leaning back like meeting his daughter’s gaze would help the situation. It did not. Version, four-hundred and sixty-two.
He was admittedly less worried about numbers than words.
The tears spilled over, and he honestly wasn’t sure where all the moisture on her face was coming from — her eyes or her mouth or a mixture of both and someone on the myriad of websites he and Emma had spent all night clicking on should have made it more obvious that parenting was like this.
Difficult. Exhausting.
Possibly impossible.
Killian huffed, teeth digging into his lower lip. He kept moving, ignoring the state of his calves and the force Peggy got into her kicks when she flailed her legs into his ribs.
“Ok, ok, ok,” he said. Apparently he could only repeat things in triplicate now. That was at least on brand for hockey and—
Killian let out another breath, ruffling the ends of Peggy’s barely-there hair. “Alright, we’re going to try something new.”
The medicine was on top of the refrigerator, which wasn’t the first place Killian thought to look, but it hadn't been at the bottom of his metaphorical list and he was going to take his victories where he could get them.
Plus, the ring-thing, plastic monstrosity, whatever, was not frozen.
“Only one more away from a parenting hat trick, huh?” he muttered, mostly into the top of Peggy’s head. She’d stopped crying eventually, more than a few hiccups and noises that ebbed as soon as Killian started drawing circles on her back.
“That was actually really funny,” Killian added. “You’ll appreciate that eventually, I know it.” He dropped back into the corner of the couch, careful not to jostle the kid in his arms and it wasn’t the most comfortable he’d ever been, but it was certainly a step in the right direction.
Where stepping wasn’t involved at all.
More like, staring. Directly at the hockey game in front of them.
Killian was fairly certain Peggy’s eyes didn’t actually widen, but he was willing to blame the exhaustion again and they definitely should have thought of this before. He’d admittedly been avoiding most things hockey-related though, and that was also a little childish.
They only had room for so many children in that apartment.
He let Peggy turn, her back to his chest and tiny legs stretched out in front of her. Her head rested just under his collarbone, those same few tufts of hair tickling his skin.
Killian smiled.
Even if it was the Capitals and the Penguins.
And, so it went — for the next two periods, part medicine, part ring-thing, part analyzing the game, a running stream of commentary from Killian and baby-type sounds from Peggy and neither one of them tried to sleep, which might not have been the best decision, but he did get her to giggle several times and he assumed that was a wash.
Maybe some kind of zamboni joke. Fresh start or clear ice or something.
“See, that right winger on the Pens can’t get the puck in the zone,” Killian mumbled, almost halfway through the third period, and he’d stretched out at some point.
His feet hung over the side of the couch, toes threatening to rest on the arm of the closest chair, with one arm twisted behind his head. He still hadn’t put his shirt back on, Peggy resting on his chest on hands and knees, making it only too easy to press absent-minded kisses to her chin and her cheek and the bridge of her nose when she started to babble again.
“I know,” Killian nodded. “I don’t think he’s good either. You’re a genius, you know that?”
More babbling. A few da’s sprinkled in for good measure.
Killian’s heart felt like it was going to burst.
It was a much better feeling than that lingering ache in his calves.
Someone on the TV smacked the puck into the boards, earning another noise from Peggy and a grin from Killian and he was almost genuinely disappointed that they missed the final few minutes of the game.
Exhaustion appeared to be the winner anyway.
His eyelids fluttered when he heard the lock in the door, soft footsteps and the telltale sounds of shoes kicked off, and Peggy didn’t move when Emma did.
She scrunched her nose as soon as she stopped in front of the couch.
“I probably should feel bad waking you up, huh?” she asked softly, a quick hiss when one her knees cracked. She’d crouched down.
Killian clicked his tongue. “I’m sure it’s painfully adorable.”
“Something like that, for sure. What worked?”
“Who won the game?”
“Oh my God, did hockey do this?”
“You could probably argue that hockey did all of this,” Killian said, doing his best not to laugh for fear of shifting Peggy too much. Emma rolled her eyes. “Go on, admit you’re into that.”
“I’m delirious from sleep deprivation.”
“I can’t believe we didn’t think of this before. Sounds of the rink as a lullaby.”
“God,” Emma groaned, but it didn’t sound particularly frustrated. “If I go sleep in bed like a normal person, you going to be annoyed?”
“Not at all.”
“Do you also want to go sleep in bed?”
Emma lifted her eyebrows when she pressed her lips together and Killian got the very real impression she already knew the answer. “Nah,” he whispered. “I’m good here.”
