#Spoilsport Records

[bandcampsnoop]

10/12/24.

Tam Richards-Matlakowski. I first fell for his music (and especially his voice) over a decade ago when I listened to and bought the Pop Singles LP (a truly treasured part of the collection). Since then I've bought a few Tam Vantage cassettes as well as LPs from bands he's played in - Girlatones and Permits. It's interesting to see it all written here - it adds up to quite a lot.

Now, there's Carpet Burn (Melbourne, Australia). This band is one where Tam is upfront but shares the spotlight with Kayley Langdon. The result is yet another set of pure Australian indie pop magic.

This is a 7" released on Spoilsport Records.

[senorboombastic]

What’s On Michael Portillo’s iPod: Dragnet

Here at Birthday Cake For Breakfast, we like to get to the heart of what an artist is all about. We feel that what influences them is just as important as the music they make. With that in mind, off the back of releasing their new album ‘The Accession‘, Jack Cherry of Aussie outfit Dragnet talks us through what influenced the record. Take it away, Jack… Words: Andy Hughes The Fall album…

[delicatebarness]

For Avengers Bunch

I was on instagram earlier and I saw this guy playing Just Dance and I was imagining that it was a part of game night and the young avengers had Bucky dance to that one song the “ there lived a certain man who was big and strong…” anyway yeah I can them doing this🤣🤣

Maybe nat and yelena could join him on the dance as well

The Avengers Bunch | Ra Ra Rasputin #007

Summary: ^^ Requested.

Warning: Fluff. Mild flirting between you and Bucky.

Word Count: 654

Series Masterlist | Support: Ko-Fi

Tags: @somnorvos

Everything: @hallecarey1 | @pattiemac1 | @uhmellamoanna | @scraftsku35 | @ozwriterchick | @sapphirebarnes | @rach2602

Laughter and music filled the common room as you gathered for a well-deserved break. The large screen projected the displays of colorful graphics of Just Dance, and the upbeat intro of some potential songs to dance to started to play. 

You, Peter, Kate, and Yelena stood in front of the screen, ready to show off. Bouncing with excitement, Peter’s usual enthusiasm was on full display. Yelena, as always was in her competitive state of mind, arms stretched and cracking her knuckles. She was ready to give it her all. 

“I hope you’re ready to lose,” Yelena smoked as she adjusted her stance. 

Rolling her eyes, Kate played along. “Bring it on, Lena. You’re not the only one who knows how to move.” 

As the music started, the four of you began to follow the Just Dance coaches on screen, movements quickly falling into sync. Peter attempted a particularly tricky move, nearly tripping over his own feet as laughter erupted. 

The dance finished and you glanced around the room, spotting Bucky leaning against the doorway. He stood watching the chaos with a bemused expression. A smirk played on your lips as an idea sparked. “Hey, Barnes! Why don’t you join us?” 

Raising an eyebrow, Bucky shook his head. “I don’t think so. I haven’t danced since the 40s.” 

A mischievous glint flashed over Yelena’s eye as she grinned. “Come on, Old Man. Don’t be a spoilsport. We all know you have the moves.” 

Joining in, Kate’s voice teased. “Yeah, Bucky. Show us how it’s done.” 

“You can’t just stand there and watch,” Peter added to the friendly peer pressure. “It’s against the rules.” 

You managed to coax Bucky into the room with collective effort. Sighing dramatically, yet he couldn’t hide the hint of a smile. “Fine. But, if anyone records this for your little TikToks… you’re all in trouble.” 

The next round started, and Bucky found himself in the spotlight as the beat of “Rasputin” by Boney M. started to play. He tried to follow the on-screen instructions to the best of his ability as the rest of you cheered him on, your own dance momentarily forgotten about. 

“Ra Ra Rasputin, lover of the Russian queen!” the chorus of the song, blared through the speakers as Bucky moved stiffly at first, however, he soon found his rhythm. His expression was serious, contrasting hilariously with the dance moves, and once again, the room erupted into laughter. 

You decided to call out words of encouragement. “You got this, Bucky! Just let it loose!”

“Who knew the Winter Soldier could boogie?” Peter said in between breaths as he doubled over with laughter.

Kate and Yelena were in tears, they could barely keep up with the moves as they clapped along to the beat. 

Bucky was out of breath by the time the song ended. You all cheered and applauded, congratulating him on a job well done as he grinned widely. A rare sight that made the moment that little bit more special. 

“You kids are something else,” he shook his head, still smiling. 

You gave Bucky a playful pat on the back. “You definitely earned some cool points today.£ 

Leaning a bit closer to you, Bucky smirked. “Oh, just tonight? I thought I was always cool.” 

Meeting his gaze, a teasing glint in your eyes. “Well… you did have a few moments before, but this… this really sealed the deal.” 

Peter grinned, raising his hand for a high-five, instantly regretting it after receiving an intense glance from Bucky. “That was awesome, Sergeant Barnes. You should join us more often.” 

Bucky chuckled, his eyes lingering over to you. “I think I could be convinced.” 

A smile played on your lips as you tilted your head. “You know, there’s dance duets too.” 

Bucky raised an eyebrow, a smirk lifting at the corner of his mouth. “I’ll keep that in mind. Just make sure you save a dance for me.” 

---

Series Masterlist | Support: Ko-Fi

[thequietkid-moonie]

Polyamorous relationship headcanons with a caotic, confident and powerful reader

[ Qin & Hades ] [ Shuumatsu no Valkyrie / Records of Ragnarok ]

An interesting idea requested by an anon, it was really interesting to write this!! I hope you like it ❤️

Both are happy to be in a relationship with you, however your personality match pretty well Qin's personality and that could lead you to have a lot of caothic situations to deal with. Sometimes Hades feels like he is dealing whit his spoiled childs rather than with his partners, however he will be lying if he says that he doesn't have a lot of fun with you two, and, besides, he loves taking care of both of you

Hades is always worring for the two of you, he doesn't want to be a spoilsport but he can't stop himself from worring for the caotic people he is in love with, just his big brother instinct, while Qin just laughs at it because he is the one whos constantly having challenges with you and playful fights (that Hades has to stop before you two actually get hurt)

Hades admire your power and confidence on yourself, he find it admirable attributes but sometimes fears a little that you could be being too confident of yourself and that you could be tricked on something. In the other hand Qin is completely enamored with your personality and attitude and normally the two of you just follows each other games

Qin is always bragging about the two of you to whoever is willing to hear and always do it with an inmense love and pride. He talks about how caring is Hades, how caothic you are, how strong and smart are the two of you, how you two always train together, or whenever you do something special and romantic he is bragging about that too! And Hades is not far behind from him, he isn't openly bragging about your relationship with everyone but everyone can notice how much he loves the two of you, a soft smile apear in his face everytime he even just hear your only names

Both of them has a lot of work to do since both are kings on their own, but also both always tries to spend as much time as posible they can with the others. As well both are pretty open with their love and doesn't have problem with showing it by directly and indirect ways, so going out in special dates is pretty common for the three of you

Qin is the most affectionate of you, he is always up for any kind of physical affection and is always hugging you or resting his arms around your shoulders or waist, as well with Hades, he doesn't mind much but he prefers to keep the affection in private mainly because he doesn't want to his work get involved with his private life (and because he prefers to put his fully attention to you two whenever he is going to spend time with you)

