sunscratch
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at least we stole the show by nighimpossible for breadly
Fandoms: Check Please! (Webcomic), Women's Hockey RPF
29 Dec 2015
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Summary
One of them would go to the draft lottery winning Aces and one of them would go to the Leafs and they’d meet twice a year barring any injuries because God knows they wouldn’t be sent down to the minors. Sending Kent Parson or Jack Zimmermann down to the minors would be like sending your prize stallion out to the stables when everyone paid to see a fucking show. They’d insert feline hissing noises into the broadcast and caption it “Catfight,” they’d compare their game-day suits and judge who was hotter (not on like, Hockey Night in Canada, but on the dudebro hockey blogs that Kent pretends she doesn’t read). Kent would hate it, but accept it, because it would all mean being on the ice with Zimms again. She’d skate circles around Jack in the warm ups, bucket-less with her hair and chirps flowing and Jack? Jack would smile, helmet on, the picture of austerity save the glimmer of a smirk in her eyes.
They’d had limited edition Barbies made, for fuck’s sake. Kent’s got one in a box on her mantle. The doll has its own hockey stick but the skates are high heeled. You win some, you lose more.
Bookmarked by sunscratch
04 Jun 2026
Bookmarker's Notes
probably have this off by heart by now. reread and reread
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i know we could be so happy baby (if we wanted to be) by swollensunray
Fandoms: Twin Peaks (TV 1990)
29 May 2026
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Laura stands, tall in the afternoon sun, hair shining like a halo.
“Oh, Donna Madonna,” she smiles, “don’t you know there’s always mañana?”
or: Laura and Donna, pre-canon.
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His whole life began and would end with Matt.
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Zito is a drunk and a pothead and seventeen years old, pitching for the best high school baseball team in the country and still kind of in love with one of his best friends, and wanting to sleep with his new coach is really the least of his problems.
Bookmarked by sunscratch
16 May 2026
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Bookmarker's Notes
"they don’t say anything for a while, birds starting up outside, the creeping sensation of the sun just under the curve of the horizon. zito thinks about the place munson and chavez have inside him, the better part of his history, what he means when he says home."
"but it's like they’re not even really running away anymore. beane doesn’t care where they go, and zito drives them in ever-widening circles, carves their names into a rock wall with his penknife. it doesn’t feel temporary at all, motel pools and new mexico in a windstorm, sitting on top of a little league bandstand watching a game, beane telling zito about something that happened fifteen years ago. it's like he can rewrite his whole life this way, watching zito snicker and pull his hand across his mouth."
"beane lays his fingers down carefully on the edge of zito's ribs. he thinks about wrigley field, thinks that they can’t possibly have made chicago this quick. they're so far out, no one chasing them, the leaves changing color, and beane can believe for a moment that the theft of baseball has been made bearable by the life he’s recovered here. it's an easy sacrifice, too-simple redemption.
beane falls asleep, his hand on zito's side. they stay like that for a very long time." -
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Summary
What Munson really wants to know is, exactly how dumb do you guys think I am?