She nodded once, a kiss to the side of his mouth and the top of Peggy’s head and Killian fell asleep to the sounds of post-game press conferences and in-studio analysis.
Write that headcanon one shot. Henry trying to not be his parents' son in their restaurant has so much potential for snark. ��
Hello, yes, uh between you and @shireness-says this has happened. The Google doc title is: Henry Is Not Sneaky In Several Thousand Words. It’s like four-thousand words and change. And includes these words:
“Hey, kids,” Will said as soon as he was in front of the table, all energy and a hint of sarcasm. Melting into the Gowanus Canal was suddenly very appealing again. “Figured you could use another round. On the house.”
“Huh,” Ella said. “Wow, that’s really nice.”
“Isn’t it?”
“Ok, thanks,” Henry muttered.
Will slide the glasses across the table. “House speciality, you know. Rum punch. Very popular. Lots of magazine coverage. Mentioned on the Food Network. I think they made it on Iron Chef, a couple of times.”
“They made your drink recipe on Iron Chef?” Ella asked. Henry’s spine didn’t appreciate how slumped he was in his chair.
Will nodded seriously. “Stole it right out from under us. Rude, don’t you think?”
“Honestly.”
“What do you think?” he pressed, stepping on Henry’s shoe under the table. “Don’t you think we should have gotten recompense or something?”
singersdd replied to your photoset “off-icesituation: VAN vs DAL 11.20.19”
That...that needs to be a Thing. Matt and Rol on an Olympic team. Mattie so would - or vice versa.
Listen, Matt and Rol do not understand like...the concept of personal space when they’re around each other. When Rol was little he promised he hated how often Matt followed him around (often with a stick in his hand) but then they get older and they’re so intwined in each other’s lives and then they get married and have kids and a family and they’re still just as close and the opportunity for them to play together at Worlds is like...everything they’ve ever wanted.
And everyone else on the team is a little bit, like, those guys are absurd because Matt is constantly bumping Rol into the boards and digging his chin into Rol’s shoulder and no one on the Rangers is surprised. Seriously, look at this inspiration, it’s absurd:
Henry makes fun of them both mercilessly for missing each other.
(In my head, it has to be Worlds because Peggy Jones is the only one who goes back to the Olympics and is the best athlete of them all)
“It’s far too late. Emma hates west coast swings, especially when the...”
Yeah, but every once in a while, a pitcher hits a home run. I think Ryu did it last year for the Dodgers. Dodgers should have kept him.
Oh yeah, for sure. I’m not disputing the fact that pitchers do get hits. That was what happened in the story, ha. Jacob deGrom is basically his own run support every time he pitches for the Mets. Madison Bumgarner hit two home runs in one game once. But you also know what Bumgarner’s career batting average is? .177. Which is...y’know, not great.
And while I understand the idea that everyone on the field should be able to do all sorts of baseball things, that’s just not feasible. We don’t ask players to do that in other sports. Because that’s not their position. Imagine telling Tom Brady to go out there and catch a pass. He’d drop it. In the Super Bowl.
Pitchers are not hitters. Hitters are not pitchers. Even playing right field is different from playing left. Sure, it’s funny when a second baseman comes in in relief during a blowout, but you wouldn’t want him starting, would you? It’s fun when it happens because it’s unusual. Just like pitchers occasionally hitting home runs. Right now, at this moment, baseball is more offensive than it’s ever been. Home runs, advanced stats that track projected distance and angles of hits, the goddamn shift to combat both of those things.
Again, it’s fun to watch a pitcher get a hit. But, even in the NL where they’re regularly in the batting order, they’re not hitting on the reg. If your starting pitcher has a career average of .177, is in the fifth inning of a 0-0 game, throwing a two-hitter with nine strikeouts already and is up third...he’s probably going to get pinch hit for. Because he’s not going to get a hit. And that sucks! That guy’s throwing a gem, but he can’t do it all. And by the same token of everyone should be able to do everything, where to pinch runners land on that?
Jarrod Dyson is probably one of the best base runners in the game. Dude was not a great hitter. He barely got to the plate, but regularly stole over 30 bases. Which then led to runs. Because other people could hit.
We didn’t even get into injuries pitchers sustain when they bat. Or try to run the bases. Or practice! Remember when Max Scherzer bunted a ball into his face? He broke his nose! That’s an NL pitcher who hits on the reg.