Hades is normally more calm but that doesn't mean he is going to decline an invitation from you to train together, he will hate for one of you (or even him) to end up seriously hurt but he is just too excited to see the real power of you two, he wants to appreciate your true strength and maybe learn from you two. While Qin is more excited than anything, he is confident that you two are stronge enough and won't end seriously hurt AND he is too excited over the idea to be able to fight with you (but it would hurt his pride a little if you win against him)

Sometimes instead of fighting between you Hades brings the idea of fighting the creatures that are around the helheim, he prefer it that way and Qin likes that idea too because that way he can turn it into a competition with you two

Serious and heavy arguments isn't common but it happen, specially when they are being stubborn with their own ideas (for Hades worring too much, Qin being too irresponsible, or you insisting in your own idea), when it happens they have to take a while to calm down and think clearly before meeting again and apologizing (in their own way) and be ready to continue with everything

[gogesimp]

A #五夏 omegaverse AU-

Satoru has been walking around the church courtyard. He knows the elders would frown at such behaviour, he should be attending the ceremony.

But he has a small warm body nestled against his sturdy shoulders, his tiny head resting on Satoru's shirt clad shoulder. The young one is asleep, held close by his father. A tiny hand grasps at the linen stretched taut over Satoru's ripped body, as he slumbers peacefully.

Satoru had decided to walk around, at least this way his baby would feel relief from the stifling heat of the day. He has discarded his own suit & rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, which sticks to him because of the sweat. It seems his idea worked because the little one fell asleep as soon as he stepped out of the hall.

He'd have preferred if him & his family were in their temperature controlled apartment, instead of sweating it out here. But Satoru knows that he would never have missed this wedding, even if the heat & humidity are playing spoilsport.

He makes his way back to where Suguru is sitting. He is wearing a suit matching Satoru's, though he knows his beloved would've preferred a dress. But practicality demanded he wear something which would make it easier for him to breastfeed their babies.

Satoru sees him sitting there, holding the other twin against his chest as he feeds him, a serene smile on his face.

Satoru approaches & Suguru looks up. His beautiful purple eyes take in the slumbering figure of his baby & he sighs in relief.

"Give her to me when she's done ok?"

Suguru can't bring himself to protest. He is still recovering from the delivery which was more taxing on him than he had expected. Again if not for the significance of the day, he would have preferred staying at home and resting.

He just hums and turns his head to look at the ceremony unfolding. Though since he's seated he can't see which part they've reached.

"Satoru, what is going on? Have they said their vows?"

His husband turns to look to the front. Even though they are situated to one side of the hall, Satoru's height means he has a clear view.

"Maybe they are over because I can see Shoko holding out a kerchief for Yuuji. Didn't I tell you the kid will start bawling even before the wedding's done."

"Stop teasing poor Yuuji, Satoru. Weren't you a mess as well?"

"At least I didn't cry." At an unimpressed look from his wife, Satoru changes the subject.

"Oh! I can see some drama brewing. "

"What? What are you talking about?"

Satoru's face has a grin which he gets when he knows there's going to be some shit that's gonna blow up.

"Yuuji's uncle has been making eyes at Megumi's dad. "

"Making eyes you say..."

"Yeah, it seems like there will be a brawl as soon as they step out."

"Do you think someone will record it for me? I am sad that I can't see any of it."

Satoru is amused.

"Are you talking about the fight or the wedding Suguru?"

"Mostly the wedding, but the fight, /if/ it happens would be a bonus. I did ask Kento to record but I'm not sure if he'd do it."

"Ha! Nanami would surely do it. Especially now, he's even more amenable to his wife's requests. And you know Haibara likes to capture such moments."

"Yeah, it's cute seeing how careful and attentive Kento is. He always was, but ever since Haibara got pregnant he's become extra diligent, just like you were Satoru."

His husband doesn't give a reply but just keeps his eyes glued to the front.

It was on Suguru's insistence that they decided to have kids. But even though Satoru was never interested & could even be said to be averse to babies, he was with Suguru the entire time. He did nything & everything to relieve Suguru of any pain or discomfort he felt during the pregnancy. Suguru had this irrational worry, of whether Satoru would be able to bond with the babies. But once again he was proven wrong. Even though he wasn't effusive with his love and affection, their babies were his priority and the centre of his attention, always.

He took to them, quietly, without pomp and show. And Suguru feels that the twins are really lucky, to have such a father who loves them so dearly.

He feels his daughter unlatch her tiny mouth and he carefully brings her up to wipe her face and pat her back to burp her.

Satoru leans down then, to pick her up and place her on the free shoulder. But as soon as she is picked up & away from her mother's warmth, her brow furrows & a loud, lusty cry sits on her wobbly lips.

But the danger is averted because as soon the young one's nose gets buried in Satoru's neck, she calms down. Her father's strong, clean scent is enough to allay any fears. The babe nuzzles against the sturdy shoulder & slowly drifts off to sleep, just like her twin.

Witnessing this scene, it's hard for Suguru to not feel overwhelmed. With love and affection for his mate and husband. And Satoru must sense it as well, because he takes hold of Suguru's hand & brings it up to place a tender kiss. His cerulean eyes lock with those violet ones, and his heart feels full. When he feels the babes on his shoulders stir he decides it's time to walk around the courtyard once again. Suguru gives his hand a squeeze before letting go and relaxing into his chair. He doesn't mind missing most of the ceremony, he can watch the videos. And it seems soon they'll have another wedding, if he has to go by the covert glances Yuuta is throwing at a blonde guy standing next to Megumi's older sister.

A smile on his face, Satoru steps out, his hands holding onto the two most precious people in his life.

[octoberobserver]

The Comforting Detective - Sherlock & Co. Fic

(Read on ao3 here)

“No! No, plea—help! Please! Somebody hel—”

“...tson. Watson! JOHN!”

John shot up, his eyes bursting open, his whole world tilting on its axis.

A strong hand gripped his shoulder, stopping him from toppling off the…?

“Why’m’I on the couch?” he mumbled, his vision swimming as the chaotic sounds of gunfire and screaming still echoed in his ears.

“Because we fell asleep on it after getting back from the pub,” Sherlock replied, tone tired and still a little tipsy. “Your shoulder makes a surprisingly comfortable, sentient pillow, Watson.”

“Hm. Thanks,” he grumbled, running a hand through his hair as he felt Sherlock shift against him. “You wanna sit up, mate? This couch can’t be good for your back. I know mine is bloody killing me.”

“Can’t. Trapped.”

John frowned, turning around to gape down at him.

“What do you mean you’re—o-oh my God.”

A snort of laughter escaped him as his bleary eyes fell on Archie, who was sprawled right across Sherlock’s midriff, fast asleep and snoring loudly.

“Looks like you make a pretty good sentient pillow yourself, Sherlock,” he teased, groggily digging around in his pocket for his phone.

“Don’t you dare.”

“What?”

“Don’t you dare take a picture, Watson. I can see, even in my post-inebriated state, those cogs turning in that little brain of yours.”

“My brain isn’t little.”

“No, it’s perfectly average-sized for an adult male,” Sherlock waved his free hand, the other holding Archie in place. “But I can still see you scheming. Stop it.”

