#Men of Steel football

[townpostin]

Jamshedpur FC Signs Spanish Midfield Maestro Javi Hernandez

Experienced playmaker brings wealth of Indian football success to Men of Steel Javi Hernandez, a decorated Spanish midfielder with extensive Indian football experience, joins Jamshedpur FC for the upcoming 2024-25 season. JAMSHEDPUR – For the 2024-25 season, Jamshedpur FC has strengthened their midfield by signing Spanish attacking midfielder Francisco Javier Hernández González, who is more…

[f0point5]

i NEED jealous Max. Please 🥺🥺🥺 I love jealous/possessive guys haha the feminism just leaves my body

Me too! GOD. Me, too.

It took me ages to decide how to go about this because I had soooo many ideas but I hope you like it!

✨set during the Miami GP weekend 2022✨

Everybody wants you, but I don’t like a gold rush

Max glances down at his watch. 17 minutes. 17 minutes you’ve been standing in the gallery area of the garage, fanning yourself with a magazine - with Max’s face on the front of it, no less - in the Miami heat, talking to some freakishly tall guy in a Louis Vuitton denim jacket and aviator sunglasses. He’s so painfully American that Max wonders what you even have to talk about for…eighteen minutes.

You tighten your high ponytail while Paul Bunyon talks, his mouth wide with every word. Max studies your face for any sign that you’re bored. He’s bored of watching this, but he knows from experience that not looking isn’t a real option. You haven’t looked over at him once in those eighteen minutes, in fact you haven’t even been distracted by the mechanics moving around or the noise of drilling and clattering tools.

This guy must be really fucking interesting.

You smile at something Captain America says and Max feels his jaw clenched so hard he thinks a tooth is going to crack.

It’s like he’s thirteen again, watching you stand in the middle of the makeshift paddock at the karting track, swarmed by every one of his competitors, their parents packing up their stuff as they vie for your attention. He was the only one who stayed away, following his dad’s instructions on how to properly dismantle and store things while sneaking glimpses at the show you were running. He would win every race and still go home feeling like a loser.

It’s different now, of course. He doesn’t take your gregarious nature so personally now, and he can admit he understands what men see in you now, even if he doesn’t feel it. But he’d be lying if he said it doesn’t trigger something in him to see the way men react to you. It might irritate him less if you enjoyed it, but you’ve long since grown out of that. Now, you expect it so much that you ignore it, and Max has no choice to but to notice it, the same way you’d notice a rusty knife embedded in your side.

“You’re not listening to me, are you?” GP says, which snaps Max out of his calculations.

“I’m listening,” Max says, fiddling with the brim of his cap. “Drive fast, win race, I got it,”

GP frowns at his dismissive tone, and Max makes a point of looking at his water bottle, lest GP realise what actually had his attention. “Max, you need to focus. What are you even-“ It’s the sound of your laugh - high pitched over the deep bass of the music - that makes GP look across the garage. His features twist in disapproval as he turns back to Max. “You’ve got to be kidding me,”

Max looks down at his shoes, moving his foot as he inspects them. “What?”

Above him, GP groans. “I’m not going to say anything about the situation as a whole, because it’s waste of my time. But specifically now, she’s right there, she’s not going anywhere. Can we please just go through this once and then you can carry on staring?”

Max rolls his eyes, steeling his face as a cameraman enters the garage. He’s wearing a Red Bull shirt so Max doesn’t mind too much, but he can’t be captured looking as morose as he feels. The cameraman pans past him and onto you and the guest. Max watches you cringe as the guy throws up some hand sign to the camera, clearly at home with the media attention.

“Who even is that?” Max asks, unable to hide his rancour. He’s probably going to be forced to take a picture with Popeye later.

“I don’t know, some American football player?” GP says with a shrug, giving Max a helpless look. GP couldn’t give less of a shit about the celebrity guests touted around the gargae, and normally Max is his ally. “Are we done?”

Max nods, but not even a second later he’s looking again. It gets worse the more you talk, he can see this guy becoming more enchanted by the second. He wonders what kind of steroids they take in American sports leagues because the meathead is acting like a dog in heat. He leans towards you at an angle that is wholly unnecessary, his eyes fixated on your mouth, nodding too emphatically at everything you say.

“My God, why doesn’t he just lick her face,” Max says incredulously, more to himself than anything.

“Max,” GP sighs.

“Come on,” Max implores with a scoff, stopping himself from outright gesturing in your direction. “Look at him. That’s embarrassing,”

GP fixes Max with a deadpan expression. “Right, but you being sulky and jealous is the height of cool?”

“I’m not jealous.”

And he isn’t. Because Joe DiMaggio over there doesn’t have anything he wants. He’s not going to waste time being jealous of a guy getting half an hour with you when he has cats, and a home, and a life with you.

Finally, you look in his direction, but only because GP calls your name. “Can you come here?”

You give GP a thumbs up and excuse yourself, trotting over to Max without a second thought. Wannabe Tom Brady brazenly enjoys the view, and Max swears he hasn’t been that close to punching someone since Monza last year.

“What’s up?” You ask, slotting yourself between the two men as you lean back against the shelf.

GP hands you his phone. “Beat this Candy Crush level for me, would you? Been stuck for days,”

You look at him skeptically, but years of being filmed up close by cameras on the pit wall have given GP a hell of a poker face; he just stares back at you, and you give up with a huff.

“Men are hopeless,” you say with a roll of your eyes.

“Couldn’t agree more,” GP says, his eyes pointedly on Max, who can’t even defend himself.

Desperate to avoid GP’s scrutiny, he glances over at the gallery, only to find the Yank looking at him. Well, not him, you. He’s got that curious expression as he assesses you fiddling with GP’s phone, one that says he’s trying to understand if he has something to be worried about. He doesn’t. You’re not his to worry about.

“Here,” Max says, pulling off his cap. You barely look up at him before he puts his cap firmly on your head, holding it steady with one hand while pulling your ponytail through the hole at the back with the other.

The brim of the hat obscures half your face, and Max turns so that half your body is shielded by his, which he tells himself is in case a camera comes by.

“It’s sunny,” Max shrugs in his own defence, when he notices you looking at him with a raised eyebrow.

You adjust the cap on your head but don’t take it off. “Why don’t you just give me your letterman jacket?”

“My what?”

“Never mind,” you chuckle, shaking your head at him as you pat his chest with an indulgent smile.

He takes the opportunity at the sound of a large wheel gun to glance over at the gallery, only to meet the eyes of the guy you were talking to. Now that you’re no longer next to him, Max does sort of recognise him. He plays for some team named after an animal. Max just looks at him - he’ll do this all day if he has to - until the guy shoves his hands in his pockets and pulls out his phone, starting to tap away. Yeah, go back to Raya.

Good riddance, Max thinks to himself as he turns back to you, only to find that you already looking at him. He wonders for how long.

He can tell by your smirk that he’s been caught. If he’s honest with himself you caught him five years ago, this was just one of the few moments he let you know it. And you know it. How could you not know?

He thinks for a second that you’re going to tease him, but you don’t. You shift on your feet so that some of your weight rests against his arm, and go back to playing on GP’s phone.

“Go on, GP,” he says, fighting a smile at the large number 1 on the brim of what is now your hat.

He knows from the way GP is looking at him that he’ll get an earful about this later, but right now, he just clears his throat.

“Right, so,”

[bouncingbluebeast]

So like, the X-Men have had a Best Butt Competition at some point, right?

((You put a bunch of superhuman hot people in a single mansion and have them living together for years - DECADES even - and surely someone like Gambit or Wolverine is getting ideas...

Scott's too much of a boyscout to admit any answers and calls it "immature". Mostly he's just insecure that he doesn't have that much for buns in the bakery. It's okay, Scottie, you have wonderful eyes...

Xavier wouldn't stand for it while he's still alive, having to empath around a bunch of hormonal gifted youngsters already.

Logan's a shortstack with a surprising amount of backbacon, though his leering and grumpy stoicism makes him pretty hot-and-cold as a judge.

Hank was an absolute hound-dog growing up, though I think he'd be far too concerned about disrespecting the ladies of the X-Mansion to participate. He did play football growing up, though. It builds the glutes very nicely.

Jean's pretty bashful about viewing her teammates in such a manner, though I think her ogling of Scott and Logan implies other priorities. I imagine she's a bit more willowy, but having a baby certainly changes the body and she's just as beautiful after. I think Jean Grey with freckles would be absolutely lovely. Give the Phoenix some stardust on her skin.

(It's difficult to guess a lot of the Marvel women's body types beyond "generically hourglass supermodel" because that's mostly what is viewed as 'ideal' or 'the pinnacle' of aesthetics. These superheroes are viewed more as concepts than people for designing their forms, especially in Marvel when it's a lot of Humans-Among-Gods)

Ororo. The Kenyan princess, Queen of Storms? Omega-Class Mutant, Alpha-Class Ass. The woman practically invented thunder thighs, and she is all the more powerful. I don't think anyone would dare disrespect someone who can smite you with a glance, but why even would you when she's so striking?

Colossus. Literal buns of steel. Points given for puns, taken for practicality. Only the bravest soldiers can claim those Russian peaks and I salute them.

Remy is a statistical wonder of Cajun cuisine while staying lean as a telephone pole. Not a single crumb of cornbread on this man's plate and it is the deepest tragedy. Secretly, I think this is the part Rogue was disappointed she couldn't feel-oop...

Anna-Marie the southern bell with hips to tell. With her hair and smile, you would be remiss to look lower and find less than if you stay in her eyes. I think a pear-shape makes sense for her, with a little pocket around her abs and very cute calves for when she wears a sundress.

Nightcrawler is a flirt and a charmer, but he is also a consummate and pious gentleman who is always seeing the good and beautiful in his companions. He'd never reduce his comrades - his found family - to something so base as the quality of their posterior. He knows that each and every one of them carries the beauty and the image of God, and he knows they are all winners in His sight.

((As he turns to leave, everyone agrees it's Nightcrawler.))

[multiplicationdivision]

The Transmutation Crew

It wasn’t uncommon to see a construction crew that was entirely identical these days.

It wasn’t cloning, not exactly. With the advent that was transmutation technology, even duplication wasn’t out of the question, but these copied crews did not come from mitosis.

Transmutation was the simple conversion of one material to another. Using a small sample of rare material and converting cheap shit into it. Clay could become ultrahard steel, paint could become a thick gold coating. Construction sites were rife with the machines, letting off heavy bangs as entire freshly built structures were changed at the atomic level into sturdy workings of titanium and diamond.

Like anything on a construction site, there was an expected level of risk. One would fear the conversion of a man becoming hard rock, but this technology had laws. Like became like, inanimate struggled to be animate and vice versa. This risk was rather functionally pretty harmless.

Foreman Adams operates the transmutator, the closest position to the samples of once-rare resources stored at its core. Foreman Adams flips the switched to convert cheap plywood to mahogany, and his own signal echoes outwards as well.

3 men taking a break just a little too close look at their new shared faces, clade in the same belt tucked shirt and blue jeans that had been pristine a decade ago, but were now clung with dust. 2-year-old boots they could all remember shelling out a fair bit of money for, worth it for how well they’d held up.

These new memories always sat comfortably by the original mind. One of the men, Dustin, wouldn’t think twice about how one half of him had been so much shorter a second ago whilst the other felt that he’d functionally teleported away from the machine that his original self was still operating. Dustin would just down the rest of his water and stretch his new bulkier form, absent-mindedly wondering if Adams would let him come home with him that night. Spend a night with his foreman’s rocking husband, reenact countless memories of that man getting fucked by small armies of Adams.

These transformations were typically temporary. Selfhood was overpowering and most people’s identities would win out in the end, shoving off the new skin and memories after a night of rest. Possibly retaining a few errant qualities of the shift that fit well into the original self, acquiring a small amount of muscle or confidence for their trouble. That took practice though, so most of them expected the new kids to fall under the influence of one of their elders for a bit. Or for forever, either or.

A college drop-out they’d picked up a while back hadn’t been on the job for a day before one of their veterans, Roland, had unwillingly taken him under his wing. A single blast and that kid’s face had seemingly shifted permanently, all his shaggy hair shortening into a clean cut and scraggly beard rapidly becoming well-kept. They’d expected the new appearance to fade in a month, but it had been a few too many by this point and it was safe to assume the Rolands would remain a pair. Not that those two were complaining, all buddy buddy between themselves, the drop-out assuming Roland’s identity so much that none on the crew even got to learn his old name. Roland happy to share his house and cigarettes with a man who shared all of his tastes.

Some people were suited to their own self. Call it narcissistic, but each of them enjoyed their turn. It was why operator duty of the transmutator was always an alternating duty. Each of them enjoying a day to themselves, in a way. It was bonding, being this vulnerable. The whole crew having access to every single one of each other’s deep internal lives, understanding it as they did. Mateo’s love for partying, shared across each of the crew after work, picking up chicks and twinks as an identical legion. Archie’s drinking problems, leading his identically bodied friends to embrace the man’s passion for football, all of them shouting for the same team as they lay across each other on a too small couch in one of their living rooms. Lucas’s daredevil tendencies leading five or six of them with broken arms and ecstatic grins in the hospital, regretting nothing and daring to do more the next go around.

This job was one of absolute connection and it wasn’t for the faint of heart. Countless amounts of prospective workers turning away when their soul wasn’t willing to play with new faces, was too rigid to go with the flow. The ones that stayed embraced it, trading jabs and inside jokes as they got to know each other from the inside out. Jose’s body craved a good steak no matter the time. Dallas’s brain was somehow still closeted, despite having fucked countless genders in everyone of his buddies’ bodies. Archie would get amusingly embarrassed even when another one of himself joked about how much they masturbated, especially so when the definition of masturbation was quite stretched in their cases.

Tonight, the guys would likely all go home in Pedro’s truck. Each of them shrugging off the man’s high vis vest in a pile of replicated clothing by the door. Pairs of them fitting into a shower before relaxing outside with their small army of clones. Inevitably curling up with as many as could fit on the bed, enjoying the way their shared brains didn’t mind the overbearing closeness of so many bodies. The newest of their crew would spend too long in the bathroom, acquainting themselves with every curve of Pedro’s older body as the veterans fought over blankets as their favorite talk show murmured in front of them. They’d probably fuck a bit, then pass out. Wake up to some of them in their own bodies as the remaining clones made breakfast, acting as good hosts for their “guests”.

They was nothing closer than a construction crew these days. Nothing like transmutation to make you trust them like you trust yourself, literally placing your life in their hands.

It was the good life, and twenty of the same face could attest to that.

[sofmoth]

Good Men Die Too

DO NOT BOTHER INTERACTING IF YOUR BIO IS AGELESS OR YOUR BLOG IS BLANK.

thank u @strang3lov3 for your editing assistance (as well as the encouragement to actually write this) and thank u @sweetenerobert for so kindly beta reading<3

also posted to AO3 by me (@sofmoth). link here.

divider created by @animatedglittergraphics-n-more

tommy miller (the last of us) x reader. WC: 8.5k

18+ ONLY. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS WILL BE BLOCKED ON SIGHT.

HEED ALL WARNINGS:

DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT. no outbreak AU, early 2000s AU. reader is an 18 year-old high school senior, tommy is a 20 year-old high school senior (held back twice in 8th grade), football player!tommy, cheerleader!reader. tommy speaks spanish, reader speaks and understands spanish (for translations, click the AO3 link and see ending notes). semi-protected sex (no use of condoms, reader is on birth control), PIV sex, loss of virginity, multiple female orgasms, multiple instances of sex. porn with plot, porn with feelings, the feelings are reciprocated but never said out loud. implied gun violence, gun violence confirmed. tommy is insecure and doesn't want to end up like his dad (not super doing anything to prevent this). relationship is implied but never explicity acknowledged between them. teenagers fuck and if you can't handle that, that's a you problem (play w ur mama not me). once more for the cheap seats, DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT.

You stand well down the hall, leaning against the lockers, slyly peeking the twenty feet up at him. You’re watching him carefully slip something into his locker. You know that shape; it’s the same shape that sent his father to prison. One of his friends saunters toward him, saying something in eighth grade-level Spanish and signaling with his hand. You can see his eyes glow as you watch him deny, vehemently, that he does not, in fact, have what his friend is announcing.

I saw you.