John half-heartedly dropped his phone back into his pocket, grumbling, “Fine. Spoilsport,” but firmly snapping a mental image of his flatmate and dog cuddling for him to chuckle at later.

The soft ‘tick tock’ of the clock on the mantelpiece, with the accompaniment of Archie’s not-so-soft snores, was all that sounded throughout the room for several beats. Until…

“Do you want to talk about it?”

The tears currently drying on John’s cheeks were enough for both of them to know what Sherlock was referring to.

He cleared his throat, trying (and probably failing) to subtly wipe at the corner of his right eye.

“Not really.”

“Okay,” he felt Sherlock shift again, the back of his forearm resting against John’s knee. “The offer to hold my hand still stands, though.”

He looked down at the narrow palm and long, bony fingers pressing against his jeans, and a familiar (if a little confusing) ache rose within him.

“Thank you,” he replied, his breath a touch uneven as he let his hand fall down on top of his.

Slowly and slightly awkwardly, Sherlock’s fingers closed around his and squeezed gently.

“Hm,” he murmured. “One more thing, Watson. Your equipment was still recording when we got back to the flat. So you may want to go in and edit out all of our…drunken ramblings and…everything that followed. Not sure the listeners would find that very enthralling.”

John thought the listeners would find that a lot more than very enthralling if the constant tweets, posts and emails speculating about the progression of their relationship were anything to go by. But he smartly kept that to himself.

“You’re a good friend, Sherlock,” he smiled softly, squeezing his hand back and feeling his once hammering heart beginning to slow.

He had said the ‘F’ word again. The good one. It wasn’t the first time he had referred to him as more than just his flatmate, but he could tell the detective was still surprised nonetheless.

“You too…John.”

With their hands clasped together (something John couldn’t find in him to be self-conscious about), another quiet enveloped them, even more comfortable than the last, until Archie let out a particularly loud snore that had them both chuckling. Sherlock’s entire body shook with it, despite his efforts not to rouse the dog.

“I wonder what dogs dream about,” John managed to ponder through his laughs, a fond warmth flowing through him. “Chasing squirrels or pissing against lamposts, probably. Not warzones or other traumatic things, I hope.”

Sherlock made a humming noise, his thumb brushing John’s pinky finger.

“Experts wager that they do have their own version of nightmares,” he mumbled, his face angled towards Archie, no doubt analysing him. “Fear of abandonment, a time when they fought with another dog, being caught in a thunderstorm, those sorts of things.”

John let that sink in, his index finger resting on Sherlock’s knuckle.

“And what do these experts say help rid our dogs of bad dreams?”

“Comfort from their loved one,” Sherlock answered easily, his tone laced with something John couldn’t decipher as he watched him begin to pet Archie’s head. “A good cuddle should have them back to dreaming about squirrels and lamposts in no time. Apparently. If the studies hold any water.”

“Huh,” John said almost to himself, remembering with vivid clarity the hugging machine and was troubled not for the first time at the thought that that was all he had had for comfort until John and Mariana came along. “So they need comfort, then. Hugs and cuddles and holding hands. Like people.”

“Yeah, like some people. However, they do lack opposable thumbs, Watson. So, ‘holding hands’ is—”

“Yeah, yeah, Mr. Smarty Pants, you know what I mean,” he cut across him, grinning and rolling his eyes simultaneously, something which he did with startling frequency since meeting Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective.

His heart rate was finally back to normal.

“You know what else works wonders for comfort?” he asked, feeling much more himself again as his eyes landed on the clock.

7:04 am.

“What’s that, Doctor?”

“Good food,” he squeezed his hand one last time before gently extracting himself and standing up, calling over his shoulder, “Archie! Breakfast!”

Predictably, the dog shot awake, jumping down from Sherlock’s stomach with force.

“Oof! Ar…chie!” he scolded, winded from the blow. “B-Bloody dog!”

Another laugh escaped John as he made his way into the kitchen, untangling his recording equipment as he went, noticing the flashing low-battery light on his microphone and finally switching it off.

It was just a quiet, hungover breakfast with his friend and his dog. The listeners could wait.

Some things were just for them.

[thesinglesjukebox]

CHARLI XCX FT. LORDE - "THE GIRL, SO CONFUSING VERSION"

We opened July by giving you a Charli remix; we now close July by giving you a Charli remix. Let's work it out in the blurbs, then see you next month!

[7.62]

Julian Axelrod: The girls are fighting. The girls have always been fighting. Sometimes with each other, sometimes with their labels, usually with themselves. But even in a year dominated by petty beef, the girls are rarely fighting on record. Leave it to Charli to realize pop music is all wrestling and execute a perfect reverse heel turn. The week BRAT dropped, pulling back the coke-stained rug to reveal a trap door of professional insecurity, fans and critics clung to "Girl, so confusing" as the last vestige of the carefree club romp we were promised, spawning a million think pieces about which curly-haired brunette started the beef. Bringing Lorde into the mix one week later was at once an escalation and denouement, negating the feud narrative and digging down to the real emotions buried beneath its glossy sheen. Charli resents Lorde's success, her flakiness, and her critical acclaim. Lorde sees Charli as a 365 party girl too cool to acknowledge her, let alone invite her to collab. It's all so insular and meta and self-obsessed and earnest and honest and real, to the point where it's almost too intimate to witness. But it's a testament to Charli and Lorde that the whole thing doesn't topple under its own weight, and hearing them write to each other's style makes you realize they have more in common than just hair. The girls are talking. The girls are collaborating. The girls are working it out on the remix. [9]

Jacob Sujin Kuppermann: Iconic! Culture-changing! This could have been a podcast! [5]

Andrew Karpan: Upon release, it was funny to hear the speculation that this record was about Lorde, in that way that it is always funny to know something that feels intimate and real about a roving symbol of pop phenomenology. At any rate, it was satisfying to hear that we were right. Turning this from subtext to text feels like a decisively modern gesture, a living and breathing genius dot com annotation, something one could easily confuse for Taylor Swift’s 1989 rollout or any other kind of “this phony fake friends fake girl power shit” -- but I’m less inclined to be cynical, even in the meme economy of it all. The fiction of these two people with their relatable problems is played so straight that I practically cried at the end. She rides for Charli! Charli rides for her! Hang it in the Louvre, but down in the back.  [8]

TA Inskeep: I've traditionally not been a fan of Charli XCX, for various reasons not worth getting into here. That's relevant because I am thoroughly knocked the fuck out by the next-level-meta "girl talk" dialogue of this meeting-of-the-minds remix. Lorde responds to Charli's verse with a lacerating one of her own, spilling her guts and getting very real; talk about "work[ing] it out on the remix," goddamn. Charli, of course, is expert at riding producer A.G. Cook's hyperpop rhythms, but to hear Lorde matching her as the track heaves and bumps is a shock. This is profoundly soul-baring pop, what with Lorde candidly talking about eating disorders and Charli admitting on her opening verse "I don't know if you like me / Sometimes I think you might hate me." That they're doing this so publicly is frankly stunning. This feels like -- this is -- a true pop moment. [10]

Alfred Soto: They're having fun, and for once one of these interrogations sounds lived-in. The beats pop harder. Listening to Lorde and Charli ribbit around the cheerful electro-frogs is a visceral pleasure. Few of the problems they describe code as "girl," though, so I'll be the spoilsport. [7]

Katherine St. Asaph: The original "Girl" had three problems, none of which got worked out on the remix. Problem the first: As with hot girl walks and girl math, this stuff is not especially girl-coded. Social anxiety and fake friendships are the human condition! Problem the second: I know it's a fandom joke, so apologies for bringing reality into your memes, but it must be said that basically no one is out here seriously comparing Charli XCX to Lorde, at least that I recall. I did a quick search to prove that I hadn't gaslit myself for a decade, and all I could find was this interview; which was almost definitely a bit; this anecdote about a taxi driver, which is mostly telling about the tastes of taxi drivers; and this Vox piece, which is... not good (or if you want to be charitable, maybe also a bit). In a music world where half the girls are regularly compared to half the other girls, that's an honestly impressive display of how much something hasn't happened. I know that none of us are privy to the actual lived history of Charli and Lorde's friendship, and I can certainly admire Charli stoking a grudge for 10+ years. But the emotional stakes just don't feel as dramatic as they've been hyped to, and thus the Internet inside my heart remains unbroken. Problem the third: There's also a song beneath the parasocial moment-making, and it sounds like "Take My Hand" but not as fun. [6]

Will Adams: Will I be sent to the gallows if I admit that this pairing had about the same emotional impact on me as when Taylor and Katy reunited in the "You Need To Calm Down" video? [6]

Hannah Jocelyn: I got thrown into the fire when it comes to female friendship, and honestly I still don't get it. There are entire movies about how nobody gets it, men just assuming women disappear into each other without a man to anchor them. I feel like cis women have the same bafflement, and they've been women for longer than I have. The questions are the same: do you like me? What do you need from me? Do you desire my company? What can I be, and what do I look like from this particular angle? Am I the one you tell your fears to? Do we have the same hair? Do you want to be me? I don’t think it’s a coincidence that this is in the tracklist right after the SOPHIE tribute of “So I”; it’s the same push-pull dynamic, the fascination and the fear of getting too close. Lorde’s devastating verse reveals the insecurities underpinning her decade of coolness, but she manages to add another quotable to her pantheon at the same time: “let’s work it out on the remix” is as sweet as “you buy me orange juice” and “down the back, but who cares, it’s the Louvre." I don’t care much about the rivalry (if there really is one) and don't need to, and that lack of care for extraneous knowledge is why I don’t quite love Brat like the rest of the internet. The juxtaposition between electroclash and Real Feelings occasionally feels like a gimmick, but the best songs make the melancholic subtext into text. This one, with its flanged chorus and cyclical chord progression, gets across the angst underneath the blurry JPEGs and silly memes. [8]

Taylor Alatorre: It's unfortunate that the zero-sum economy of the pop remix led to the excising of the song's most crucial lyric: "Think you should come to my party / And put your hands up." Apart from its now-obsolete function as a barely veiled clue, it encapsulates the nervous mixture of resentment and admiration that bleeds through both versions and that is so hard to portray sympathetically, let alone with such an impish wink. Charli, as someone who attended more warehouse raves than I did in the early 2010s, had more of a reason to puzzle over that particular line from "Team," to shake her head and wonder whether this post-twee moralizing was really what the kids were into – "the kids," of course, being those three to four years younger than her. Like, it just seems so childish to be genuinely bothered by the chorus to a Flo Rida hit, doesn't it? And yet Charli XCX still goes by the MSN screen name she had when she was 14. The "girl" in the title is as much an age signifier as it is about gender, and the humanizing awkwardness of the remix is a product of its function as an intermural high school reunion, the kind of event that's "confusing" by necessity even if it goes well, which this one does. Your Pop Class of 2013, 'til infinity. [7]

Jonathan Bradley: In 2011, an eternity ago, Drake offered Kendrick Lamar an entire track on his Take Care album, giving the then up-and-coming Lamar space to talk over his worries about fame and the professional anxieties he felt regarding his more successful host. "React like an infant whenever you're mentioned," Lamar recalled of the Canadian. "He said that he was the same age as myself, and it didn't help cause it made me even more rude and impatient." Having worked it all out on the remix, surely no trouble between the two would ever rise again. So confusing! In 2024, Lorde and Charli XCX connect to puzzle out some feelings, and it works better as an event than a single. Lorde is a savvier writer than Charli and works away at old wounds and insecurities with a sense of intimacy that only appears artless. Unfortunately, the production runs her through filters and bleeps that mold her presence into simply another type of Charli, dispelling the tension created by bringing these two women together. Blame it on Ms. XCX. [5]

Jackie Powell: The beauty of this remix is how it shines a light on how women in pop in 2024 deal with "diss tracks" -- although, to be honest, the remix makes me question whether "Girl, so confusing" really was one in the first place. Diss tracks often don't reveal complex emotions but just function in a universe filled with envy and pettiness, but this remix reveals the chaos that resulted from poor communication, fear, body issues, anxiety and depression. Both Charli and Lorde admit that the confusion of being a girl is a result of comparing your insides to someone else's outsides, a mental exercise that's often destructive but difficult to stop. "It's you and me on the coin/The industry loves to spend" is their acknowledgment of what came across as transparent and icky on Kendrick Lamar's "Not Like Us." Also, Lorde sounds the most compelling she has since 2017's "Melodrama"; while I always prefer less Auto-Tune than more, her talk-singing with audio distortion behind her vocals reminds me why she was so beloved. Her messaging is focused: Lorde at her best. Her vocals are dark: also Lorde at her best. What I find most fascinating here is the choice of words during the final pre-chorus. Charli and Lorde sing that they "ride for each other" after working this out, which sounds more sincere than singing that they now magically love each other. It's not an artificial "love ya," but the more sincere "I see you and I know now what you've been through." I'm actually quite jealous of how seamless this appears. Charli and Lorde are somehow giving me some hope that maybe my own friendship breakups could have been resolved by something like this.  [8]

Wayne Weizhen Zhang: Too many friends, not enough time to keep up. Too much life. Too much work, too many health issues, too much doomscrolling. Too much fun and connection and joy had together, but then rewinding it back, wondering whether everyone else felt the same way. Too much anxiety, becoming paralysis, becoming withdrawal. Too much wondering, "Did people notice I was missing? Should I reach out? Is this made up in my head, and if so, why?" Too many panics, trying to find the exact date of their birthday. Too much energy spent internalizing the loss—or even the potential loss—of friends as my own fault, not enough time spent understanding circumstance and accepting change. (Coincidentally, too much “Bad Friend” on repeat, god bless.) Too much time wasted not reciprocating the love of others, when they easily and excitedly extended the grace that I didn’t extend to myself. Too much adulthood, so confusing. But in this song? Just enough. Just enough sweat, enough mess, enough of the internet going crazy. Just enough payoff for being terminally online. Just enough intrapersonal catharsis, brought by talking it out, and making it clear that you do indeed ride for each other and will always “work it out on the remix.” Just enough tears shed, understanding that others, including the ones I idolize, can feel the way that I sometimes do. Just enough possibility of redemption. Just enough hope for salvation.  [10]

Nortey Dowuona: Two things I learned today. 1. Lorde is still her. 2. We need to re-evaluate Solar Power. [10]

[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox]

[eggwhisper]

Lanolin The Sheep

Well since the new issue dropped I decided "hey why not throw gasoline onto an open flame?" so this is my totally unwanted take on Lanolin, her characterization, and how I think issue 63 and beyond could've been fixed by swapping two characters roles around so uh-- Yeah! (Also light spoilers for the newest issue/issue 69 but only the Lanolin portion/the stuff you've probably already seen/read.) tbh, this is kind of a fix-it/wishful thinking/thoughts I hope the writers have in mind in the future for issues going forward as steering Lanolin back to being a "likeable (but bossy)" character is going to be difficult. And is also so I can get my own thoughts out of my head.