You see he’s chosen once again to not wear the uniform, not the slacks, not even his football jersey. Definitely working after last period. The white t-shirt he wears makes him look smaller at this angle, but when he turns in your direction the breadth of his shoulders obviously matches his brother’s. He slams his locker shut, raises his chin a bit, and his eyes meet yours for one scorching second before he smirks and looks away. You feel your back melding with the steel.

It’s gonna be a long fucking day.

Your face feels hot until lunch. You decide to sneak out to the football field, picking a spot at the top of the grandstands with a clear view of the parking lot. There he is. Hanging around a Ford Taurus with a few other guys, all of whom graduated when he should have. He’s sitting on the hood of the car, smoking lazily. One of the guys sneakily hands a tiny red package of something to someone who definitely does not attend the school, tucks the wad of green into his pocket. You can see him look back at the other guys and shake his head, wave his hand dismissively. Your fingers curl around the chain link fencing keeping you from falling off the back edge, your breath leaves your chest. You don’t feel like going back inside when the bell rings, content to stay up and out of his sight to watch. But he goes back in, so you do too.

You pay no attention the rest of the day, drawing a few scattered laughs when the teacher snaps at you for daydreaming. Last bell finally rings and you hurry out front, rolling and tucking the waist of your horrible plaid skirt up and in twice as you walk. You know when he’ll be walking out, strategically unlocking your bike at that moment. You can feel his gaze on the exposed skin of your thighs, keeping your eyes down as you situate yourself on the seat.

“Tommy! Deja de mirar y métete al mierda auto. Tengo que darle el bebé a Martina.”

“Vete a la chingada, Joel.”

Mission success.

You glance up as you pedal past, making a point to raise your hand to Joel as you cross in front of the car. He nods and waves politely, Tommy pointedly looks away. You remember Martina, Joel’s fiancé. They graduated together when you were in sixth grade, at that point still two years behind Tommy. Joel got Martina pregnant a few years later, and by that time you were in the eighth grade. Tommy had managed to stay in exactly the same place. The baby definitely isn’t a baby anymore. Maybe it’s different when it’s your kid.

You pedal just a bit behind the car, enough to stay out of the way as you watch Joel pull off. You shrug out of your blazer, stuffing it into your backpack and pushing up the sleeves of your stiff dress shirt. It isn’t weird for you to follow them– you live right across the street. Besides, it’s not like Tommy is going to be there anyway. That’s the whole reason Joel picked him up, they’re definitely going to a job. You still allow for quite a bit of distance before you finally begin making your way home.

By the time you do make it home, Joel’s car is still in the driveway. You drop your bike off at the side of your garage, walking slowly around to your front porch. You can hear an argument, a small child crying. You see Joel and Martina hurrying out, Martina carrying the toddler. You can still hear the argument over the engine rumble as they leave.

“¡Nos estás destruyendo, Tomás! ¡Tienes veinte años! Mira a tu hermano, él–”

“¡Nunca seré como Joel, mamá! ¿Cuándo vas a ver eso?”

Your shoulders twitch as their front door slams open and shut again, Tommy storming out past his truck to the other car, jacket in hand. You hurry inside; that argument was none of your business. You gossip. You still peek out your blinds as the beige Mercury roars to life, Tommy whipping out of the driveway in reverse. He’s on his way to find trouble. Make trouble. You’re sure you’ll see his face on the evening news, but you still hope you won’t. Five o’clock rolls around, and you sigh relieved when you don’t.

— — — —

Today you opt not to take your usual spot to stare, instead choosing to patrol the hallways. You see him, leaning against a locker and talking to a freshman girl. You tune in carefully, they’re only talking about her brother getting benched for his grades. Tommy is almost wearing the uniform, khaki slacks fitting his thighs mind-numbingly perfectly. Only God knows where his blazer is. His sleeves are rolled up, his tan forearms seemingly glowing golden in the combination of fluorescent overhead lights and early-morning sun streaming through the huge windows. You make a point not to look at him, instead allowing his gaze to follow your movement. If this is how he wants to do it, fine. You’re good at this game.

You are not so good at dodgeball.

Forty minutes later, you find yourself in the nurse’s office with an ice pack pressed gingerly against your zygomatic bone, and you can feel the bruise forming. You pick at a loose thread on the hem of your gym shorts, sighing through your nose. If it had been anyone else, you’d probably be thinking what a fucking dick. But it was Tommy who launched the rubber ball directly into your skull with far more force than necessary, Tommy who immediately covered his face with his hands and turned away in embarrassment. So instead you find yourself thinking he noticed, he cared. You will get him back, though.

The bell rings and you change back into your uniform in the bathroom, scribbling a short note on some scrap paper before scurrying down the hall. You slip the paper through the slats in his locker, turning sharply around and walking back to the office. You’ll sign yourself out for the day, forge your mother’s handwriting, probably won’t be back for a few days.

— — — —

It’s been three days of Tommy stealing looks at you as you sunbathe in your front yard during the afternoons, lingering a bit too long outside the car before entering the house. Three days of Joel averting his gaze as obviously as he can, three days of you catching a glimpse of Tommy gripping his cock through his pants where he thinks you can’t see. Three nights of you, knuckles-deep in your own pussy, wishing it was Tommy’s strong hands instead. You’re going to make it happen. First he needs to admit it. Whether to you or himself, it doesn’t matter.

You ride your bike to the school in the middle of the day, locking it to the tall fence surrounding the football field. It would be easier if you had bothered going to your classes- you wouldn’t have to scale said fence- but you do it anyway. You climb up in the grandstands, taking the same place as before, scouring the parking lot. There he is.

You press your forehead to the chain links, sighing. You watch him smoke, and this time he’s sitting on the hood of the Mercury. He’s wearing his jersey today, like every other football player on Friday. If you’d come to school today you’d be wearing your borderline-skimpy cheer uniform, and you wonder briefly if you’d have more luck if you were wearing it now. He flicks the butt of his cigarette away, lights another one. It looks like he’s fiddling with something in his other hand, you can see him shaking his head.

He looks up, locks eyes with you as he exhales. You find yourself doing the same, melting into the fencing. He slides off the hood, places his cigarette between his lips and tucks his hand into his back pocket for a moment. Tommy clears the fence in two hops, his bouncing walk carrying him swiftly and effortlessly up the metal stairs to you. You turn a bit, hiding the yellowing bruise as you play with your long sleeves. He sits a few feet away, leaning back into the fence. You can see him looking you up and down and you smirk a little.

“Me gusta todo negro. Reina de la noche, ¿verdad?” You laugh. You can see him smile.

“That’s not gonna work on me. Nice try, though.” He scoots a bit closer, pulls the paper you’d slipped into his locker from his pocket.

“So. You owe me a black eye?”

“It’s only fair.”

“Hm. And I couldn’t help but notice there’s also something about some kissing.”

“Yeah. Why, you come to collect?”

“Maybe.”

You tuck your knees up to your chest, resting your chin on them. He flicks his ash away and drops the butt through the fence, eyes scanning your face.

“I really am sorry about the dodgeball. I wasn’t aiming for you.” You roll your eyes.

“That makes it all better, thanks.” He huffs.

He slides steadily closer, close enough to hook his finger through the loops of your shoelaces. He tugs them a few times, all a lopsided boyish grin as you tap him with your toe. He looks so young like this. His grin drops and he swallows harshly.

“You know I suck, right?” His voice is low, you shake your head.

“Not to me.”

“My dad’s a convicted murderer, he’s waiting on death row right now.”

“You’re not him, though.”

“My brother is leagues ahead of me. He’d already started his business when he was twenty. I’m still a senior in high school.”

“Tommy.”

“All I’ve got going for me is football. I’m a liar, I steal, my friends are drug dealers. You…” He laughs softly, looks away and licks his lip. “You’re better than that. I know you get up to shit too but it doesn’t matter, you’re still good. I’m not good.” You rest your hand over his on your shoe, tracing a vein with your pinkie nail. Your voice falls to a whisper.

“You’re the only version of you I’d want.”

He searches your face for a moment, you can’t tell if he came up empty. When he speaks his voice is soft.

“Do I have to get the black eye first? Or is it like an IOU situat–” You cut him off, pressing your lips firmly to his. 

Your fingers rest against his neck, his other hand comes up to cover yours. You can feel him touching your stupid fucking purity ring. You move your hand farther back to the nape of his neck, his soft curls gracing the pads of your fingertips as you thread them in. His tongue in your mouth makes your chest feel hot, your ears fill with the sound of television static as he squeezes your thigh. The taste of his cigarette makes your head feel fuzzy, and you don’t notice until he pulls away that you’d forgotten to breathe. He swallows, chuckles softly.

“So does that count as one or like… ten kisses?” You huff out a laugh, roll your eyes.

“I’ll let you know after you win tonight.”

“What happens if we don’t win?”

“You’ll get your black eye.” Tommy laughs.

“Shit, okay. We gotta win now.”

He cautiously laces his fingers into yours, you close your eyes and lean back into the fence. You sit in silence together for a few minutes, Tommy ignoring whatever bell rings.

“You want a ride home?” Slick motherfucker.

“No thanks. Weather’s too nice. But maybe tonight.” He raises an eyebrow.

“Alright. Just let me know.” You squeeze his hand gently.

“You should get back to class.”

You dodge him as he leans in, smirking as his mouth falls open. You stand and stretch, arms above your head, yelping a little as he grabs your waist and pulls you between his legs. He presses his face to your chest and inhales, hands climbing your back. Your head drops backward and you feel your fingers tangling in his hair. God, you’re weak. You force yourself to pull away.

“I’ll see you tonight.” You turn quickly and practically run down the steps.

You climb back over the fence as gracefully as you can, unlocking your bike and pedaling over to Tommy. He looks down and laughs, shaking his head. You wave up at him as you pass, smiling to yourself as you leave the parking lot and head home.

— — — —

Joel was nice enough to offer you a ride back to the school for the game, but you suspect Tommy had something to do with it. You deny twice, just like you were taught, and graciously accept the third time.

“You managing okay with your mama being out of town?”

“I’m doin’ okay. Fridge is stocked, if that’s what you mean. She’ll be back on Sunday anyway.”

“Alright. If you need anything you can ask any time. A ride, a meal, anything. We’re not hurtin’ and I’m happy to help.”

“I appreciate it, Joel. Thank you.” He pulls up to the locker room and you climb out, tugging your skirt into place. “Tell Señora Miller I said hi.” He laughs.

“¿Cual señora?” You grin, ducking to look at him.

“Tu madre.” You shut the car door and wave as he drives off.

By the start of halftime you’re up two touchdowns and a field goal. He really doesn’t want that black eye. You decide to sneak off to the bathrooms, not sure if you need to piss but definitely needing a cigarette. You’re a bit surprised to see Tommy around the dark corner of the small building.

“Shouldn’t you be in the locker room?” He jumps a little, laughs softly.

“Scared the shit out of me. Yes, I should. Shouldn’t you be sittin’ pretty on the track?” You flip him off.

“Yes, I should. But I needed a cigarette.”

“Fair enough.” You sit down next to him, tucking your legs under yourself.

You pull a half-smushed cigarette out of your bra and place it between your lips. Tommy stares at you, exhaling his smoke slowly. You groan. You’re not sure where your lighter is, but it’s definitely not in the band of your spankies anymore. He flicks open his Zippo, holds it out to you and you lean in, looking up at him through your eyelashes as you inhale. You exhale through the corner of your mouth, looking at your lipstick on the filter. You can hear him swallow, see him ash his cigarette out of the corner of your eye. 

“Me gusta ese color en ti.” His voice is soft.

“Again, that’s not gonna work on me.” 

“Se vería más bonito todo jodido.”

“Ay, para.”

You stub out your cigarette, grabbing his face and pulling him in. He kisses you aggressively, lacing his fingers through your hair. You whimper as he bites your lip and pulls you onto his lap, sliding his hand up the back of your thigh to your ass. You pull away a little, running your thumb over his lip.

“This is so juvenile.” Tommy snorts a laugh, shakes his head.

“Who gives a shit?” He kisses across your jaw and down your neck, your eyelids fluttering.

“Slow your roll, Miller. We’ve only got ten minutes until third quarter and you still have to go put your pads back on.”

You kiss his cheek, climbing off his lap and fixing your skirt. He stands, looking down at you and shaking his head.

“You sure shake that head a lot.”

“Just hard to believe you sometimes.” You scowl.

“Fuck is that supposed to mean?” He holds your face in his hands.

“Cool it. It’s not a bad thing.” Your eyes roll. “I’m serious. Stop tryna tease me or piss me off or whatever you’re doin’. It’s not gonna work.”

You lick your thumb, reaching up to swipe it over his cheek. He swats at you gently.

“Leave it. They’re not gonna bench me for having a little lipstick on my face.”

“Whatever you say. You still oughta hustle.”

“Fine. Hey, you think any more about that ride home?”

“I’m still thinking. Find me later, I’ll let you know.”

You practically bounce back to the track, sitting and tucking your legs. One of your squadmates discretely hands you a makeup wipe and her tube of lipstick.

The end of third quarter proves enough to get Tommy and one opposing linebacker both benched. The linebacker went after Tommy, Tommy didn’t appreciate it. Helmets came off, a few blows landed, coaches pulled them apart. You watch him moping on the bench, an ice pack held to his face the same way you did on Tuesday. He turns to face the cheer squad, lands on you. You wave at him from your hip, one corner of your mouth quirking up as he waves back. One of the junior varsity girls giggles something about him waving at her, you almost tell her to shut the fuck up.

He doesn’t want you, bitch.

— — — —

The game finally ends, and you end up losing by one field goal. You mill around outside the locker room, waiting for Tommy to come out. When he does, his hair is wet from his shower and you see he’s rocking the beginnings of a serious shiner.

“Well, we didn’t win. Guess I’m about to have two black eyes?”

“Nah. I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“Since we made out earlier does that mean we’re square on the kisses?”

“Only if you want to be.”

“Let me give you that ride and I’ll let you know.”

He wraps his arm around your shoulders and guides you through the parking lot to his truck, opening the passenger door for you. Señora must have needed the Mercury. You climb in, smiling softly at him. He tries to leap over the hood and you laugh, covering your mouth as he nearly falls. Your head tips back against the headrest, watching him as he plays it off and slings himself into the driver’s seat. He looks over at you, eyeing you up and down. You turn your head to face him.

“Like what you see?”

He doesn’t say anything, resting his elbow on the shoulder of your seat. He rests his other hand high on your thigh, stroking the skin delicately.

“You gonna answer me?” It comes out weaker than you mean for it to.

“I think you know the answer.”

He brushes a bit of your hair over your ear, taking a lock between his fingers. You force your shoulders to relax, exhaling slowly through your nose. Tommy squeezes your thigh.

“Let’s get you home.” You can only nod.

He turns in his seat, starting the truck and resting his right hand back on your thigh. You’re on edge the entire way home, your chest feels hot and your hands tremble in your lap. Tommy’s hand slides up your thigh a bit, you feel your cheeks warming. He parks in your driveway, looks over at you.

“Let me walk you up?” You give him a small smile.

“Sure.”

He climbs out, walks around the front and opens your door for you. He offers his arm and you step down, shutting the door behind yourself. He holds your hand as he walks you up to your porch, sliding to your waist as you stop. You lean up on your toes, holding his face gently. You kiss him softly, feel his hand come to rest on your bare bicep. You lean back, look up at him.

“You can come in.” He smiles, shakes his head a little.

“I don’t wanna impose.”

“You should come in.” He chuckles.

“Alright.”

You stoop and pull the key from under the mat, unlocking the door and gesturing him inside. He steps in, looking around as he hangs his jacket on the coat rack. You lock the door behind you, leaning back against it to watch him.

“Make yourself comfortable. I’m gonna go get changed real quick, I’ll be right back.” He nods and smiles with half his mouth, kicking his shoes off and claiming a spot on the couch.

You don’t close your bedroom door all the way, leaving it open enough to give Tommy a bit of a view and to see him sneakily looking back at it. You keep your direct gaze averted, only watching him from your periphery. Out of habit you press the play button on the disc player atop your dresser and strip out of your uniform, lingering absently near the door.

God damn, will you grow a pair?

You look at yourself in your mirror, wishing for a moment you had prettier underwear. Something lacy, something sexy. Something that isn’t so plain or simple, something to make him want to want you. The string of dying Christmas lights above your bed casts a splotchy pastel glow over everything, and you’re hoping it ups the appeal. You close your eyes, shaking your head as you sit on the edge of your mattress near your pillows. You thank God your mother had finally caved and bought you a full; your old twin most certainly wouldn’t accommodate the two of you.