Anyway here goes (sorry if I don't articulate my points succinctly in advance btw) I think Whisper shouldn't have been the one to see "Duo" kick Silver but Tangle. Like swap Tangle and Whisper in the story kind of- (trust me I'm going somewhere with this) and here's my reasoning.

Tangle doesn't wear a mask that records what she sees unlike Whisper. So if it was Tangle who saw Silver get kicked she wouldn't be able to jump right to "It's Mimic" or at least she wouldn't have any reason to believe it was Mimic (even at the "eyes changing color" topic. Albeit this should be used to make her suspicious which leads to them spying on Duo.)

Now I think it should've been Tangle and Silver spying on Duo rather then Whisper and Silver for two reasons: First- Tangle's been shown to be actually really bad at stealth. (Ms. Sneak Sneak song, anyone?) So it makes sense that Lanolin would know they were spying on the cat the whole day. Secondly- It doesn't make Whisper look like she's bad at stealth when she's the literal SNIPER. (Like seriously- half the job of sniping is hiding! It doesn't make that much sense that she'd be bad at it and I wholly blame Silver for getting them caught.)

Of course they get caught (Tangle and Silver) by Lanolin and now it's here I'd like to veer a bit more into her characterization and how she handles her interactions with the cast (Specifically Tangle). Which is with a level of reserve/mild dislike in the form of Tangle. Let's not kid ourselves here Tangle and Lanolin don't get along as much as we (and Tangle herself) would like too. Tangle's bouncy and energetic, Lanolin's a no-nonsense spoilsport so it would make sense if she doesn't believe Tangle or heck even dismisses her in regards to Duo after the incident earlier with Silver. (As this would be an actual "he said, she said" situation unlike in canon where the mask that records is right there- seriously if it doesn't come up in canon or is otherwise properly addressed in the story I'm gonna be really disappointed.)

Anyway Lanolin doesn't like Tangle, that's the baseline we're going with here. (Or at the most generous reading Lanolin finds Tangle to be "taxing".) Point is the two aren't nearly as good of friends and Lanolin's dedication the job would be more substantial here as nobody by this point has any reason to suspect Duo is Mimic.

So cue the argument, Whisper shows up/comes to defend Tangle when Lanolin inevitably tries to lecture/chastise her and Silver claiming the lemur would have no reason to be suspicious without good cause. The argument continues and BOOM! Tangle drops the tidbit that Silver said that Duo's eyes changed color and now Whisper's suspicious. Leading Whisper to try and shove past Lanolin, now also a bit more paranoid. Cue the whole "act like soldiers not children" line with Lanolin grabbing Whisper first and the scuffle ensues with Duo rushing off and Silver "hurting" him when nobody's focused on them.

Now why do I feel like it should be set-up like this instead of how it was in canon? Well obviously because in canon Whisper should've also been punished like Silver. Possibly just as severely but isn't because again- plot. (Like c'mon, Whisper technically assaults a commanding officer, she should have gotten in some trouble regardless of context.) But with how this is set-up now Lanolin instigated the fight by grabbing Whisper so punishing the wolf for the fight is out of the question and Tangle would like in canon- rush to Whisper's side once she was downed, not fighting at all meaning beyond stalking their new recruit Tangle didn't do anything worthy of getting "kicked out" for.

Meaning Silver getting kicked out still happens (hey, got to find some way to make it end the same way it did, right?) But now Tangle and Lanolin have more reason to be antagonistic towards one another. Leading to the most recent issue where Tangle and Lanolin are dealing with Sonic and co. after the boards went haywire. (Like I said super minor 69 spoiler.)

Ergo I think Lanolin's character arc should've be more focused on her actually viewing her friends as well- friends. And I feel like exploring the relationship she has with Tangle is probably the best way to go about it because of how they've interacted so far. (Or use the lemur who more then likely would forgive her in ten seconds to get the sheep a bit more on the others wavelength.)

That's just my thoughts on the whole debacle concerning Lanolin and I really do hope the writers figure out a way to make Lanolin enjoyable to read again cause right now she just comes off a little mean-spirited with little reasoning for her actions beyond "strung-up military type" (Which is a great trope btw and it can be written extremely well). I guess I really just hope they nail down the blocks making up her character in a satisfying way.

Anyway this all just sorta popped into my head after reading issue 69 and glancing in Twitter's general direction for five seconds I just hope this riders arc ends up being really good because Eggman's drip is (As Starline would put it) Immaculate.

[trulybetty]

oct' x 23 - fog

Prompt: fog Pairing: tim rockford x f!reader Word Count: 692 Warnings: implied fellatio (fancy) and a tiny hint of spice, mistakes are my own Summary: thankyou @gnpwdrnwhiskey for kick-starting the thoughts on this one! stakeouts with tim...

x. masterlist

“This is all off the record,” he reminded you.

You stuck your tongue out at him, “Spoilsport.”

“I’m sure you’ll find another source to credit this with no issue.”

You went back to the crossword in the folded newspaper in your hand. “Twelve across, seven letters, affectedly grand, solemn or self-important.”

“I really hate when you do my crosswords,” Tim muttered, adjusting his seat and refocusing on the mist-shrouded building across the street.

“Then don’t make your stakeouts so boring.”

“Entertaining is not usually part of the process,” he grumbled, eyes scanning through the fog for any signs of movement. “Usually you know, strictly quiet and observe.”

“Well, that's going to make you stick out like a sore thumb.”

“What?”

“You sat all brooding in a car. Not entirely inconspicuous, Rockford.”

He pinched his brow, a headache already forming.

“You’re supposed to be helping, not hindering me.”

“Excuse you, I was the one who got you this lead. Consider it professional courtesy,” you retorted, flipping the page to look at the crossword clues' answers for a second.

Tim chuckled. “Professional courtesy, is that what we're calling it now?”

You shook your head, grinning despite the tension. “You're impossible, you know that?”

Silence fell between you both again, filled only by the quiet hum of the car's engine, keeping the heater going on this chilly, foggy night. You thought for a moment before refocusing on your crossword. “Twenty-three down, eight words, nuisance or unpleasant problem.”

“Headache,” Tim answered, his attention finally moving from the fog-covered view to meet your eyes with a look of annoyance.

Before you could open your mouth to respond, headlights from behind flooded the car.

“Shit,” Tim cursed as he looked up in the rearview mirror.

You sat up straight, the newspaper in your hands dropping to the floor, you knew better than to turn around, this wasn’t your first stakeout.