Now or never, pussy.

“Hey Tommy, can you come back here for a second?” You yell up the hall, peeking to watch him stand and shake out his hands. He seems almost nervous.

The floor squeaks softly under his steps, the doorknob rattles as he places his hand on it. He pushes the door open, keeping his eyes down. You pull your legs up, tucking them to your chest and resting your arms on your knees. He steals a glance and his grip tightens.

“Come sit with me.” Your voice is soft, much softer than you want it to be. He looks up at you finally and you see him swallow.

He enters fully, shutting the door and walking slowly over to you. He sits, adjusting his legs open a bit. You can’t help yourself, looking down at his crotch and quickly looking back up.

“I let you drive me home. You decide whether or not we’re square yet?” One hand drifts to his thigh, tracing over the inseam of his jeans with your nail.

“Yes I did.” He slips a finger under your bra strap, your breath catches as he tugs it down over your shoulder.

“What’s the verdict?”

“I think you still owe me a few.”

Your legs spread without a thought as Tommy pushes you onto your back. His hands are warm on your bare sides, his rough calluses keeping you from floating away. He slots one of his knees between your legs, you gasp as the denim meets the gusset of your panties. His nose presses to the hollow of your neck, hot breath moistening your skin. You feel lightheaded, reaching up to knot your fingers in his still-damp hair, tugging when you feel his teeth on your shoulder. You can feel his chest rumble against yours, the kissing on your neck growing near-frantic as you grind against his leg.

He pulls away quickly, sitting up and practically ripping his shirt off. He leans back over you equally fast, pushing one of your legs aside. You feel him push his hand down into your panties and everything that follows is involuntary; your back arches up into his chest, your eyes cross. You feel his cheek against yours and you want to cry, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and dragging him closer to you.

It takes you a moment to realize he’s following the music, his thick fingers pumping in and out of you steadily in time with the guitar. You feel yourself starting to tremble, breath quickening as your eyes roll back.

“Damélo, princesa.”

You motherfucker.

It feels like you’ve been hit by a train, black and white spots dotting your vision as his pace slows and he shushes you softly, mumbling something you don’t have the energy to decipher. He withdraws his fingers and you can feel him starting to lean back, wrapping your arms around him tighter and pulling him back. He kisses your cheek.

“I’m not goin’ anywhere. Just gotta get this fuckin’ belt off.” He pulls away gently and you sit up.

“Let me.”

Tommy raises his eyebrows, holds his hands up. He sits back on his heels, displaying himself for you. You wet your bottom lip, leaning up and kissing him. You tangle your fingers in the hair at the base of his skull, feeling his hands resting on your neck as your other hand tugs at the leather tucked around his waist. You’re shocked by yourself for a moment, at the ease and speed with which you manage to undo the buckle. Tommy seems equally surprised.

“Now I don’t know for sure, but that little ring tells me you haven’t done this before. On the other hand, you did that a bit too well. You been holdin’ out on me?” You roll your eyes.

“You’d like to shut the fuck up before I change my mind.”

“Duly noted.”

You wrap the buckle up in your fist, winding the leather around your wrist and pulling it away from him. You drop it to the floor; it hits with a satisfying thunk. You feel bold now, resting your fingertips on his fly. He tilts your chin up with one finger, nods in encouragement. You smirk, pushing him onto his back. He folds his arms behind his head, watching you. Pinche vaquero. You unbutton his jeans, unzipping them slowly as he reaches down to pet your hair. His knuckles glide over your cheek and you lean into them, eyelids fluttering.

“¿Te gusta, princesa?”

You gnash your teeth at his hand, gasping as he swiftly threads his fingers into your hair and tugs your head backward.

“None of that now. Need you to be sweet, alright?” He loosens his grip almost immediately, you nod and lean down to the waistband of his boxers.

You kiss his skin softly, smiling to yourself as his chest rumbles. He tangles his fingers back in your hair, seemingly more as an anchor point than for control. Fuck. He smells like Irish Spring, your eyes rolling back behind your closed lids as you slide down and kiss his bulge.

“Carajo, princesa. Either this isn’t your first time or you watch too much porn.”

“Less than you, pendejo. I’ve gotta steal your WiFi to do it.”

“Pendejo? You’re in for it now.” You yelp as he sits up, practically lunging at you and knocking you back.

He pushes you down into your mattress, you giggle as he nips at your ear. He props himself up, off of you, stroking your cheek with his thumb as he looks over your features. His frown lines are soft, already-dark eyes now black in the light. Something hidden deep behind them. Let me in.

“Eres la chica sobre todo hermosa que he visto en mi vida.” He whispers, barely audible.

“I’ve already told you–”

“Es la verdad.” He kisses you slowly, sweetly.

You exhale shakily, mouth opening against his as your back arches and his hand snakes under you. He unclasps your bra deftly and for a moment you feel a stinging in your chest, something like anger that you didn’t get to have him first. You suddenly feel his palm on your bare breast, inhaling sharply at the sensation.

“Take off those fuckin’ jeans.” You feel dizzy, watching as he maneuvers the denim off his legs and onto the floor.

He presses his nose to your sternum, sighing raggedly as he pushes his hips against yours. You cover your mouth with your hand, your attempt to stifle your moan ruined as Tommy moves your wrist away from your face. He pins it to your pillow, his other hand still under you and squeezing your ass. You drape your free arm over his shoulders, his forehead coming to rest gently on yours. He’s almost pulling you in, pelvis steadily rolling into you.

“Jesus Christ, I’ve gotta fuck you.” He sounds close to begging.

“Please.” You will beg, you don’t care anymore.

He hooks his thumbs under the waistband of your panties, raising his eyes to meet yours and you nod. He tugs them down, borderline whining as you’re exposed.

“Dios maldito, princesa.”

He does whine now, dropping your panties and pressing his lips to your knee. He curses under his breath, shoving his boxers off before pushing your thighs apart. He situates himself between them, taking your left hand and inspecting it as he slides his cock slowly up and down through your folds.

“Tell you a secret?” His voice is a whisper.

“Anything.” Your voice quivers.

“Kinda always wanted to do something like this. Sorta fucked up though, isn’t it?” He looks you in the eyes as he removes the silver purity ring, placing it gingerly on your nightstand.

“You know that’s why I want you.”

He drops your hand gently, kisses you firmly. You gasp against his mouth as you feel the head of his cock splitting you open, your breath quickening as he pushes further in. You wrap your arms around his neck and press your lips to his chest, whimpering into his skin as he holds the back of your head, shushing you softly. He groans as he bottoms out, the sound rippling in your ear as if through water.

“Buen trabajo, princesa. Maldita sea, joder.” He shushes you again as he slowly pulls out, reentering just as slowly.

“Fuck, Tommy. Oh my fucking God.” Your vision is fuzzy, hands cold and face on fire.

You knot your fingers in his hair, legs burning from the distance they’re spread. He rolls his hips into you evenly, keeping a slow pace with the music as Chino Moreno serenades you both. Your thoughts flutter around the idea of giving Tommy road head, riding him in the backseat of the Mercury, him eating you in the bed of his truck. You tug his head back and he whimpers, kissing you roughly as the aggressive vocals suddenly quiet. He takes your wrists in one hand, pinning them to the pillow above you as his pace begins accelerating. You pull experimentally, testing to see how tightly he’s holding you. He eases his grip, doesn’t remove his hand.

“Just tell me to stop or slow down and I will. Don’t wanna hurt you.”

“I’m okay. You can go faster if you want.”

“I wanna fuck you through this mattress. Do you want it faster?” You nod and he nudges your chin up to look at him.

“Sí o no, princesa.”

“Yes.” He kisses you again, cradling your cheek.

Oh, fuck. He’s been granted permission, now fucking into you at tempo. You gasp, pulling your wrists free in earnest, nails finding purchase on his back. He hisses, biting your lip and groping the flesh of your waist. You pull away, pushing your forehead against his chest and moaning brokenly. You nearly scream as his fingers circle your clit, tears beading in your eyelashes from the stimulation. You feel yourself trembling, sinking your teeth into his shoulder as the rubber band snaps.

“Cosita sensible, ¿no?” He doesn’t stop, teasing the sensitive nerves with his fingertips.

The tears finally fall, your hips jerking into his hand as you’re immediately hit with a second orgasm. Your chest feels tight, cheeks hot. He pulls his hand away, kissing you softly before slowly pulling out. You whine involuntarily at the sudden emptiness, Tommy shushing you as he slides up to lean against your headboard.

“On my lap, princesa. Want you to try something.”

He takes your hand as you push yourself up, focusing on keeping your breath steady as you take your place over his thighs. He kisses you sweetly, his thumb grazing your cheekbone as he strokes his cock.

“I want you to sit on it. Think you can do that?” You bite your lip, looking away and back quickly.

“I can try.”

“That’s my girl. I’ve got you, just take your time.”

My girl.

He holds your hips gently as you shift up, squeezing reassuringly as you begin lowering yourself onto his length. Christ, he’s thick. You whimper, biting your hand as you pause.

“You’re doin’ good, baby. Fuck, you feel good.” He whispers, removing your fingers from between your teeth and pulling you close to his chest. “I’ll do the rest, just relax for me.”

He pushes up into you slowly, moaning softly as you dig your nails into his bicep. You gasp sharply as he snaps his hips once, burying himself inside you. He holds you there for a moment, kissing your forehead before exhaling raggedly.

“You’re okay, just gotta get used to it. Fuck. Gonna move you, alright?” You nod, out of breath and your limbs weak.

He rests one hand firmly on your hip, the other around your waist as he slowly guides you to grind on him. You sigh, eyes rolling back at the sheer fullness. You don’t feel totally conscious, arms snaking around his neck seemingly with minds of their own. You become vaguely aware that Tommy’s hand is no longer moving you, instead suddenly feeling him squeezing your thigh. Your legs are shaking, all sound around you is dulled.

“Hey, come back to me.”

You shake your head, the movement of your hips stopping and you force yourself to focus.

“You still here?”

“Yeah, I’m good.” Your voice nearly fails you, your words airy and barely audible.

“I guess now’s a little late to ask if you’re on the pill.”

“I am, sorry. Wasn’t even thinkin’ about it.”

“S’okay. Look at me, baby.” You blink hard, tilting your face up.

God must be real.

He looks beautiful like this. His hair is mussed, the now-dry curls sticking out from around his ears and tipping onto his forehead. The freckles across his nose seem to create constellations. There is nothing hiding behind his eyes anymore. There he is.

“God damn, I’m close. I’m gonna fuck you like this, okay? Just relax, you can take it.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to respond, fucking up into you fast and hard. You yelp, melting into him as he holds your head against his neck, one arm encircling your waist. His breathing is jagged, you feel him press his lips to your shoulder as he attempts to stifle a moan. You can feel his hands twitch, pressing closer to him.

I’ll never get close enough.

He gasps sharply, thrusting hard one final time. You cry out, practically jumping as he holds your hips down to his. He wraps his arms around your torso tightly, dragging his nose up the side of your neck. His breath comes out trembling and heavy, his entire body now twitching against yours. You try to focus on the fading guitar riffs, eyes closed as you attempt to calm your racing heartbeat.

The disc player clicks a few moments later, a soft chhh as the CD stops spinning. You swallow, leaning back to look over Tommy’s expression. He kisses you softly, brushing your hair over your ear before tipping his head back against your headboard. You laugh a little, he raises an eyebrow.

“What?”

“Either you love Deftones or you only fuck with music playing.” He rolls his eyes, smiles.

“I live with my entire family. The only time I get any privacy is when I have music on.”

He pulls out of you slowly, rolls you carefully onto your back. You run your fingers through his hair as he rubs your bicep with his knuckles. He finally begins to look around your room, taking in the decor and dirty laundry scattered about your carpet. He points at one particular heap on the floor.

“You should wear that tomorrow. Look good with my suit.” Oh fuck. Fuckin’ homecoming.

“Your suit? Or Joel’s?” He rolls his eyes and you smirk. “And how exactly do you know what you’re pointing at?”

“My suit. And I live with two women, I ain’t blind. C’mon. I’ll buy you a corsage and everything.”

“Pick me up at five then.”

— — — —

He kisses you goodbye in the morning, lingering in the front door frame far longer than necessary. Promises he’ll be on time, he’ll probably even be a little early. You giggle at him, kissing him one last time before shutting the door behind him. You watch out the blinds as he backs out of your driveway and re-parks along the street gutter in front of his house, raising his hand to your house as he walks inside.

By 4:30 you stand in front of your mirror, severely second-guessing yourself. You feel like Angela Bettis in Carrie, and you could vomit from the nerves. At 4:50 a knock on your front door scares you out of your stupor, rushing from your room to answer it. You put an eye up to the peephole, exhaling shakily and adjusting your stole. You smooth the fabric of your dress, hoping you didn’t stain it with the sweat from your palms. You pull the door open, greeted by Tommy’s impish grin. He’s hiding his hands behind his back, fidgeting a little. Joel stands behind him with his arms crossed, holding a digital camera.

“Hey. You’re early.” Your voice is soft.

“Told you I would be. I hope it’s okay that Joel—”

“Yeah, it’s fine. Come on in.”

You stand aside to allow them entry, swallowing as you close the door. Joel looks around for a moment, Tommy reveals his hands. He holds out a little plastic box, a corsage of a peony and baby’s breath within. You grin and laugh airily, taking it and turning it around in your hands.

“Told you I’d get you one.”

“Hey now, don’t be puttin’ it on yet. I gotta turn on the damn camera.”

“Hold the red button, pendejo. Told you a million times.”

Tommy rolls his eyes and smiles sweetly down at you.

“Te ves bonita.”

“Tú tampoco estás mal.”

Joel takes a few photos of the two of you, nodding approvingly every other shutter click. He walks out behind you and Tommy, taps on your window after Tommy helps you into the truck. You crank it down, eyebrow raised as he takes your hand.

“He does anything to hurt you, you call me. I know you can take care of yourself but boy would I love to get a lick in, too.” You laugh, squeezing Joel’s fingers.

“I’ll make sure to. Thanks for taking the pictures.”

“Anytime, kid. Y’all behave tonight.”

You look over at Tommy, holding his face in his hands as he rests his forehead against the steering wheel.

“Oye, pinga. Te estoy hablando.”

“¡Lo sé, maldita sea!”

You cover your mouth, holding in your laughter. Joel winks to you, thumping the base of the window and stepping back. You crank it back up, waving at him as the truck roars to life and Tommy pulls away. He rests his hand on your thigh, absentmindedly stroking the fabric with his thumb.

“Hey, you okay?” He blinks hard.

“Yeah, fine.” You shrink into yourself.

You inspect the corsage on your wrist, run your finger over the petals on the peony. You reach the one red light on the way to the school, Tommy squeezes your thigh gently. You look over at him.

“Wait for me in the bleachers, okay? I gotta do something real quick when we get there.”

“What is it?”

“Nothin’ you gotta worry about. Just gotta grab something.”

“Please don’t be dealing tonight.” You look away, covering your eyes with your hand.

“Hey, no. I’m not. Promise. I just left some shit the other day, I’m gonna grab it and put it in the back. Then you can shake as much ass on me as you want.” You huff a weak laugh.

“Not really my speed.”

“Then we can just sit, that’s fine too.”

The light changes, Tommy reaches over and brushes your hair behind your ear as he accelerates. He rests his hand back on your thigh, barely touching it.

“I’m not gonna start anything, just gonna have a good night with my girl.” You nod, placing your hand over his.

“Okay.”

— — — —

It’s nearly midnight. The dance ended hours ago, and as promised Tommy didn’t start anything. Now, you find yourself sitting on the lowered gate of his truck bed in a decent-sized crop circle with twenty or so other people milling around. A few of the underclass girls have proven they can’t handle their alcohol, and you try to tune out their retching as you watch the bonfire someone made. Tommy had wrapped his varsity jacket around your shoulders not long after you arrived, your stole not nearly enough to keep you from shivering. You hear footsteps coming toward you and look in their direction, seeing Tommy coming your way and offering a cigarette. You take it and place it between your lips, meeting the burning end of his and inhaling.

“Havin’ any fun?”

“It’s okay.” You lower your voice. “I know some folks but I don’t really run with anyone here.” Tommy hums.

“We can head out soon if you want?”

“I’m not gonna stop you from having a good time with your friends. We can stay.” He nods, takes his cigarette between his fingers and kisses your forehead.

One of the football players calls him over, he looks at you and you nod. He kisses you quickly, jogging off. You sit alone smoking for a moment, staring up into the sky at the stars. The shuffling sound of a group of drunk tenth-grade girls headed toward you pulls you back. You flick your ash away, eyeing the JV cheerleaders. Same fuckin’ bitch. The one who got it in her head Tommy had waved at her leads them, and she looks pissed.

“You fuckin’ slut.”

“I know you’re not talking to me. Not 27 hours ago I was still wearing my purity ring. When’d you get rid of yours again?”

“Bitch!”

She screeches, grabbing your arm and yanking so hard you think for a moment she must have dislocated your shoulder. You fall, hitting the dead ends of the corn stalks and shrieking. You lay face-down for a moment, eyes closed. You can hear a few of the guys yelling, the JV bitch screeching again as a senior girl grabs her. There are several voices around you, and you pick out Tommy’s, but you can’t quite understand what he’s saying. You open your eyes slowly, losing sight of his dress shoes for a moment before six shots ring out, everyone around you screaming and hitting the ground. He reappears before you, lifting you gently and setting you inside the cab. He shuts the door, his yelling muffled. The driver door slams and you jump.

“We’re goin’ home.” You can only nod; he sounds furious.

You stop in town on the way back, Tommy jumping out to make a call. You watch him feed the dimes into the payphone, watch as he paces around, stretching the cord to its limit. You can’t tell what he’s saying but his free hand moves wildly. He hangs the receiver back on the hook, scrubs his hands over his face before lighting a cigarette. He looks down at the sidewalk briefly, climbing back into the truck.

“What did you do?” You can’t bring yourself to make eye contact with him. He exhales slowly.

“Don’t worry about it. Everything’s fine.”

“Tommy.”

“Nobody died.”

You lean your head against the window, pull his varsity jacket tighter around yourself. The two of you are silent for the remainder of the ride, and you let yourself out once in your driveway. You walk up to your front door in a daze, walking into the house and back to your bedroom. You sit on the edge of your bed, looking down and noticing your corsage was crushed at some point. You can feel hot tears stinging your eyes, the mattress sinking next to you. You can’t help yourself, leaning into Tommy’s side as you begin to sob. He shushes you softly, wrapping his arms around you and stroking your hair. You finally catch your breath, wiping your face with the back of your hand and pulling away from him carefully.

“Hey. Look at me, princesa.” You force your eyes up to meet his.

“Tommy, just tell me. What the hell did you do?” He pinches the bridge of his nose, laughs awkwardly.

“The guy who invited that little girl, Liam? He started… mouthing off, calling you a slut and a whore and all that shit.” He swallows. “I shot up his fuckin’ car. Made sure no one would say anything but I swear to God I didn’t hit anybody.”

You flop back, staring at your ceiling. You can feel more tears forming, Tommy leans over you and brushes your cheek delicately.

“Everything’s okay. Promise.” You chuckle weakly, a few tears slide down over your temples.

“Bitch crushed my fuckin’ flower.” He rests his forehead against yours, a cut-off laugh escaping his throat. He kisses you softly.

“That’s what you’re crying over?” His voice is low, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“It’s special.”

You place your hand over his wrist, squeezing a little. You close your eyes, listening to the sound of his breathing.

“You’d thought I sent that bitch to hell, didn’t you?” You laugh, covering your mouth and rolling half away. You wipe your eyes again, reaching over and ruffling his hair.

“Can’t say I woulda been very upset if you had.”

“Damn, tell me how you really feel.”

“You don’t wanna know.”

You sit up, shrugging off Tommy’s jacket and hanging it from the post at the foot of your bed. You toss your stole to the floor, slipping off your corsage and resting it carefully on your nightstand, kicking off your heels as you lean over to rest your head on your pillow. You close your eyes, feeling the bed shift as Tommy scoots up behind you.

“Y’know you oughta cut that hair soon. They’re gonna start dress coding you.” You lean back into his chest as he wraps his arm over you.

“Fuck them. I’ve been thinking about growing it out anyway.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Don’t see why not. I think I’d look good.”

You smile, holding his palm against your cheek as he strokes your arm with his other hand.

“That’s not a dealbreaker then?” His voice is soft, you hum quizzically.

“You’re just growing your hair out.” He snorts, you feel him shake his head.

“That’s not what I meant. I mean… somebody starts talking shit and I— ”

“No.” His lips press to your shoulder blade.

“I’m just like my fuckin’ dad.” His voice trembles..

“No you’re not.”

He pushes his face against the back of your neck, exhaling slowly. You hear a siren wailing in the distance and he tenses, relaxing only as it fades.

“Don’t know how many times I’ve gotta tell you I’m not a good man.” 

“You’re good to me.”

“Ain’t the same, princesa.” You pull away enough to roll over and look at him. “My mom was right, I’m the one tearin’ everything apart. You deserve someone good, someone better than me. God damn, maybe if I was more like Joel—” You shush him.

“No, I already told you. You’re the only version of you I’d want.”

He caresses your cheek, rests his forehead against yours. He kisses you softly, you run your fingers through his hair as he squeezes your hip. He kisses you more urgently, you grab his tie and pull him closer. He moans deep in his chest, palming over your tits and rolling his hips into you.

“God, we’re fucked up.”

“I don’t care.”

He pulls away, frantically unbuckling his belt and pushing up the skirt of your dress. You inhale sharply through your teeth as his tongue hits the fabric covering your pussy, eyes rolling back as he kisses over your thighs.

“Vamos a quitárnoslas, princesa.” You whimper as he nearly rips your panties off, throwing them to the floor and pulling your hips to meet his face.

You gasp, hips bucking into his mouth as his tongue teases your clit. You feel your eyes starting to water, breathing becoming erratic. You could scream when he finally stops teasing, holding your thighs over his shoulders. You knot your fingers in his hair, grinding against his tongue as you reach down to find his hand. He laces your fingers together, you whine as he hums against your skin.

There’s something about finding out after the fact, about not knowing he was packing the entire night. Something about knowing he used it in defense of you. You feel yourself gush against his tongue, he moans and squeezes your hand. He doesn’t stop, kissing and sucking your clit even as your tears begin to fall. He only stops when you pull his hair, tugging his head away.

“God, I need you to fuck me.” He leans up over you, kissing you as he unbuttons his slacks.

You taste yourself mixed with the remnants of his earlier cigarettes and you pull him closer. Your head tips away and your back arches as he pushes into you, digging your nails into his forearm. Immediately his pace is unrelenting, his hand on the back of your neck keeping you from hitting the headboard. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, hook one leg over his hip as he fucks you into the mattress.

This is what he needs.

It’s almost animal; his breath is heavy and ragged, the way he holds you is not tender. He holds you like he wants to own you, biting your neck and shoulders like you’re meat.

You don’t care. If you could do the same things to him, you would.

“Joder, princesa. I’m gonna—” You yelp as he slams his hips into yours, biting his shoulder aggressively through his shirt fabric as his chest heaves.

You can feel him shaking, releasing your teeth and stroking his hair gently. He stays over you for a long moment, nose pressed to your throat. He sighs deeply, pulls out of you slowly and lays on his side next to you. You roll to face him, tugging your skirt back down. He smiles, rolls his eyes as he readjusts his slacks. He rests his hand on your shoulder, tracing small circles with his thumb. You lean over and kiss him sweetly, he brushes your hair away from your face.

“You really don’t care that I’m a bad man, huh?”

“Good men die too.”

“So?”

“I’d rather be with you.”

AN: thank you for reading, this is my first tommy fic so i hope you all enjoyed♡

if you like what you read and want to see more, i would be honored if you’d consider stopping by the cafe! if you’re not able or don’t want to commission, if you would like to drop a buck in the tip jar that’s also greatly appreciated (but never required)!

[itskenickie]

Gendrya Masterlist

The list is from newest to oldest.

When I'm With You

“Got room for one more?” The sudden and unexpected voice made Arya to sharply turn around. Her eyes widened at the figure standing before her with a cocky smirk, “Gendry? What are you doing here?”

can you feel the things I feel right now with you

“You’ll be sorry!” Gendry wasn’t afraid of Daenerys and her empty threat. She is powerless without her dragons and he doubts that Jon and his sisters would allow for his execution solely for rejecting the title of a lord.

The Bull and The Wolf

It was Tryion, who was hidden behind a large chair in front of the fire, still drunk out of his mind from the feast earlier, who spoke up, “I do believe the hound meant that mating season had come early for the wolf and the bull.”

I Think Your Love Would Be Too Much

It had been too long. Too long from being away from Arya. He missed her so much.

M'lady

When Arya Stark walked out of the forge after showing Gendry her wish, she felt like she could breathe again. Like a weight was lifted off of her shoulders. She was expecting many things once she returned to Winterfell; reuniting with her siblings, avenging her deceased family and protecting her land. But she never thought that she would reunite with Gendry.

Pen Pal

Arya signs up for a pen pal because Mademoiselle Margaery says so.

Pink

The love of his life is his best friend’s sister. She was the tiny girl with a lot of spunk who played football and the guitar. She also loved getting down and dirty while fixing up cars. And, Gendry is going to be cringy for a bit, she was the emo princess of his dreams.

Him

The sound of Valyrian steel swords crunching through the bones of White Walkers was all that Gendry could hear for they were louder than the cries of the dying men.

Scar Tissue

His hold around her tighten and right when he noticed she was about to doze off, he kissed her head gently and closed his own eyes. Thoughts of Winterfell and Arya on his mind.

3 times arya stark wasn't scared and the one time she was

Lommy, Hot-Pie and Podrick try to scare Arya.

Clueless

Arya met the strangest men while visiting her brother Jon up North.

A-Z

A list from A to Z on why Arya Stark loved Gendry Waters and vice versa.

Instagram Thirst

Just then, Arya’s phone beeped. Indicating that she had a new notification on her phone. She fished out the silver device from her phone and swiped on the notification which took her to Instagram and showed her a post from one of the accounts she followed who posted a new work out video. She smiled to herself, or she thought, while double tapping the screen and a big red heart appeared before her.

A Lady and A Smith

“You know, you’re just like your mother.” Gendry chuckled while twirling Lyanna. “How? I thought Ned looked like mommy and I looked like you?” Her eyebrows scrunched up in confusion.

Prince Gendry

Gendry Baratheon. A man who is dubbed as the handsomest in all of the seven kingdoms. Rumor has it that when he was born, the first children had gifted him with eyes that were forged from a gemstone that was known as Blue Apatite.

Shy Encounters

The sunlight shining through the train's window illuminated her skin, making her glow, as if her skin were made of tiny diamonds.

The Titanic

The ship stood tall and grand at the harbor unlike anything Gendry has ever seen. The orange and black funnel of the ship almost covering the bright sun. A rare sunny day that bestows Winterfell. Basically, the Titanic AU that no body asked for in which Arya is Jack and Gendry is Rose.

Heaven

Sometime around the afternoon, Gendry was sitting on the white love couch with Arya’s head on his lap, his tanned fingers were running through her brown locks. Lips turning upwards at whatever it was on T.V that was making Arya laugh loudly. Those same tanned fingers then began tracing the thin arms when Arya quieted down from laughing. This is Gendry’s favorite way to spend his free time, watching his lover being happy. Laughing and smiling without worrying about the smallest of things. It made Gendry feel lightheaded from the amount of adoration he felt when watching his lover. Gendry heaved a pleased sigh as Arya laughed again.

[tenpintsof-sundrop]

Please say more about Titans’ costumes 🥺

(if you want to)

I literally always want to talk about Titans. Always

There is so much I could say about the costuming alone omg

One thing I absolutely fucking love about the show - specifically about S1 and S2 (and kind of into S3?) - is that each character really has their own distinct style. Each character is so, so well defined by their visual style and it helps add so much to their characterization just by looking at their clothing.

Even side characters like Hank and Dawn (and fuck, I love Hank and Dawn so much) - Dawn's clothing has so much feminine elegance.

I fucking love that Dawn is a character who absolutely reeks femininity without going down the route of styling her in the typical feminine way - and I am not at all bashing traditional femininity when I say this, I just fucking love how Dawn is an example of how femininity can be so obvious without having to use girly pinkness and bows and skirts. She is so clearly meant to be a hyper feminine girly character who loves her femininity, especially with the styling of the apartment that she shares with Hank, but her clothing really drives it home. Even before it's revealed that she was a feminine, light, ballet dancer, you can see it in what she wears - a flawless light blouse, clothes that are so perfectly tailored, light fabrics, everything so well fitted. Wearing heels that are of practical lengths but still making it a point to be flattering and elevated, wearing done-up hairstyles and having her hair brushed over one shoulder in a very princess way.

And I love how all of her clothing falls under the light grey/taupe/steel grey/steel blue palette of the Dove costume and they don't stray from that with her. The only time they do is when they are hinting at her wearing Hank's clothing - like when she wears the heavily oversized black and red letter jacket in 2x02 (that I think Hank was wearing in his college flashback? I think that jacket was literally his college football jacket if my memory serves me correctly)

Speaking of Hank - again, I love how he has his own colour pallet. They often stick to the brick reds, the warmer tones with him - they make his colours very warm and inviting even if his personality isn't always the most warm. But what I fucking love about his clothing is that right from his introduction - his clothing feels grounded. His clothing always feels very working class. He is almost always seen wearing jeans and some kind of flannel, the timerland 'worker' boots, a heavier practical jacket.

I fucking love how he and Dick contrast the two ends of men's low effort, 'casual' clothing. Dick is also seen wearing jeans throughout the show, but Dick's clothing is not at all working class or approachable - even if it's just small touches, like the expensive watch that he's almost always wearing, Dick's clothing is expensive. His jacket's are more tailored (and clearly made out of more expensive materials), he wears button up shirts that are made out of more expensive cotton - and rather than being casual flannels, he wears darker, more serious colours - his shoes are often more expensive and clearly not mean to be 'worked' in.

You can look at Dick and Hank and immediately recognise the wealth gap - the fact that Dick is comfortable with wealth, and Hank is comfortable with the working class and grew up in poverty.

Going back to the colour thing - something I LOOOOOOVE about S1 specifically is the fact that you can clearly see them borrowing each other's clothes. You can see the abrupt disruption in Rachel's black uniform because of the introduction of Dawn's soft grey sweater. Gar's lighter colours are broken up by the introduction of Dick's uniform-like militant grey. Toward the end of the season, Kory's colourful bright wardrobe is broken up by her borrowing Donna's effective purposeful black catsuit - and again, this goes back to my theory about Kory regain her memories but losing her identity, and how she leaned on Donna a lot during this time, and her wearing Donna's clothing immediately after entering this identity crisis to me feels like her using Donna as a safety net when she was in emotional turmoil.

Speaking of Dick's militant colours - in S1, DICK HAS AN OBSESSION WITH UNIFORMS. I was going to make a separate post about this but I accidentally deleted the draft lmao. He goes from wearing his detective uniform to wearing an outfit that is almost military-esque (the grey henley style shirt and the cargo pants) - an outfit that is clearly meant to be practical rather than express any personal style, but it inadvertently expresses a heap of emotions from him: he feels like he does not have an identity outside of who he was with Bruce.

When he talks about his time with Bruce to Kory, Gar, and Rachel - he calls it 'military training'. And it's clear that's what he thinks of it now - not a family, not a father figure - he thinks that he was being trained as a weapon, and now that his training is over, he doesn't know what to do with himself. So he puts on his uniform to go into work and be a detective, and when he's not doing that, he wears a uniform because he doesn't have a sense of self otherwise.

BUT in S2, when he feels more comfortable returning home to Bruce (after he's confronted his demons through the Trigon hallucinations), he is wearing a very nice outfit that is more representative of wealth. Likely something that Bruce would have dressed him in - and this is the kind of clothing we see him wearing for the rest of the show that seems a lot more indicative of his personal style through the rest of the show. As if he was previously afraid to gravitate toward this kind of style because he was afraid that he was becoming too much like Bruce, he was enjoying the wealth too much - that Bruce was never a true father to him because he 'paid' for Dick's affection (as we see in the flashback with the closet full of expensive clothing that is waiting for Dick when he arrives).

It's a very interesting thing to breakdown.