“What do we do?” You asked, trying to subdue the panic.

“Damn fog,” Tim muttered, gripping the steering wheel, “must have missed them coming around.”

Your mind raced. You needed a distraction, something to make whoever was coming around from behind not even give the two of you a second glance. In a split second, you ducked your head onto Tim’s lap.

“What are you doing?!” He hissed through gritted teeth.

“Shut up!” You hissed back, “just make it look like you’re enjoying yourself. If that’s even possible.”

Tim's face twisted in confusion for a split second before he caught on to what you were doing.

“If anyone bothers to look in,” you continued, “they're more likely to look away than try and see who’s in here,” you muttered, grabbing his hand to place it on the back of your head. “Misdirection Tim.”

His face twisted into a reluctant scowl, but he understood. This was no time for arguments; he knew you couldn't afford to draw attention. He kept his hand where you’d placed it, eyes still locked onto the rearview mirror.

The car behind you slowed down as it drove past. Tim threw his head back and groaned in a manner that boarded on comical and you tried not to laugh.

A moment stretched for what felt like an eternity, and then, finally, the headlights dimmed, and the car made a U-turn, disappearing into the fog.

Tim let out a sigh of relief, his grip loosening on the steering wheel as you sat up, taking a moment to adjust yourself.

He breathed a sigh of relief, “That was a good move,” he commented.

“Just part of my many charms,” you quipped, looking at the crossword once more before tossing it back onto the dashboard. “Alright, how much longer do you think we'll have to stay?”

Tim checked his wristwatch, “Another hour, maybe? Should give us a good scope of whoever comes in and out of that building.”

You sighed, settling back into your seat as you watched him adjust himself in an attempt to get comfortable.

You smirked, “Need help with that?”

“Focus,” he said, shaking his head in what could be taken as irritation, but the small smile that tugged at his lips told you otherwise.

[codelyokooutofcontext]

Today marks the one year anniversary of this blog's first post!

One year ago today, I acted on a whim and made a new blog to post moments from this show that, without context, look absolutely insane. I thought it was funny, my friends thought it was funny, but I didn't really have any big plans. I thought "I'll keep this around for a little bit and then probably drop it". Like I usually do with most projects of this nature.

If you'd told me I'd still be here a year later, I wouldn't have believed you. I especially wouldn't have believed you if you told me how many followers this account would amass in that time period. Honestly even being here now and seeing all of it, it's still a little hard to believe.

Thank you all for supporting this ridiculous little blog. It means a lot.

And after all this time, perhaps it's time for a proper introduction.

Hi, I'm YoshiStack! I've been utterly obsessed with this show since I was 4 years old and I've been involved in the fandom in some capacity since I was 13. Given that I'm about to turn 24 here in a little over a month, you could say I've been here for awhile!

Aside from this blog and the other few video edits I've done, my main contribution to fannish materials is fanfiction! I mostly write gen work about the friendship between the characters, as that's always been one of my favorite parts about the show and characters. You can find my CL work (and other oddities too if you're feeling adventurous) on Ao3 also under the name YoshiStack.

I'm also on YouTube! Right now I'm wrapping up a playthrough of the original Super Mario RPG before the remake releases and in the middle of a playthrough of a childhood game of mine, Thrillville: Off The Rails. I'm still a novice when it comes to recording stuff, but I'm having a lot of fun doing it and it'd mean the world to me if you checked it out.

(And as an aside: if you have audio or video editing you need done, hit me up either on here or the email I have listed on youtube! We'll see if we can work something out!)

Zero obligation to check out either of those ventures, but it'd mean a lot to me if you did!

Now here's some answers to some basic questions for CL and this blog that you may or may not have wondered about:

Favorite Character: Definitely Aelita! I love her arc! Her development from this character the others feel very protective over to ultimate sass master is so fun to watch

Favorite Episode: Oh that's so hard. But If I had to pick just a few...[REDACTED UNTIL POLLS CONCLUDE]

Spoilsport. Favorite season then?: Oh this one is easy! Season 2 for sure! It does a great job introducing all the new elements you need to know about in the beginning of it (Franz Hopper, William, Sector 5, etc) and has well done pay off at the end. And the stuff in the middle is just downright fun! A well executed season all around

Favorite Sector: Prooooobably forest? Something about all the trees is fun to me. Honestly I like most of the sector though. Minus desert. Too much desert in S1

Favorite Monster: I used to be all about the Bloks, but after running this blog for a year now I've gained an appreciation for the comedy that the Tarantulas often pull off. From well timed devirtualizations to killing one of its buddies with their own lasers, they're unintentionally really funny!

Favorite XANA Attack: I unironically love the food monster. Also the rat army. It's absolutely horrifying but pulled off so well

Favorite relationship: Ulrich and Aelita all the way man. Platonically I mean, their friendship is so underrated in the show itself but the few times they get to interact they're just gold (I am Jerlita trash too if you want to know more in that kind of relationship sense)

How do you pick out of context moments?: Honestly most of the time I just pick a random few episodes and skim through until I find something. Sometimes I'll have a particular moment in mind, but sometimes the funniest clips come from me just mindlessly looking through some episodes

Will you ever do Evolution out of context?: I considered using a clip from it for April Fools Day but I got lazy and never got around to it lol. Aside from that idea though, I don't know Evolution well enough to pulls clips from it, and I'm just not super interested in doing so at the moment. If anyone else reading this though has a burning desire though then you absolutely have my blessing (not that you need it obviously)

What do you think about the idea of the show possibly getting a continuation?: So I’ve always been pretty set in my thought that the show doesn’t really need a continuation. While more backstory on Project Carthage would be cool, it never really mattered to the Lyoko Warriors in the end, and the idea of bringing XANA back after they fought so hard to bring it down always felt cheap to me. They had their fight, they won, let them move on in peace.

That being said, the idea of the brains largely responsible for the original show having a genuine interest in continuing does have me at least a little intrigued. It’s way too soon to say whether or not anything will come from that interest of course—TV is a complicated thing and interest from creators alone isn’t enough to make it happen. But if nothing else, it’s nice to know that even all these years later, there’s still interest in the show and these characters from them.

How long will this blog be around?: Honestly I have no idea! I never thought I'd make it this far! I have no plans on stopping any time soon at least—there's tons of episodes I haven't even touched for out of context moments, so I'm not running out of material any time soon!

For now I’m just going to letting things run their course naturally and enjoy the ride.

That’s all I can think of to put here, but my askbox is always open for more questions!

Thank you all once again for your support for this year. I hope you'll join me going into our next one and beyond.

Here's to another year out of context!

[beckettj]

The Heart of a Villan - Chapter 4/5

Chapter Four - A Game of Two Halves

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: 7188

Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three

Read on AO3

The Heart of a Villan

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.

For the first time in a long, long time, Emma doesn’t wake up alone. There’s the warmth of a body pressed against her, an arm wrapped around her, and muscular legs entangled with hers. It takes her groggy mind a few seconds to recall the events of the previous night but a smile creeps onto her face upon remembering. Killian. She shifts in the bed, turning to face him, discovering he’s already awake, his blue eyes stary – still half-asleep himself – but fixed on her.

“I thought you weren’t staying,” Emma mumbles as she stifles a yawn.

He had been adamant, as they’d lain there – breathless, hearts racing, passion soaring – that he had to get back to the team hotel, then they’d dived into more kisses and cuddles with roaming hands, unable to keep them from each other, proving a distraction from all other thoughts.

“I couldn’t bring myself to leave you, love,” he tells her.

She hopes it’s not obvious that she’s melting at the huskiness of his morning voice and the way he gently presses kisses against her forehead.

It’s a dangerous invitation; to have him all over again, right there, right then, especially with his hands creeping suggestively under the covers, his fingers dancing against her skin as they strayed over her hips. She chuckles softly and musters what little restraint she can to lightly push him back to his side of the bed.

His side.

She could get used to that.

Except that she can’t; vacation’s nearly over and he was just some vacation fun; a one-time thing spiralling slightly beyond that.

“Spoilsport,” he grumbles playfully, his pillow mumbling his words.

“You have a game,” she reminds him.

“You have a flight,” he returns.

“Not ‘til tomorrow. We have tonight,” she points out.

“It’s not enough,” he huffs; he sits upright in the bed and twists his body to face her. “I want more than that. Last night was the best night of my life, not the sex – though that was bloody amazing – but the time we spent just talking, learning about each other; we let each other in. Now, I don’t want to let you back out and it might be selfish and it might prove difficult, but I can’t just let you fly off without telling you that I… I want to find a way to make this work.”

She stares at him, running his words over in her head. She had let him in, very quickly at that; setting some kind of record in the process. She’d had many relationships end over the years because she was ‘too detached’ or men felt ‘pushed away’ from the walls she had built. For the first eight years of her life, she had been the girl abandoned by not one but two sets of parents – the very people who were supposed to love her most – and whilst Mary Margaret and David had done a lot to repair that damage, trusting people not to repeat that early cycle was something she couldn’t bring herself to do.

Except, apparently, with Killian. She had poured her history out to him without even thinking; his endeavour to help those experiencing what she once had making her feel safe, making him feel trustworthy. It became more than that. In the most unlikely of places – a private pod overlooking the vibrant city of London, reserved especially for her by a millionaire athlete she’d only recently called an egotistical jock – she’d found, for the first time in her life, someone who truly and wholly understood where she’d come from.

It was supposed to be a bit of fun – she was on vacation – but she doesn’t know how she’ll be able to give up something, someone, so seemingly right for her.

And he wants to make it work.

“You mean you want to try long distance?” she checks.

“I want you,” he maintains. “And if that means long distance and dates over screens and phone sex and travelling back and forth over the pond, then so be it. You’re worth the lonely nights and the longing heart in the time between seeing each other. The only question that remains, is am I worth all that to you?”

“Yes!” she exclaims, perhaps a little too fast, perhaps giving him a clue as to how much she cares for him already but she doesn’t care. “Yes, of course!”

She throws her arms around him, gripping on tightly but, for the first time, there’s no desperation to the way her hands cling to his body, for she knows they’re not on borrowed time, it’s not one of the last chances she has to do so; she’ll have him naked, in her bed, many more times.

“You’re amazing, Emma,” Killian tells her.

He leans in and kisses her gently and it’s new and calm and the best yet, a stark contrast to the fierce, lust-fuelled actions of the previous night’s endeavours; they have the new-found luxury of time.

“Mom! Mom!”

Or not.

Emma inwardly groans at Henry’s developing habit of interrupting them. Killian pulls back but Emma grabs him for one last, quick kiss.

“Are you in there? The door’s locked!”

Emma throws herself back in the bed. She will let him in. She needs to let him in, if only to prevent him from waking the whole of the hotel up with his shouts but, before she can, she needs to find her clothes and to do that she has to pry herself from the temptations of the bed.

“Mom!”

“Henry, it’s early.”

David’s tired grumbles can be heard just as clearly as Henry’s shouts. Emma is suddenly painfully aware of how thin the adjoining wall is and can only hope that her parents and Henry were fast asleep by the time she and Killian got back.

“The door is locked! We haven’t locked this door in the whole two weeks we’ve been here, and my video games and comics are in there!”

“Calm down. I’m sure we have a key around here somewhere.”

Emma’s eyes widen. She’d forgotten she’d given her parents the second key to the room – not ready to entrust it into the possession of a ten-year-old kid. She scrambles upright in the bed. The temptations need to disappear, and fast.

“Go, go! You’ve got to go!” she urges Killian.

She’s pushes him slightly to aid in coaxing him out from the warmth of the covers, but he was unprepared for it and the added force sends him tumbling out of the bed, letting out a yelp when his head smacks against the bedside table during his fall to the floor.

She gasps, scrambling over to his side of the bed.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

“Fine, love,” he responds as he stands, the gritted teeth and the way he’s rubbing his forehead contradicting his words, but he seems adamant on eradicating her guilt for he smiles and jokes, “That’s one way to wake me up. Most women offer coffee.”

“Mary Margaret, do you know what we did with that key Emma gave us?”

“I thought you put it in your wallet.”

“I thought that too but-”

“Oh no, wait, I know!”

Emma has no time to play nurse – or linger on the provocative thoughts which flood her mind – and instead jumps out of bed, hastily gathering the thrown clothes from around the room and chucking Killian’s at him.

His pants are on swiftly and he’s missed a button on his shirt but there’s no time to fix it and she shoves her claret and blue underwear into his arms – she does not need her parents nor her son quizzing her about that one – and he stares at her, bewildered.

“What am I to do with these?” he questions with a light chuckle.

“You’ll figure something out,” she shrugs as she guides him towards the door and hisses, “Just get them away from here!”

She bundles him out of the hotel room, straight into the path of David and Henry.

Henry – unusually quiet – just stares, his eyes shifting between Killian and Emma. David has frozen, like a deer in headlights, keycard for the room held aloft in his hand, as he stares at Killian, seemingly only just putting the pieces of the locked adjoining door after a date night together, and a scowl flickers across his brow. Killian hastily shoves the lingerie back to Emma who immediately chucks it into her half-opened suitcase to the side of the door and wishes she’d thought of doing that sooner.

“Well, as much as I’d love to hang around and chat in this delightfully non-awkward atmosphere, I’m dangerously late for a pre-match briefing,” Killian speaks fast, glancing at the watch barely fastened to his wrist – the strap not properly secured in the clasp – and he manages to sound genuine when he continues, “I look forward to seeing you all later.”

He’s gone in a flash. Henry squeezes past Emma in the doorway, his mind entirely focused on getting his hands on his comics and video games, leaving Emma to face her father’s disapproving look.

“Stop judging,” Emma calls him out on it.

“I’m not-”

“The look on your face says otherwise.”

“I just…” he sighs. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“I do,” she insists.

“Okay then,” he concedes.

Whilst the disapproving look has gone, he turns to stare harshly down the hallway Killian had used for his escape.

--

“Henry, pull your jumper down!” Mary Margaret speaks warningly.

They’re deep in opposition territory, in the heart of one of Arsenal’s top-end hospitality sections. It’s fancy; sleek black flooring with gold grout beneath their feet, red velvet seating, an elegantly lit bar, and a complimentary cocktail upon arrival.