Anyway, that's all my brain has for now lmao. But I always loooooove talking about Titans and analysing it. Not just the costumes but any aspect of the whole show. This show is like - my house

[rabbitcruiser]

National Day of the Cowboy

Saddle up and get ready to ride into the sunset with the thrill and excitement of the Wild West! Cowboys are the ultimate symbol of grit, determination, and adventure.

Giddyup! Ride ‘em Cowboy!

Celebrate this symbol of the American West by learning about and appreciating the National Day of the Cowboy.

History of National Day of the Cowboy

Following the Civil War, many men moved west looking for ways to work and make a living. One of the attractions of the American frontier was the relative freedom, as well as the option to become cowboys who could access free range cattle.

The “Wild West���, beginning in the 1860s through the end of the 19th century, became a time of a bit of chaos on the frontier where gangs of criminals were easily bred. Infamous cowboys, like Billy the Kid, Jesse James, Butch Cassidy and John Wesley Hardin were outlaws who committed various robberies, cattle rustling and even murder.

First sponsored in the US Senate in 2005, National Day of the Cowboy was originally brought about by Wyoming’s US Senator at the time, Craig Thomas.

Former president Bush said this about the National Day of the Cowboy: “We celebrate the Cowboy as a symbol of the grand history of the American West. The Cowboy’s love of the land and love of the country are examples for all Americans.”

National Day of the Cowboy Timeline

1725

The term “cowboy” is first being used 

Jonathan Swift uses the word in his famous book, Gulliver’s Travels, but it really just means a boy who tends cows.

Mid-1800s

The “Wild West” period begins

After the American Civil War, many men head to Texas where free-ranging cattle are available for any cowboy who wants to round them up – and the popularity of eating beef increases.

1875

“Billy the Kid” is first arrested 

This infamous cowboy criminal is a gunfighter, murderer, fugitive, cattle rustler, and eventually dies at the young age of 21.

1930

John Wayne first appears in film 

The Big Trail is the first movie that actor “Duke” Morrison makes in what will be a series of more than 75 films over his lifetime.

1960

Dallas Cowboys are founded 

In the early days of the National Football League (NFL), the Dallas Cowboys franchise was established and went on to become an extremely popular team.

How to Celebrate National Day of the Cowboy

Celebrating National Day of the Cowboy can be loads of fun in a variety of ways! Try out some of these delightful ideas to enjoy the day:

Dress Like a Cowboy

This can be a way to connect with your inner cowboy by wearing some special gear to work, to school or just while running daily errands. Try out some basic blue jeans, some clever cowboy boots, a leather vest and a western shirt (complete with shell snaps!).

Perhaps try a bolo tie or a handkerchief tied around the neck. And, of course, it would be appropriate to top it all off with an enormous cowboy hat. The bigger, the better!

Listen to a Cowboy Song Playlist

Because they typically hail from the southwest, cowboys may have a particular style of music they enjoy. National Day of the Cowboy would be a perfect time to create a list of songs that give a nod to the tunes of these unique characters:

Mommas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboysby Waylon Jennings and Willie Nelson (1978). This one was originally recorded by Ed Bruce in 1976, but this more popular version was recorded two years later.

Cowboy Take Me Away by The Chicks–formerly Dixie Chicks (1999). A play on the phrase “Calgon Take Me Away”, from the famous slogan from bath product commercials, this song reached #1 on the US Billboard Hot Country Singles and Tracks chart in February 2000.

Cowboy Cassanova by Carrie Underwood (2009). Released on Underwood’s third studio album, Play On, the single was certified 2x Platinum.

The Cowboy in Me by Tim McGraw (2001). Written by Jeffrey Steele, Al Anderson and Craig Wiseman, this song made it to #1 on the Billboard Hot Country Singles and Tracks chart that year.

Visit a Rodeo

A great time for enjoying all things related to National Day of the Cowboy, visiting the rodeo can be an amazing experience! Regular events include activities such as steer wrestling, bull riding, calf roping, steer roping, bareback horse, barrel racing and saddle bronc riding. Of course, don’t forget the scorecard for keeping score.

Don’t forget to wear the above-mentioned cowboy gear when headed to the rodeo. Those who are lucky might get to see a rodeo clown. Perhaps even try riding the mechanical bull!

Follow Some Sage Cowboy Advice

Cowboys from the Wild West have lived a great deal of life and have tons of experience! With all of that experience comes a great deal of wisdom and they have often been known to share their advice with others in clever phrases, like “Don’t squat with your spurs on”, or “Never corner something meaner than you”.

Enjoy a few of these phrases and consider sharing them with friends, family and coworkers in honor of National Day of the Cowboy. Some of them might even be fun to have printed on a t-shirt to wear on the day:

“Don’t go in if you don’t know the way out.”

“If you get thrown from a horse, you have to get up and get back on, unless you landed on a cactus; then you have to roll around and scream in pain.”

“Some cowboys have too much tumbleweed in their blood to settle down.”

“If you’re ridin’ ahead of the herd, take a look back every now and then to make sure it’s still there with ya.”

Watch Some Cowboy Movies

One of the great film settings of all time, the Wild West is the perfect place for cowboy movies to be made! This day offers a great time to enjoy a collection of classic Western movies in honor of National Day of the Cowboy! Try out one (or all!) of these:

True Grit (1969). One of John Wayne’s most famous movies, this film features a US Marshal and Texas Ranger who chases down a murderer in dangerous territory. It was remade in 2010, starring Jeff Bridges, Matt Damon, Hailee Steinfeld and Josh Brolin.

Rango (2011). Fun for adults and family members alike, this computer animated Western comedy film stars Johnny Depp who voices a chameleon character who accidentally gets stranded in the desert.

The Lone Ranger (1956). This classic cowboy film was based on the American television series of the same name that was from 1949-1957, starring Clayton Moore and Jay Silverheels.

No Country for Old Men (2007). Tommy Lee Jones, Javier Bardem, Josh Brolin and Woody Harrelson are the all-star cast in this modern Western crime thriller movie created by the Coen brothers. Based on the 2005 novel of the same name by Cormac McCarthy, this film won a huge array of film awards.

Are cowboys real?

Yes. Although they are less common than they may have been several decades ago, the American cowboy continues in places like Colorado, Texas, Montana, and even Connecticut.

How did cowboys dress?

Cowboys are known for their pointy leather cowboy boots, vests with pockets and very large cowboy hats.

What are cowboy hats made of?

Cowboy hats are typically made of either felt or straw. Less commonly, they can be made of leather.

Do cowboys ride cows?

No! Cowboys ride horses, of course. They are called cowboys because they take care of and drive cattle herds.

How do cowboys talk?

Depending on where they are from, cowboys may have unique phrases like “Howdy Partner”, “Giddyup”, “City Slicker”, and “Head ‘em up and move ‘em out”.

Source

[dertaglichedan]

ESPN Fires Female Host Who Spoke Out About Males In Girls’ Sports

ESPN host Sam Ponder has been fired by left-wing sports network ESPN after speaking out about the unfairness of biological males competing in women’s sports.

The network, which is owned by The Walt Disney Company, claimed they fired Ponder, along with Robert Griffin III, due to “financial reasons.”

However, social media platform X was rife with outrage about the host’s abrupt firing. Some noted that Ponder was the only female at the network speaking out about the vital gender issue, specifically when it comes to sports. It was also highlighted that former ESPN personality Sage Steele was similarly fired after she voiced some conservative opinions.

“So ESPN fires [Sam Ponder], the only woman at the network who [has] publicly said men don’t belong in women’s sports,” Riley Gaines posted. “Three weeks before football season? Sam is one of the most beautiful, genuine women I’ve ever met along with [former ESPN host Sage Steele] who had a similar fate….not a coincidence.”

[asteroidtroglodyte]

[American Gods]

The FreeWhale

[inbetween forkfuls of roadside diner hashbrowns smothered in Tabasco sauce and gulps of black coffee with 6 sugars to a cup]

I was doing a late-night jaunt west down the I-10, planning to take the 15 up to Las Vegas to drop some cargo, when I saw this light on the horizon.

Now that in itself isn’t unusual. Construction site, football game, poorly managed corporate parking lot; lots of reasons to see lights at night.

But this light, it blazed. It was too crisp, too close, too dense. It shone whiter than daylight and cast shadows sharp as knives. And as I drew closer I realized that the source of the light was on the freeway itself.

Now I will freely admit that my vocabulary is not the most expansive, but I don’t know if we have a word in English for the thing that cast that light. Machinery is technically correct, but…

Countless wheels it had, with more axles than I got to count and more tires per axle than I’ve seen before or since. 2 double-wide trailers side-by-side, commanding 4 lanes in all, as long as a football field and lit up twice as bright. Carried aloft and suspended between them by a web of hard steel chains was a great and weighty throne, bearing a golden statue of a blood soaked man, flat goggled eyes expressionlessly overseeing the endless road.

Hauled by a team of engines, 16 in all, 4 to a lane and 4 abreast, lashed together like sled dogs of old, billowing clouds of black diesel and blood smoke. Somehow, over the cacophony of wind and motor, I heard the distant screams of the Blood Sacrifice which powered the God Of The Freeway, the bodies of men and women young and old crushed into paste by the ruthless intersection of momentum and inattention in a thousand car accidents each day.

I saw men in high-vis and boot, clambering about the great mechanism like ants upon a tree, adjusting the tension of the chains and the power of the motors, bearing this colossi of weighty momentum and terrible speed along the endless night highways to a destination that would never arrive.

I knew with a sudden terrible clarity that if I remained too near that my own engine would be lashed into service; that the heraldry upon the engines bore the names of defunct shipping companies and dead independent drivers; and that the dreadful velocity of the God Of Freeways would carry it ever westward, far ahead of a sunrise that could never catch it, and so in pursuit of my own life and dawns to come I slowed, and let the God Of Freeways slip over the horizon.

[townpostin]

Serbian Defender Lazar Cirkovic Joins Jamshedpur FC

Experienced international player bolsters defence ahead of ISL 2024-25 season Key Points: • Lazar Cirkovic arrives at Jamshedpur FC, completing international recruitment • Serbian defender known for strong physique and defensive skills joins training • First home match set for September 21, giving time for team integration JAMSHEDPUR – Jamshedpur FC welcomes Serbian defender Lazar Cirkovic,…

[lauriel816]

Pairing/Shippy list!

I was tagged by @1337wtfomgbbq :) already hyped up I’m sensing there’s gonna be a lot of fun 🤩

Here's the rules:

List your top seven ships.

Put all of them in order of your love for them; 7 to 1, 1 being your favorite.

Name their fandom.

Supply photos for said people.

7) Peter Pevensie & Edmund Pevensie (Narnia)

Geez. Is there even a proper tag for this?? Not many people ship these two I get it but I just, well, tend to drive down to an end off the beaten track. I really like their interaction in the first film and come to think of it, this was the first movie I’ve seen in movie theater so it kinda hits different.

6) Rogue/Shadowcat (Xmen: Evolution)

They clearly had some issues at first but ended up getting along really well. Enemies to roommates to friends in combat and… let it hang in there for a bit bcs there could certainly be a lot of possibilities so who knows :D I really enjoy watching them bickering like an old married couple. Could do this all day

5) Hiccup/Astrid (httyd)

Best anime couple ever! I love how their romantic relationship unfolds in rtte. A slow-burn, took a whole movie, plus three spin-off for it to blossom. Burns slowly but naturally and beautifully.

4) Logan/Scott (Xmen)

When you talk about Scogan there's no way you can get around talking about that scene where Logan flipped Scott off and Scott just acted cool and cracked a smile. It's all you need to board this ship. Ugh it's shame the writer decided to kill off Scott in The Last Stand. But fortunately it was rectified in DoFP (Don't mention Logan (2017)) and Logan still got years to beef (and highkey flirt) with his frenemy :D

3) Magfam (Cherik + Speedyson) (Xmen)

What I wouldn't kill to get more wholesome magfam content? For once can we forget about the angst and pain and just sit down and enjoy something of a rom-com, something light, a cute story of how a remarried family getting together. A remarried couple and their teenage son, who hasn't lived with his father for a single day before, try to work out together as a family. Isn't that what we all deserve?

2) Harry Osborn/Peter Parker (Spiderman(raimiverse))

Quality angst. Their story has everything you need for a classic tragedy. Geez, I remember crying my heart out watching Harry die in Peter's arms as a kid. It left such a massive impact on me that I'm still not over it to this day. I really hate it that NWH did them dirty, Peter out of character, and implying that Harry, being someone vengeful, died of his tomfoolery, making him a cue for some meaningless joke. That's not how they should be. They deserve so, so much better.

1) Neuller (Men's Football RPF)

My emotional support. My safehouse I could escape to. They are the reason why I'm here in the first place. Decade partners and soulmates on the pitch, two dorks who are always on the same wavelength and always seen together. For Thomas, Manu is the best goalkeeper in the world and the wall of steel behind him, always out there to defend so he could go full throttle forward without worrying; and for Manu, Thomas is his spokesperson on and off the field, leading the charge and helping him organize the defense. Together they grabbed almost all the titles they could. They complete each other, as quoted from Manu himself, Thomas is more than a teammate and he can't imagine a world without him.

Honorable nominees:

Silvercyclops (Xmen (movieverse)): It's a shame they never thought of exploring their friendship. What a waste of the chemistry between Evan and Tye.

Rogue/Gambit (Xmen (all media types excluding movieverse)

Lincoln/Alternate Lincoln (fringe)

Tagging: @manuelmueller @cincydrawing and whoever interested consider yourself tagged by me :D

[beckettj]

The Heart of a Villan - Chapter 1/5

It only seems right that I post the first chapter of this self-indulgent fic (combining two of my favourite things - CS and AVFC) on my birthday! The other four chapters to follow weekly.

Chapter One - Amongst Devils and Villans

Summary: Three-thousand miles from home, Henry drags Emma into a land she never imagined venturing to; the realm of English football. She holds no interest in the sport but when she’s approached by Villa Captain Killian Jones, she determines that there could be something in the sport for her after all.

Words: 7.1k exactly

Read on Ao3

“Mom, Mom, look! Look! There it is! Isn’t it amazing?”

Henry bounces enthusiastically in the middle of the closed-off road, pointing to a structure in the near distance, a combination of brick, concrete and steel; their intended destination, so help her.

Emma shakes her head, “It’s just a building, Henry.”

His jaw drops and his eyes boggle as if they’re about to burst out of his head.

“Just a building?” he repeats incredulously and points to it once more, as if she’d mistakenly looked at the wrong one, like it is easy to miss as it towers over the trees and houses which line either side of it. “That stadium is a fortress, older than you and I combined!”

A grand total of thirty-eight years. It didn’t take much beating.

Henry continues his spiel, “It’s been home to Aston Villa football club since eighteen-ninety-seven. It’s withstood the tests of time, adapting and growing with the support its amassed. Games have been won, drawn and lost here, there have been many highs and many lows but that stadium has stood strong through it all. It draws in crowds of over forty-thousand and today we get to be a part of that!”

She certainly can’t fault the kid for his passion, but it is a passion she most definitely does not share. She has no interest in watching grown men chase a sphere of air around, and yet that is precisely what lies in store for her afternoon.

Curse her parents for organising a surprise trip to London for Henry’s spring break. Curse her dad specifically for securing tickets to a soccer game. And curse her dad three times over for coming down with food poisoning, forcing her into being the one to accompany an indescribably excitable Henry on a two-hour train journey from London to Birmingham ahead of what he described as ‘the greatest match of his life’.

The second train – the one towards the outskirts of Birmingham – had been, by far, the worst. They had been packed like sardines and motherly instincts had kicked in, Emma clinging to Henry for dear life so not to lose him. The carriage had stunk, a pungent concoction of beer and sweat, making the thirteen-minute journey hell. Henry had been in his element, surrounded by claret and blue shirts, his face lighting up like Christmas morning, as he joined in with the chants and was doused in beer when the train had unexpectedly jerked.

He remains in his element, soaking in the developing atmosphere around the so-called fortress that was Villa Park. There remains an hour-and-a-half before the game is due to kick off but Henry had been insistent on arriving early, talking relentlessly about the club store, programmes and watching the players warming up – as if he isn’t about to watch them play for ninety minutes.

Whose idea was it to make soccer matches ninety minutes long?

The things you do for your children.

“Mum, come on,” Henry urges, and he rushing as if they’re about to miss kick-off. “The store’s this way.”

--

If Emma thought the growing horde of people on the street were overwhelmingly claret and blue, the club store is, impossibly, even more consumed by the colour scheme. Everywhere she looks, she’s met by a sea of claret and blue.

There’s no escape.

Henry is like a kid in a sweet shop, using his small size to manoeuvre effortlessly through the tiny, cramped, oversubscribed matchday store. By the time he returns to her he’s struggling to carry everything he’s collected, a heap of clothes and other products in his arms. There’s a beaming smile on his face and she doesn’t have the heart to let him down, to make him choose a few things, so she agrees to it all – they’re on vacation, she can worry about it when they’re back in Maine and far away from the unpleasantness of the crowded soccer store.

She helps him with his haul, carrying a claret and blue scarf, baseball cap, water bottle and backpack for him as they squeeze through people to join the queue at the checkout. They wait their turn, weaving through the queue barriers as the line slowly goes down, Henry talking non-stop the whole way, rambling about players and tactics, his words flying straight over her head.

Emma’s relief is strong upon reaching the front of the queue, gaining a temporary relieve from Henry’s excited ramblings. She drops the items in her hands onto the cashier’s desk, on top of the pile Henry’s already formed, and the cashier eyes the haul with faint amusement.

“First time?” she asks.

“Yeah!” Henry nods eagerly. “But hopefully not the last!”

Emma sure hopes it’s her last. Her dad would take the next one, even if she has to contract food poisoning herself to ensure it.

“You chose a good match for your first one. Nick three points from Man U here today and we slip into that Champions League spot. Should make for a good atmosphere,” the cashier remarks as she scans each item through the till. “Who’s your favourite player?”

Emma knows this one. She knows she does. Or she should; Henry talks about him twenty-four seven. It starts with a ‘J’, she knows that much; James… Jense…

“Jones!” Henry answers. “He scores the best screamers.”

Emma raises an eyebrow. He scores what now?

“Do you want printing on your shirt?” the cashier asks as she scans the soccer shirt through the till.

Henry looks to Emma for her permission, momentarily taking her by surprise. It’s the first time since entering the store that he has stopped to consider the restraints of money. She sticks by her earlier decision; they are on vacation.

“Whatever you want, kid,” she encourages him.

Henry’s grin impossibly widens and he turns back to the cashier, making his request, “Jones and the number nine please.”

“Good choice,” the cashier smiles at him. “Bear with me one moment and I’ll get that all sorted for you.”

She crosses to the workstation at the back wall of the till, getting to work lining up the letters on the shirt.

Henry turns to Emma, “Can I put the shirt on when it’s ready?”

Emma’s unsure, imagining him disappearing in the sea of claret and blue on the street. A glance out the window confirms it’s only getting busier out there but when she looks back at him, his soft, brown, puppy-dog eyes melt her worries away and she relents, “Sure thing, kid.”

He tilts his head and proposes, “Don’t you think you should get a shirt?”

“Not a chance, Henry,” she responds immediately.

“A hat then?”

“No way.”

“A coat?”

“Nope.”

“A scarf?”

“No.”

“This then,” Henry picks up a claret and blue pen, complete with the Aston Villa logo, from the shelves below the cashier desk. “You can never have too many pens.”

“Fine,” Emma agrees, if only to subdue his pestering.

He smiles triumphantly and adds the pen to the pile of items still awaiting their venture through the till. The cashier returns with the printing on the shirt completed and promptly processes the rest of their items, all the while Henry excitedly tells her his predictions for the game.

Emma very nearly falls over in shock when the final total flashes onto the screen. Whoever would have thought slapping a lion badge onto a claret and blue item would make it double in price? She’s very nearly leaving the store with one less arm and leg than she had entered with. She recovers from the initial surprise, repeats her mantra in her head – we’re on vacation – and completes the purchase.

--

MATCHDAY PROGRAMMES £3.50

Henry grabs her hand and pulls her into another queue the moment he notices the sign on the little kiosk just a few feet from the stadium. He looks the part now; his claret and blue shirt matching those of others in the line. It’s a short, fast-moving queue and they get to the front to discover the kiosk doesn’t accept card which makes her look the fool as she continues to struggle to get her head around which British coin represents which value. The man at the stall helps her out and she can only trust that he hasn’t ripped her off.

Henry keenly takes the programme from the man’s outstretched hand and wastes no time in looking at it.

“Mom, look! Jones is on the front cover!” Henry excitedly exclaims.

Emma rolls her eyes. Of course he is. Jones this. Jones that. He might as well be renamed ‘Mr Aston Villa’.

Henry waves the programme in her face, trying to show her but his hand is so unsteady all she initially sees is a blur of claret and blue. Eventually he calms and the programme steadies in her hand, allowing her a good look at the Jones that her son so often raves about.

“Woah!” the utterance escapes from her subconscious.

She regresses to a teenager all over again, ogling a hot celebrity in her favourite magazine. It’s ridiculous and yet there she stands, mesmerised by piercing blue eyes and a roguish smirk which screams ‘I’m good and I know I am’ but in a hot, self-assured way as opposed to brash arrogance.

“Woah what?” Henry eyes her suspiciously.

“Woah… he,” she drags the word out and thinks fast, reading off the programme’s subheading – saved by the print, “is making his three-hundredth competitive club appearance today. That… that is some achievement.”

That starts Henry off on reeling the player’s entire history off to her, detailing the day he signed for Villa and where he’d signed from. Emma lets him spurt the information off as she silently rejoices in getting away with one there. She composes herself as Henry recounts his favourite goal of Jones’.

“Come on, kid,” she prompts Henry once he’s done. “It’s about time we get inside the stadium, don’t you think?”

--

“Woah!” Henry breathes out, utterly fascinated as they step out of the stairway and into the stand, taking in the sight of the stadium before them.

Even Emma has to admit it’s impressive. They are halfway up the stand, seats descending to pitch side in front of them and more rising higher behind them. The pitch looks immaculate – each blade of grass cut to precision – the greenest green Emma recalls ever seeing; the stage set and the audience beginning to congregate, staggered across all four stands in the near forty-three-thousand capacity theatre. The spring sun sneaks between the gap in between their stand and the one to their left, lighting up the pitch impeccably and providing an appreciative warmth to the open air venue.

People mull around the stadium, heading to their seats, wearing their claret and blue shirts outright or throwing them over the top of a hoodie for added warmth. She can’t shake the feeling that she sticks out like a sore thumb. The strong red of her jacket stands out against the dull claret of the home supporters and she quickly notices that where she holds paper tickets – printed by her father in the hotel reception – most fans are carrying season cards, proudly broadcasting themselves as frequent visitors.

She fully embraces the tourist look by asking a steward for help finding their seats, the combination of letters and numbers and blocks and rows nothing short of confusing. As much as she had frowned and scowled at the tickets, it had refused to become any clearer.

The steward kindly leads them towards their seats and, where Emma had been expecting to be led upwards, she leads them down the stairs, each step taking them closer to the front of the stand.

“Mom, look how close we are getting to the pitch!” Henry breathes out excitedly.

His eyes widen as they get closer and closer and when the steward finally stops, she’s at the front row, putting a hand out to indicate down it.

“No way!” Henry exclaims.

Yes way.

The steward encourages them to continue on down the row, telling Emma that the number on her tickets will match the ones on the seats a little further down the row. She thanks her and they are quickly able to find their seats, just along from the left post of the goal.

“This is incredible!” Henry marvels as he leans forward onto the low railing in front of him, staring onto the pitch mere metres away.

“Make sure you thank your grandpa when we get back tomorrow evening,” Emma tells him.

He nods absently, preoccupied and mesmerised by the view in front of him. When the players emerge from the tunnel, jogging onto the pitch to commence their warmup, Henry jumps to his feet, bouncing excitedly as he sees his favourite players in the flesh for the first time. He points each player out to her, naming them and spieling off facts and statistics which she ultimately zones out, just nodding and responding ‘oh yeah?’ intermittently.

Her own attention is captured by Jones as he leads a line of players in a series of stretches, instructed by their coach. He’s just as the picture on the front of the programme had captured him – his blue eyes really are that blue and he carries and conducts himself with the same confidence that had oozed off the page. There’s a precision to each stretch he executes, a focused determination to do things properly, to give himself his best chance ahead of the game.

As inviting as Jones is on the eyes, even he can’t pique her interest in his sport for the second the stretching session is over and he has the football at his feet, engaging in drills with his teammates, she grows bored. Her attention turns to her phone, checking in on her parents and filling them in on Henry’s experience so far, sending over some photos.

The players finish their warmups and head back down the tunnel, the stands really starting to fill up as kick-off grows nearer and the music blaring around the stadium builds with the atmosphere.

Henry’s excitement is at an all time high, unable to keep still on his seat and he grins at her as he says, “It’s nearly time for kick-off!”

Perfect. Just ninety more minutes until freedom.

--

The players re-emerge from the tunnel to great fanfare; the opposing players exchange a series of handshakes before taking their positions ahead of kick-off. The claret and blue players originally position themselves in the half closest to her and Henry – who all but screams in her ear about how close he is to Humbert and Booth – until a whistle from the referee changes things.

Both teams switch ends and the stadium descends into a pantomime, the crowd booing the players in red as they jog to the positions vacated by the home side just moments prior. Emma doesn’t understand the grievance among the crowd who swiftly lead into a booming and unanimous; ‘Who the fuck, who the fuck, who the fucking hell are you, who the fucking hell are you?’ chant and she’s extremely surprised to hear Henry screaming it at the top of his innocent voice.

“Henry!” she says, stifling chuckles.

He looks at her innocently, “What?”

“Language.”

“We’re at the football, Mom. It doesn’t count at the football.”

Emma’s momentarily thrown by his use of the word ‘football’ – since when was her son British? She opens her mouth to argue but Henry jumps into the next chant, pointing aggressively towards the opposition goalkeeper accompanied by the majority of the home crowd as they present a repetitive rendition of, ‘wanker, wanker, wanker’. Emma is left wondering just what the player had done to illicit such a reception and when, exactly, her son had developed an affinity for British insults.

The referee blows his whistle and the game begins, prompting a roar from the crowd, living up to the lion which stands pride of place on the club badge.

--

The time on the electronic scoreboard ticks by ever so slowly – one team kicks the ball around for a bit until the other team gets it and does exactly the same. Neither appears to be in too much of a hurry to actually put the ball in the back of the net and Emma’s confused because she thought that was the whole point of the game.

Emma can think of a hundred places – perhaps even a thousand – she would much rather be but Henry’s loving it – joining in with chants at the top of his voice and screaming at the referee about decisions and fouls and offside calls – his enthusiastic investment becoming one of the few positives to her experience.

She has long lost interest in watching twenty-two men run around and kick a ball, electing to amuse herself instead by listening to the comments of nearby supporters and wondering whether they had ever heard themselves.

It had started fairly tame;

“I don’t fancy Scarlet, you know.” “You don’t?” “Nah, he’s been off his game the last few weeks.”

But then it got wilder;

“Oh, Jones wants it! Give it to him, Locksley, give it to him!”

“Pereira’s gone through the back of Humbert!”

“Booth needs to step up and fill the hole that Locksley’s left wide open.”

But her favourite of them all was definitely, “Scarlet needs to stop letting Cardozo inside of him!”

Her fun comes to an end with three sharp blows of the referee’s whistle, prompting all the players to disappear once more down the tunnel into the stadium. The stands empty out, hordes of people heading into the concourse. She smiles; freedom at last.

Henry turns to her, “Jones is going to score in the second half, Mom, just you watch. He didn’t get much service that half but when he gets his chance, he’ll take it! All he needs is one shot and bam, goal!”

Second half? Emma sighs. She had forgotten they still had another half to go. The first forty-five minutes had felt like a lifetime.

“Can we get hotdogs?” Henry asks, his requests endless.

She reminds herself of her mantra – we’re on vacation, worry about it later – and agrees.

--

By the time they return to their seats – thanks to a huge demand for refreshments – the second half is already underway. Henry can breathe again – the kid panicking the entire time they were in the line about missing a goal – the scoreboard remains the same, displaying no goals, and Henry tucks contently into his long-awaited hotdog. Emma follows his lead, both taking their eyes off the game for a moment to bite into their food.

The crowd roars into life around them and a ball comes flying out of nowhere, knocking the hotdog out of Henry’s hand and smashing into his face. Emma’s own hotdog joins Henry’s on the concrete floor, dropping absent-mindedly from her hands as she looks to Henry; his hands cradle his nose, blood leaking heavily through his fingers, tears pouring from his eyes. She grabs the napkin from around her hotdog, moving Henry’s hands from his face and holding the napkin against his nose. It disintegrates from the heavy flow of blood in seconds and her hands grow wet from the fluid. She grabs the napkin from Henry’s hotdog, replacing it with hers.

“Oh, bloody hell!”

Jones has stepped over the advertisement boards and leans on the railings in front of her seat. His blue eyes are not the same piercing, confident ones printed on the programme, instead they’re dull, wide and numbed in horror.

He’s gone, almost as quickly as he seemed to have arrived, running the width of the pitch, waving his arms frantically above his head. Emma gratefully accepts tissues from the woman seated behind her as the second napkin disintegrates beneath her fingers.

Jones returns with two first responders in tow. They jump the railings with ease, taking over from her in tending to Henry. Emma holds her blood-covered hands out helplessly, not entirely processing what was happening.

Henry had just wanted to eat his hotdog and watch his team.

He’d been so excited.

A warm hand touches her arm. Jones is leaning on the railing again and reaching out, to her.

“Are you alright, love?” he asks gently.

She nods absent-mindedly.

“I can only apologise profusely,” he continues.

His eyes shift towards Henry and he scratches at the back of his ear as he watches the boy receive treatment. Emma starts to put the pieces together; a wayward ball, a lingering football player – Jones was the guilty player responsible.

“It’s okay,” she responds vacantly.

She’s too distracted to maintain a conversation, focused entirely on Henry, surrounded by the two first responders. She can’t see what’s happening amongst the mass of hands working on his face, but she clutches his hand tightly, letting him know she’s still there.

“We’re going to move him to our first aid station. We can treat him better there. If you’d please follow behind us,” one of the first responders fills her in.

She nods, still struggling to muster words, shocked by the sudden turn of events. It doesn’t feel real. Flashes of Henry’s excitement prior to the game keep burning into her mind, highlighting the cruel twist of fate. The two first aiders help Henry to his feet, his vision obstructed by the multiple tissues they were holding over his nose. They guide him down the single step and along the walkway, pointing out the big green first aid station sign on the opposite side of the stadium for her benefit. She can see where they’re going, and it’s quite the trek.

The whistle blows to resume the game and the crowds roars once more as the Villa players successfully defend the corner.

“I don’t want to miss the game!” Henry complains, his tears subduing for his fear of missing out to soar.

Emma’s hit by a flood of relief when she hears him speak, even more so when she realises he’s well enough in himself to be concerned about missing the match.

The man beside him laughs, “Spoken like a true Villan.”

--

“Mum, look! We didn’t miss anything!” Henry can scarcely believe his luck.

He’s bouncing with excitement again and Emma is terrified that the flood of blood from his nose is going to return, aggravated by the movement. She places a hand on his shoulder, a feeble attempt to calm him, as he points to the scoreboard, still reading ‘0-0’.

A series of cold compresses, a couple of pages of paperwork, the administration of pain medication, and a series of checks to make absolutely certain that, by some utter miracle, Henry had escaped without a broken nose, had kept them busy for forty minutes.

There’s five minutes left of normal play and yet Henry is in high spirits. As they follow the steward leading them back to their seats, there’s a residual bounce in Henry’s step as he marvels at how close to the pitch and the players he is. The action is all up on their end too, far away from where they’d be if they were in their seats. The Villa players gather in the opposition’s box, preparing for a corner.

Emma’s eyes scan the mass of claret and blue shirts amongst the red ones, eventually landing on Jones who stands right on top of the penalty spot, watching Locksley as he catches the ball thrown to him by the ballboy.

“Today’s attendance is forty-two-thousand-three-hundred-and-fourteen. We thank you for your support,” booms out over the speakers scattered around the stadium.

Jones’ eyes meet hers, catching her looking at him. She holds firm, not looking away, refusing to back down and hide. He breaks eye contact – too quickly – shifting his gaze, quick and honed in, until his blue eyes land on Henry. The tension appears to physically ride out of Jones’ body; his shoulders loosen, his head lifts higher and a small smile tugs at his lips. His head turns, gaze returning to her, and he mouths, sorry, love.

Emma’s heart skips a beat. Forty-two-thousand-three-hundred-and-fourteen people in the stadium and, out of them all, he acknowledges her. She forces herself to remain calm and keep her composure; he has no other motive for his interest in her besides compassion or guilt, or both. She opts to send him a reassuring smile and hopes she’s not blushing.

--

The game has reached ninety minutes by the time she and Henry get back to their seats. The announcement of an additional nine minutes of stoppage time is met be a loud, motivational roar from the home supporters, urging their team on to nick the game in the dying moments.

Henry’s eyes light up at the news that he’ll at least see some of the second half. He turns his gaze expectantly to the pitch and jumps into the chant of ‘allez, allez, allez’ the crowd have initiated to spur the players onwards.

Emma finds herself getting drawn in, sitting on the edge of her seat, as she watches not so much the game but one particular player. She is fixated on Jones and even when he’s one of the furthest from the ball, she still watches him; taking control, pointing and shouting as he makes his commands. Her mind wanders back to the sorry, love; the moment he’d taken out of the tense, end-to-end game to apologise once more. Her mind drifts back further, to the comfort he had tried to offer her during Henry’s initial treatment; the warm, light touch of his fingers against her arm. Professional sport stars had always seemed so distant with their high wages and expensive cars and houses; to have been to so close to someone in such a profession and received such genuine concern was a reminder that they were human too. Jones was human, a man who wasn’t just chasing after a ball full of air; he was a man focused on remaining in position, constantly running, looking for his best opportunity to strike, waiting patiently to receive the ball, determining when to press, when to drop back, and when to make runs behind the back line, all whilst giving instruction to his teammates.

Watching Jones, following his every movement, switches something in her mind and everything Henry had been rambling about suddenly made sense. Watching Jones playing on the shoulder of the last man and timing his runs transforms the offside rule from quantum mechanics to adding one and two to make three; something she doesn’t need to think twice about – it’s simple, instantaneous.

Five minutes of stoppage time pass and the tension has grown exponentially. Each time the ball finds its way back to the Villa goalkeeper, there’s an urgent cry from the crowd to get it forward. Emma holds her breath as the goalkeeper does just that, launching the ball through the air, a near desperate punt up-field, one heading towards Jones. He takes the ball under his control with a single touch, eliciting great applause, cheers and murmurs of adoration from the crowd. He moves fast, knocking the ball around his defender, and chasing after it.

One ball, three men all charging for it; Jones in the centre, a straight run to the ball, a defender either side of him, closing down the angle. They’re all close and from Emma’s distance it’s difficult for her to determine who will get there first.

She hopes it’s Jones.

Her hands are clenched close together and she murmurs a faint ‘go, go, go’ under her breath. If he can get to it first, he’ll be ahead of the two defenders, leaving just the goalkeeper to beat.

The defender to Jones’ right opts for a change of plan, adapting the angle of his run so to get into the space that Jones will enter should he get to the ball first. The defender to his left stays on path, eyes fixed on the ball, determined. Jones gets there first, knocking the ball a touch forward; the defender makes a desperate slide, missing the ball and taking Jones’ legs out from under him, sending him flying to the ground.

Emma gasps as the crowd roars in unanimous fury, raising to their feet and screaming at the ref. The referee brandishes a yellow card for the player in red which only increases the infuriation and level of protests amongst the onlookers.

“That’s a clear red! All day long!”

“Are you fucking blind, ref?”

“He’s taken him out!”

Emma grips tightly onto the railings in front of her, too far away to decipher the severity of the stoppage. Jones remains on the ground, the club’s doctors receiving the signal from the referee to approach. As he receives treatment, the crowds erupts into a strong show of support with a chant to the tune of ‘drunken sailor’.

“Scores with his left foot and his right one Slots it in the net for Aston Villa What a player, what a striker! Super Captain Jo-ones!

Super Captain Jones! Super Captain Jones! Super Captain Jones! Can not stop him scoring!”

It’s a joyful tune that the crowd repeats multiple times over with indisputable passion and heart, Henry all-but deafening her as he screams it at the top of his lungs, but Emma does not resonate with the cheeriness. There’s a tense apprehension increasingly rising inside her the longer Jones remains down. She watches him receive treatment to his right knee, nervously hoping he is fit to continue playing. It’s stupid, feeling so concerned about a guy she barely knows, a guy she didn’t care about just an hour ago, and yet her fingers drum impatiently against the cool metal of the claret railing, her other hand gripping it tightly, clinging to what little support she can find.

Her concern is purely fuelled by Henry, she reasons; his special day has already been severely disrupted and she doesn’t want him to face the disappointment of watching his favourite player getting stretchered off.

After what feels like an age, Jones rises to his feet, prompting a huge applause to erupt from the crowd. Emma joins in, a loud whoop even escaping her lips, and Henry chuckles beside her; was it a chuckle of relief? Jones moves to stand on the sidelines and, after most likely making herself sound like a total novice to those around them by asking the question, Henry explains that players who receive medical treatment have to wait at the side of the pitch until waved back on by the referee. He's unable to provide her with a reason why, shrugging, and she’s left none-the-wiser.

On the pitch, Locksley prepares himself to take the subsequent free kick and, as the players all bide their time in taking their positions, Emma returns to an earlier game;

“Right on the edge of the D. Perfect position!”

“Locksley’s a master in these situations.” “I don’t know… he put it straight down the keeper’s throat last time.”

“He’s going for it. He’s giving him the eyes.”

Locksley takes a deep breath in, takes a short run up, and strikes the ball. The crowd collectively holds their breath as the ball lifts over the wall of red players, dips towards the goal, looking certain for the top right corner until a gloved hand appears out of nowhere, tipping the ball over the bar and out of play, a series of ‘oooh’s’ ringing out from the crowd.

The claret and blue players all hurry into their positions for the coming corner. Jones gets waved on by the referee and races to the penalty spot. Emma looks to the scoreboard for the time. It shows one-hundred-and-two minutes, more time added on for Jones’ treatment, making it impossible to know when that final whistle was going to sound.

The crowd remains loud, cheers, applause and chants ringing out from all four stands of the ground, the supporters sensing blood – or hoping and praying against all odds – and persisting in urging the players on. Locksley hastily places the ball at the corner, steps back, raises an arm, and hits it, lifting it dangerously into the box. Emma watches the movement in the box, players on both teams scrambling to gain positions, to get themselves into the path of the ball, to get something, anything, on it. She watches as Jones leaps into the air, throwing himself forwards, his head connecting with the ball, changing its trajectory and sending it riffling into the top left corner of the net.

Emma jumps for joy, a move synchronised with a huge majority of the crowd. If she thought earlier cheers were loud, the one which erupts around the stadium is a whole other level, her ears ringing as she happily joins in, screaming at the top of her lungs, her voice box be damned. Henry throws himself at her, engulfing her in a hug as he jumps up and down.

“I told you! I said Jones would score!” Henry beams.

“You were right, kid,” Emma returns, smiling at his glee at his own prediction coming to pass.

“Look, he’s coming this way!” Henry exclaims.

Emma turns her attention back to the pitch. There’s a big huddle of claret and blue players celebrating with fans in the North Stand but she sees Henry’s correct; Jones has jogged the length of the pitch back to the Holte. He halts momentarily, to exchange a celebratory and extravagant handshake with his goalkeeper, before jogging forwards once more. He nears their stand, prompting the roar of the crowd to increase once more, celebrations restarting as the crowd then dives into their chant for him at full voice.

Jones stops at the edge of the pitch. He points directly to Henry, a gasp of surprise escaping her son’s lips, and, over the roar of the crowd, he yells, “That one’s for you, lad.”

Henry’s jaw drops and he stares mesmerised after his hero as Jones jogs away.

--

The referee blows the final whistle, the crowd roars a final, deafening roar, players exchange handshakes and then the stadium starts to empty out. Henry insists on remaining in place until all the players have left the pitch – some still undergoing their lap of appreciation around the pitch, clapping the fans for their support. Henry is soaking up every last bit of the matchday experience and Emma can’t blame him for who knew when they’d make it back again? Three-thousand-miles is a long way to travel for a ninety-minute match.

The stand is almost empty when Jones approaches them both, a wry smile on his face, “I’m glad you’re still here. How’re you holding up there, lad?”

Henry stares, utterly starstruck, and Emma has to nudge him.

“I’m okay!” Henry eventually responds and promptly changes topic. “The goal was awesome! You’re awesome!”

“Yeah, nothing broken,” Emma jumps in to provide reassurance after Henry excitedly brushes over it. “Just heavy bruising but it’ll give him a tale to tell his friends back home,” Emma expands.

“And where would home be?” Jones hangs around, showing interest in them. “America?”

Henry nods, “It’s a town called Storybrooke.”

On Jones’ lost look, Emma expands, “It’s in Maine.”

“That’s a fair trek only to receive a ball to the face for your troubles,” Jones comments apologetically. “It would appear I have a lot of making up to do.”

He pulls his shirt off. Emma’s eyes drift downward, unashamed to wish to appreciate the body of a dedicated and hard-working professional athlete. She’s not met by strong, chiselled pecs or rock-hard abs but disappointment as Jones is a tease and wears a blue base layer below his soccer shirt.

Jones hands the soccer shirt to Henry who looks like he’s on the edge of passing out from shock as he takes it, but manages to stumble out a star-struck, “Wow, thank you.”

“It’s the least I can do, lad,” Jones responds with a bemused smile. “It’s a miracle the ball from that clearance didn’t take your head off.”

“If I get your shirt out of it, then it’s worth it!” Henry grins.

He dives eagerly into the carrier bags at their feet, drawing Jones’ attention to them.

“That’s quite the haul you’ve got there,” Jones remarks, sounding impressed.

The comment distracts Henry from whatever it was he had originally gone in for, for he begins pulling each item out of the bag, one-by-one, showing them to Jones. Emma expects Jones to brush him off – he’d done the gesture of the shirt to make up for the ball in the face, he’s well in his right to leave – but Jones stands there, patiently listening and responding, taking time to engage in conversation and make comments about the various items being thrust towards his face. It takes her by surprise but it’s endearing to watch him almost match Henry’s enthusiasm towards the soccer club.

Henry finds the matchday programme towards the bottom of the bag and appears to remember what he’d been doing prior to getting distracted. He holds the programme up to Jones, the latest in the conveyor belt of items he’d been displaying to the Villa Captain.

“Would you be able to sign this for me, please?” he asks.

“Of course I would. But have you got a pen? Because, uh,” he taps either side of his shorts to emphasise, “no pockets.”

Henry turns to Emma and prompts, “Mom?”

His expectant look reminds her that she does have a pen; the very one Henry had coaxed her into buying at the Villa store and then proceeded to refuse to let her put it in any of his three carrier bags in fear of it leaking over his precious merchandise. She retrieves said pen from her jacket pocket – noting that ink leakage hasn’t occurred – and hands it over to Jones. He inspects the pen, noting its colour and branding.

“Ah, so you are a fan! Just choose to sport the opposition’s colours, eh?” Jones teases with a playful smirk.

Henry jumps in before she can find a response, “No, I had to convince her to even get the pen. She doesn’t even like this sport. She’s only here because grandpa ate some funny oysters and got food poisoning.”

Jones chuckles, amused, as he signs Henry’s programme and Emma has to do some damage control, her own son actively jeopardising any small slither of a chance she had with the guy.

“I daresay I’ve been converted by a stand-out performance today,” she declares.

Jones hands Henry his freshly signed programme and raises an eyebrow, humming, “Oh yeah?”

“Mhmm, that Locksley’s quite the player,” Emma ribs. “He can really… stick it in the mixer.”

She silently thanks the supporters stood behind her – long since left – for not only entertaining her with their comments throughout the first half but for helping her to learn some of the soccer lingo so not to appear a total novice in front of such a seasoned pro.

There’s an unreadable gleam in Jones’ eyes as he watches her – she can’t work out if he’s amused or wants to curse her out.

“Given I did boot a ball into your lad’s face, it’s only right I make it up to you by putting a good word in for you with Locks…” Jones muses, and she thinks he’s playing along, “It’s just a shame that the man’s happily married.”

“Well, in that case I’m more than happy to settle for second best,” Emma returns.

“Ah, but would second best be happy to settle for you?” Jones counters.

“If you don’t tell him he’s second best,” Emma replies playfully.

Henry glances between the two of them and interrupts with that youthful honesty, “You two are being weird.”

Emma looks back to Jones, spotting the smirk on his face as he holds back laughter. Emma fails to demonstrate such restraint, bursting into a fit of laughter which prompts Henry to stare at her, utterly bewildered.

As Emma composes herself, a new voice is thrown into the mix.

“Killian, Sky are pushing for an interview.”

That one sentence changes Emma’s mood in an instance. She’s pulled back to reality, a reality in which Jones isn’t some hot guy she’s playfully teasing but a top soccer player who’s only shown her the time of day because he smashed a ball into her son’s face. The television cameras are summoning, calling time on her brief snippet of interaction with Jones. His own guilt subdued, good deed done, he would forget about them both the second he disappeared down that tunnel.

“I’ll be right there,” Jones tells the suited man and he promptly turns back to them both, “Before I go-”

“Oh! I need to show you one more thing!” Henry exclaims eagerly, clinging onto the interaction for dear life, and he spins around to show Jones the back of his shirt. “Look! I’ve got your name and number!”

“Good choice, lad,” Jones smiles warmly at him then turns directly to Emma, seizing the segue, “May I ask for your name and number?”

Emma stares blankly at him and just about manages to keep her jaw from dropping; that, she had not been expecting.

“Only, Scarlet took great pleasure in telling me that my wayward ball knocked your lad’s hotdog out of his hand,” Jones continues casually. “It only seems right that in my efforts to make it up to you both, I ensure that the two of you eat well tonight. That’s assuming, you’re staying in the city?”

“Yeah!” Henry nods eagerly, bouncing up and down. “We’ve got a stadium tour booked tomorrow so we’re staying nearby tonight.”

“Perfect!” Jones grins. “I can get done here and then get in contact, if that’s okay with you?”

Those blue eyes beam into her hopefully and Emma’s brain is scrambled. She can’t work out his intentions, but she knows she’s longing to spend more time with him. She nods slowly.

“In which case, uh, best I’ve got for paper…” he thinks on his feet and taps his left hand with her pen before offering both the hand and the pen to her, stretching his left arm over the railing.

She’s in a haze as she takes the pen and scrawls her number onto the back of his hand.

“Just take a deep breath and go to the game, for Henry,” she recalls her dad’s encouragement prior to ushering her out the hotel room early that morning. “You might even surprise yourself and have some fun whilst you’re there.”

Something tells her that spending the night with Villa Captain Killian Jones was not the ‘fun’ her father had been referring to.

--

Tags: @teamhook @laianely @booksteaandtoomuchtv @exhaustedpirate @anmylica @hollyethecurious @kmomof4 @winterbaby89 @undercaffinatednightmare @resident-of-storybrooke @tiganasummertree @stahlop @lfh1226-linda @darkshadow7 @fleurdepetite @captainswan-kellie @motherkatereloyshipper @soniccat @jrob64 @whimsicallyenchantedrose @jonesfandomfanatic @myfearless-love

[cantsayidont]

January-February 1945. Several years before the introduction of Kryptonian headbands, the first Superboy story in MORE FUN COMICS #101 shows Kryptonians wearing these yellow (gold?) or purple head coverings when in public or in formal situations. The purple and green ones worn by the Kryptonian women here appear to be skull caps with a decorative flap, while the ear pieces on the men's headgear suggests a leather football helmet, giving an early Buck Rogers vibe.

Most of these scenes and a lot of the dialogue and narration was more or less standardized throughout the various early depictions of Superman's origin, and also incorporated into the radio show. Note that Jor-El goes bareheaded at home, but as soon as he goes outside, he puts on the headgear again.

Jor-El leaves his headgear on during his meeting with the Supreme Council, who all have the same head coverings, suggesting that the headgear is for formal occasions as well as going about in public. However, he removes it again after returning home. The Kryptonian headgear was a new feature in this story — I think the Kryptonian men seen in earlier versions in the comic book and comic strip were all bareheaded — and the headbands, first seen in 1948, after the departure of Siegel and Shuster, seem to have been an adaptation or variation on that idea. Another unusual detail is that unlike most later versions, all Kryptonian men wear identical outfits, not varying even in color. (One man in the first panel above has one green sleeve, but that's almost certainly a coloring error, which for once the reprint has retained.)

Note that while Kryptonians are aware that they would have incredible powers on Earth, that doesn't appear to rank highly among Jor-El's priorities; unlike the rather fascistic overtones of the later MAN OF STEEL version, his object is refuge, not empowerment. Also, unlike in many later versions, Jor-El hopes to save Lara as well as Kal-El, but she chooses to stay. Although it's not mentioned here, in some versions, including the initial radio episodes, Lara argues that Kal-El's ship will have a better chance of escaping without her added weight.

[thelastspeecher]

Stanuary '23 - Week 1: Mystery

I didn't have work today because of the New Year, which meant I could work on Stanuary! And I actually finished it! So I'm getting off to a good start here.

Last year, I used my Smallville AU as the basis for one of the Stanuary prompts, and I'm doing it again! Quick note of context: This AU has Stan and Ford jointly took the role of Clark Kent as seen on the TV show Smallville. As for everything else, well, I think that this ficlet will be able to fill you in.

———————————————————————————————————–

              Stan clenched the football in his hands until it popped into pieces.  Ford, who was doing the dishes, rolled his eyes.

              “Are you going to do your chores or just stand there steaming?” he asked.  He and Stan were in the kitchen, getting started on their weekend chores.  Or, at least, Ford was.  Stan threw the pieces of the football to the ground.  “Come on, what’s going on with you?”

              “Ma still won’t let me try out for the football team,” Stan ground out.  Ford rolled his eyes again.

              “You know why you can’t.”

              “I can keep my powers in check!”

              “You just destroyed our only football,” Ford pointed out.  Stan glared at him.  “You seem particularly irate today.”

              “Duh!  My twin brother rescued a rich guy yesterday and now he’s getting sent all sortsa expensive gifts by that rich guy!”

              “You mean Bill Cipher?” Ford asked.  Stan nodded.  “The gifts don’t even matter!  Ma made me return all of that stuff back so that we wouldn’t attract attention or whatever.”

              “Yeah, she’s off her rocker,” Stan muttered.  “Still, you saved someone!”

              “Because he hit me with his car.”

              “So?  It’s better than anything I’ve ever done!”  Stan punched the wall, his fist going through the plaster like it was tissue paper. 

              “Ma’s gonna be upset about that.”

              “Whatever!  You’re already way better in school than I am, it’s not fair you get to have this big heroic moment!”

              “Look,” Ford sighed, “it’s not actually as great a thing as you think.  Ma’s freaking out about Bill potentially seeing me use my powers to rescue him.��  Stan grunted wordlessly.  “It’s normal for you to feel upset over perceived missed opportunities-”

              “Normal?” Stan snapped, with such venom that Ford actually took a step away.  “Normal?  What about us is normal?  What about us has ever been normal?”

              “You’re far more normal than I am,” Ford said.

              “How normal am I, really?” Stan asked.  He turned on the garbage disposal and shoved his arm into it.  There was a shout.

              “Stanley Kent, what are you doing?!” Ma Kent shrieked, rushing over.  She pulled Stan’s arm out of the sink.  His shirt sleeve was in tatters, but he didn’t have a scratch on him.  The same couldn’t be said of the garbage disposal.  It had ground to a complete halt, destroyed by Stan’s impenetrable skin.  “What…”

              “This is how Ford survived getting hit by Bill Cipher’s car yesterday,” Stan said.  He yanked his arm out of his mother’s grasp.  “Guess we’re men of steel now or something.”

              “You said the car didn’t hit you,” Ma Kent said to Ford.  Ford looked down guiltily.  “Stanford?”

              “I didn’t want you to worry,” Ford mumbled.  Ma Kent sighed.  She shook her head.

              “What am I gonna do with you two?” she said softly.

              “You could start by, I dunno, not lying to us all the time,” Stan said.  Ma Kent glared at him.

              “I know you didn’t just accuse your hardworking single mother of lying,” she said.  Stan crossed his arms.

              “We ask you what you know about our abilities, or whatever you wanna call them.  And every answer you give is a lie!” Stan said.  Ma Kent crossed her arms as well.  “You were the one who taught me how to catch liars, Ma.”

              “Hmph.  That’s true.”

              “Then is what Stan said about you lying to us true?” Ford asked.  Ma Kent reluctantly nodded.  “Then you do know why we have our abilities.”

              “Yes.  I do.”  Ma Kent closed her eyes.  “I’d tell you, but you wouldn’t believe me.  I’ll have to show you.”

              “What could be so unbelievable that we’d think you were still lying to us?” Ford asked.  “We’re already superpowered teenagers!”

-----

              Stan and Ford gaped at the spaceship in the cellar.

              “This is why you didn’t like us going in the cellar alone,” Ford said quietly.  He shook his head.  “Ma, this raises more questions than it answers.  Are- are we aliens?”  Ma Kent leaned against the cellar wall and idly lit a cigarette.

              “Yep.”  She took a drag of her cigarette.  “Landed here in Smallville during that meteor shower people around here still talk about.”

              “So you’re an alien, too?” Stan asked.  Ma Kent shook her head.

              “Nope.  Human.  You boys are adopted.”  Stan and Ford’s jaws dropped again.  “I know they say you should tell kids they’re adopted from the start or whatever, but I figured these were special circumstances.  All those ‘experts’ in ‘child psychiatry’ were going off the assumption the adopted kids were the same species as the adoptive parents.”  Ma Kent smiled at her sons.  “Don’t ever think I loved you any less.”

              “We know,” Stan and Ford said together.

              “Good.”  Ma Kent sighed.  “Filbrick and I, we couldn’t have biological children, so we decided to adopt.  We were on our way back to New Jersey from an antiques conference when the meteor shower happened.  A big rock came right at us while we were on the road.  Filbrick swerved so we wouldn’t get hit, but we wound up steering off the road and into a cornfield.  Car was fine.  I got out to try to push the sucker back onto the road, and well.”  Ma Kent’s eyes went misty.  “I found you two.  In your little spaceship.”  She pushed herself off the wall and walked over to Stan and Ford to stroke their cheeks.  “Just the cutest things I’d ever seen.  I couldn’t leave you two behind to get scooped up by the government or some shady scientist.  So I didn’t.  I brought you boys home with me.”

              “How’d you convince Filbrick to take us in?” Stan asked.  He couldn’t remember Filbrick well; they’d left New Jersey quite some time ago.  But from what he remembered, Filbrick didn’t seem the type to adopt twin aliens.

              “Talked him into it.  Even Filbrick can’t resist my silver tongue.”  Ma Kent scowled.  “At least, that used to be the case.  Eventually, he built up a resistance.”

              “Does that have anything to do with why we left New Jersey?” Ford asked.  Ma Kent tsked at Ford and pinched his cheek, smiling with pride.

              “My little genius.  It has everything to do with that!”  Ma Kent’s smile faded.  “At first, you two just seemed like regular human kids.  But once it was clear you had some alien abilities, Filbrick started to get antsy.  He eventually put his foot down, saying he was gonna turn you over to the government.”  Stan and Ford’s eyes filled with fear.  “So that night while he was sleeping, I grabbed everything I could think of, including the two of you, threw it all into the car, and drove off.”

              “Why did you come back to Smallville?” Stan asked.  “Filbrick knows we came from here!”

              “Oh, please.  He’s not the kind of person to go chasing halfway across the country for a woman he butted heads with and two boys he didn’t even like.  But just in case, I changed our last names and made friends with the locals.  The bonds between people in small towns are strong.”  Ma Kent smirked.  “And the second I would mention us leaving Filbrick for your safety, people practically begged me to let them shoot him.”  She took a step back and glanced at the spaceship.  “I figured this was the best place for you.  There’s the chance you two and a buncha rocks weren’t the only things from your home planet that landed here.”

              “Have you found anything of our home planet other than the spaceship and meteors?” Ford asked eagerly.  Ma Kent shook her head.  “…Oh.”

              “That doesn’t mean it’s not here.  It just means that I’m a single mother to twin superpowered teenage boys who also happens to own the busiest coffee shop in town.”

              “The only coffee shop in town,” Stan muttered.  Ma Kent slapped him across the back of his head.  “It’s true!”

              “Yes, and the reason we don’t have any competition is ‘cause I work so hard at making this the best place to get coffee in the county,” Ma Kent snapped.  Stan rolled his eyes.

              “How- how did you get the spaceship in the cellar on your own?” Ford asked suddenly.

              “It’s not as heavy as it looks and your ma’s stronger than she seems,” Ma Kent said airily.  She glared at Stan, who was rubbing the back of his head ruefully.  “Oh, please!  You two just told me you can’t get hurt!”

              “Oh.  Right.  It doesn’t hurt.”  Stan’s hand dropped to his side.  “Do you think the spaceship’s got a ‘phone home’ thing in it?”  Ma Kent shrugged.

              “Maybe.  But I could never open the damned thing.  Closed up once you boys were outta it and hasn’t opened since.”

              “Perhaps it will respond to our non-human touch,” Ford said.  He placed a hand on the spaceship.  Nothing happened.

              “It was worth a shot,” Stan said.  “Guess we’ll never find out anything about where we came from.”

              “Not with that attitude!” Ford said passionately.  He looked at Ma Kent.  “Ma, can we be excused from our shift at the coffee shop today?  I think Stan and I should go look for clues as to our heritage.”

              “Fine.  I’ll call Sally and see if she wants to do some work today.  She’s always fun to shoot the breeze with.”

              “Excellent!” Ford enthused.  “Stan, stay here.  I’ll be right back with some supplies for our search.”

              “Oh, good,” Stan muttered.  Ford rushed up the stairs, leaving his mother and twin alone in the cellar.  Ma Kent ground the butt of her cigarette under one of her typical bright red high heels.  She raised an eyebrow at Stan.  “…What?”

              “You don’t seem half as intrigued by the mystery as your twin.”

              “Whattaya want me to say, Ma?  That I’m excited to be an alien?”

              “Stanford clearly is.”

              “Yeah, well, Stanford’s always stuck out, so he’s glad there’s a reason for it.”  Stan looked away.  “I’m just- I really can’t do sports if I’m an alien, can I?”

              “Sweetie.”  Ma Kent walked over to Stan.  She stroked his hair.  “You boys are getting stronger every day.  And you just had a new ability show up!  Who’s to say there won’t be others?  It’s safest for you to fly under the radar.”

              “Sports is all I’ve ever wanted to do.”

              “You’ll find something else.”  Ma Kent kissed Stan on the cheek.  “Maybe that new thing will be cracking the mystery of what you are.”

              “Not a chance.  It’s already Ford’s thing.”

              “And what have I told you two about sharing?” Ma Kent asked pointedly.  Stan managed a small smile.  “You’re a teenager.  Everything’s weird and changing at your age.  Give yourself some time to straighten out before deciding you’ll never be able to follow your dreams.”

              “…Fine.  But I’m gonna keep doing sports with the McGucket kids.”

              “Just don’t hurt any of ‘em and it should be fine.  Even if they see something odd, that family knows when something isn’t their business.”  Ford returned to the cellar.  He tossed a backpack at Stan, who caught it.

              “Come on, Stan!  We have a mystery to solve!”

              “We’re not the Hardy boys,” Stan mumbled, putting on his backpack.

              “Correct.  We’re better,” Ford said firmly.  Stan snickered.

              “We’re definitely more attractive.”

              “All right you two, get outta here before I change my mind and make you work your shift after all,” Ma Kent said, making a shooing gesture with her hands.  Stan and Ford exited the cellar.  Stan looked at his Ford.

              “Where are we gonna start our search?”

              “I was thinking we could look in the cornfield that our spaceship landed in.  Back to where it all began.”

              “That seems as good a place as any to start.”  Stan looped his arm around Ford’s shoulders.  “And since it’s on the McGuckets’ property, we can stop by the house for a slice of pie.”

              “Excellent idea.”

              “When it comes to food, I’m full of ‘em, Sixer.”

[white-light-on-my-prism]

Tagged by my fav moots who I'm not even sure are real cause they're too good to be true @mebiselfandi @thesupermegahell

rules: share the first lines of your ten most recent fanfics and tag ten people. if you have written less than ten, don't be shy and share anyways.

Okay so... while I have written more than 10 fanfics in my lifetime, very few of them are Neymessi, because I've only recently started writing about them. So I'll share lines from those, along with the link and name and pairing, but if I find any other excerpts from fanfics I've written for different fandoms, and they make sense without context, I'll just dump them here without any additional information. Fair warning though, a few of my fanfics are poems, a format people usually don't use for fanfics, so bear with me.

1. you put me on and said I was your favourite — Neymessi.

2010. A friendly against Brazil's biggest football rival, Argentina. Yet, that was the farthest thing from Neymar's mind, as it was currently occupied in its full capacity by the player, or as he'd describe, the magician of his dreams, Lionel Messi.

The man was a miracle, and, as always, Neymar was mesmerised. Messi's pale cheeks flushed red from the sun, his long hair swinging with every swift turn of his, his legs changing directions at lightning speed, the ball glued to his feet as if in reverence. Neymar couldn't believe a mortal had it in them to be so beautiful. Football was already art to him, but Messi's existence, perhaps, was his final bit of proof.

2. Wait for me, will you? — Neymessi.

Rolling river, running stream

I'm a helpless rock on top of a hill

Your current draws me swirling in

Yet I push against its way.

What will other people say?

3. Exile — Neymessi.

Neymar had never put much stock in the inner workings of the colour white. He could vaguely recall from sixth standard, learning something about white light falling on a prism and exploding in rainbow hues. Neither was he the one for academics, nor was his family the one for rainbows, so all he had known, all he had ever seen with those iridescent eyes of his, was life in black and white. The patterns on his childhood football, the one true love of his life, were drawn in the same twin colours. Then why was he, in that one wretched evening, finding the same opposing tints holding his throat so brutally to a knife?

The 30th of June, 2017.

4. 3 times Anto sees the flower blossom (+1 time she waters the plant :)) — Neymessi.

Antonela is standing, unsuspecting, on the sidelines of the Barcelona training ground, calmly enjoying the spring breeze, when a football hits her smack on the face.

Her vision turns black and her legs give away in a wobbly fashion for the slightest moment, before she locks eyes with her offender while still face down on the ground.

"Leo, you bobo, watch where you're hitting!"

Leo jogs up to her and gives her a hand, but Anto slaps hard on his palm, and gets up on her own.

"Not my fault if you're standing in the way, I'm just trying to play football."

5. It was dark.

The inherent calm of the misty night air was turned restless by the buzzing sound of crickets.

Festive lights had been switched off, so had the lamps in every room of the household. Hardly anyone, however, had been able to fall asleep. Only one tiny bulb shone downstairs, in the guest room, where two police officers clad in uniform sat upright in a chair and on the bed, cautiously sipping water from soiled steel glasses. <name redacted> presently stood with a tray in her hand, waiting for the men to return her their tumblers.

"Thank you", they said unanimously while placing their glasses on the tray.

"Thank you my foot", she mumbled under her breath on her way out of the room.

6. Fuck. I was hearing voices in my head again. The lines between truth and fallacies never felt more blurred. And here I was, caught between them both, trying to pick up the last pieces of my crumbling self esteem behind the closed doors of an empty washroom.

I looked at myself in the mirror. Face full of badly done make-up, smeared with tears; one eyeliner wing looking way different than the other.

7. Long before I knew you

I had gotten used to life in an armour.

Living in a tower, all bricks and concrete

No paint, no lawns, no light, no wind.

All alone.

"Alone's good," I had convinced myself,

Betrayal not likely in a one man army...

But then, I met you.

8. Breaths were coming in short gasps as our faces were inches apart. His black eyes were gleaming blue under some tinted light.

What were words? My head wondered.

All I could see were his soft lips, all I could feel was the prick of his light stubble under my fingertips.

"<name redacted>... I think I love you."

A teardrop or two brimmed on his waterline. A few more creases formed on his forehead.

Just as my right hand dropped from his face, I felt a loss of grip on my waist.

Sooner than I could process, his hold on my left hand tightened and his other hand grabbed me by my shirt.

He stood on his tip toes and planted his lips on mine.

I THINK THAT'S ALL I'LL DUMP HERE! Not tagging anyone because I'm late to this challenge as it is, so all my dearies must have already made this post if they wanted to. But if you didn't yet and you're seeing this, you're tagged! Thanks for reading, hope you had fun. I know I certainly did🧚‍♀️