Henry has settled himself into one of the deep, velvet chairs, his feet barely touching the ground, slurping away at his kids cocktail. His smart, black jumper has rolled up, revealing a hint of the claret and blue soccer shirt he wore underneath. He’d insisted upon wearing something to prove his allegiance and whilst Emma saw no harm in him wearing it under the jumper, Mary Margaret is on red alert, as if she’s expecting someone to kick off at a ten-year-old kid resulting in them having to fight their way out of danger.

Henry begrudgingly pulls the bottom of his jumper down – if he had it his way, he’d be running around with his shirt fully exposed; a Villain and proud – and leans forward to set his empty glass onto the table.

“Can I have another drink before the game starts?” he asks.

Emma concedes and gets up, heading for bar. She hears footsteps behind her and glances over her shoulder to find David following her.

She huffs, “I’m fully capable of going to the bar and getting my son a drink.”

“I know you are,” he returns and sees straight through her abrupt statement, “I know you’re not a little girl anymore, I know you’re a grown woman, capable of making your own decisions.”

She stops – halfway to the bar – and turns to face him, “I sense a but.”

“Not a but, an explanation for earlier,” he tells her and he pauses, glancing towards Henry, before he reluctantly continues, “It’s just… a sportsman. Turning up unannounced. Whisking you out on a date. Spending the night. I…”

He trails off, his gaze hovering over Henry once more and Emma knows, as much as he loves his grandson, he didn’t like the events which led to his birth – events not too dissimilar from current ones – and she imagines the memories flashing before his eyes as he takes in his grandson.

“Dad. Killian’s not Neal,” she tells him assuredly. “For starters, he’s not going to cut all contact and run off to the other side of the country for a football scholarship; he doesn’t play that kind of football and he’s already in a different country with a ridiculously lucrative contract.”

Her attempt at a joke doesn’t land too well, eliciting an unconvinced, “I know…”

“Killian won’t just disappear. I know he won’t,” Emma insists.

“And I trust your judgement, Emma, I’m only cautious because I don’t want you to get hurt again,” David responds. “You may be a grown woman but you’ll always be my daughter and I’ll always want to protect you.”

“And I love that,” Emma replies gratefully. “But I don’t need your protection this time. This is different.”

--

Emma follows behind her small family as they venture into the stands in preparation for the coming kick-off. The hospitality seats are nice and padded – a vast improvement upon the hard, plastic of the Holte End seats at Villa Park. As she gets comfy in the red chair – not at all missing the claret and blue colour scheme of Villa Park – she determines it should be much nicer viewing; their seats are right on the halfway line and raised above the pitch, deeming it unlikely for any stray balls to come speeding their way. She’s determined to remain vigilant, regardless.

There’s a loud fanfare and a blast of music as the two teams make their way out onto the pitch. Her eyes are on the players in claret and blue, Killian in particular who leads his team out, holding the hand of the young mascot for the day – a boy no older than five – who’s in full strip, matching the rest of the team.

Her mind wanders to the type of father Killian may one day make, images of him dressing a newborn baby in a full claret and blue strip – little blue socks included – flashes before her eyes. The newborn morphs into a toddler, a ball at his feet, punting the ball across the garden with all of his tiny might. The toddler becomes a four-year-old, rocking a claret and blue shirt with ‘Daddy’ and ‘9’ on the back, effortlessly slotting the ball into the back of the net with Killian watching on, a huge, delighted grin on his face.

“Mom!” Henry pulls her from her daydream; he’s stood up next to her. “The man’s waiting to get past.”

He gestures to her left and she turns to see a man patiently waiting to get down their row to his seat. She apologises as she quickly stands, letting him on his way.

She sits back down and returns her focus to the pitch, finding Killian right at the centre, the ball stationary at his feet, looking to the referee and awaiting his whistle for the game to commence. The whistle goes, the ball is kicked and a huge roar erupts around the stadium; sixty-thousand people all cheering at once, it’s almost deafening and yet she’s smiles, the noise a reminder of the events at Villa Park, of her first time meeting Killian and how far they had come in the six days since.

The Villa team get off to a good start, keeping possession well, passing the ball around the back and inviting pressure on to create space for the attacking players further up the pitch. Emma amazes herself at how quickly she’s gone from perceiving the game as men chasing a ball around to actually seeing and understanding the tactics playing out in front of her. She finds herself on the edge of her seat as she watches Killian make various runs behind the Arsenal backline and has to hold back shouts of frustration at his teammates for not seeing them and playing the through ball before he falls into an offside position.

Henry told her before the game that Villa had sold out their away allocation of three-thousand tickets and, with their team on top, their voices sound at least double that. They’re situated in the far right corner of the stadium but she can hear them clearly, chanting and getting behind the team. The familiar chants send her right back to her time spent in the Holte End and she wishes to return, to experience it again, really soak it in and appreciate it since her interest in the sport has increased.

Killian charges back to defend, putting in a magnificent tackle reminiscent of the challenge which saw the ball smash into Henry’s face less than a week ago. The Villa support roar at the sight, encouraging more of it, and delving into a round of Super Captain Jones. Emma has to sit on her hands and bite her lip so to hold back the urge of joining in with the cheering, chanting and clapping of the high-spirited Villa fans. And Mary Margaret was worried about Henry exposing them.

Emma very nearly jumps up from her seat in delight when Locksley receives the ball and spots Killian’s run, playing the ball in behind the defence. Her heart leaps as Killian runs towards the ball; he’s through on goal! He looks bound to slot it home, or at the very least, test the keeper. He reaches the ball, puts a foot out to get it under his control but his touch is heavy and sends the ball careening towards the corner flag. He doesn’t relent, sprinting after the ball to retrieve it but the heavy touch has given the Arsenal defence time to get back and he’s well wide of the goal. He collects the ball and puts in a cross towards the flood of his teammates swarming into the box but the Arsenal right-back succeeds in intercepting the ball and sends it up field.

All of a sudden, Villa are on the back foot; they’ve committed men forward, into the opposing box and Arsenal have the ball in their possession in midfield, charging forward on a break. Humbert and Booth are retreating, trying their best to manage a two against five situation. As the opposing player carries the ball into the box, Booth plays him on the outside, forcing him onto his weaker foot. The player hits the byline and cuts the ball back, playing a pass to a player waiting on the edge of the box who doesn’t even take a touch before striking the ball into the top left corner of the goal; a magnificent yet utterly heart-wrenching sight.

The fifty-seven-thousand Arsenal fans go crazy as their team goes one goal up, the Villa fans momentarily silenced. Emma sinks back in her seat and Henry lets out a frustrated huff beside her. The fans around them are discussing the amazing move and the wonder goal whilst Emma’s thoughts linger on how different things could have been had Killian gotten his first touch right.

The Villa fans find their voices as the game kicks off again, bursting into an impassioned round of ‘Villa Till I Die’ to spur the team on, enforcing their unwavering support. The game continues as it had been, Villa keeping much of the possession, passing the ball around the back, spraying long balls into the channels for Locksley and Scarlet to collect, initiating attacks into the final third.

Locksley flashes an inviting ball across the face of the goal and Killian is just a fraction too late in sliding in to direct it goalward, the ball trickling out slowly for a goal kick. Killian pounds the ground and, though she can’t hear him over the sarcastic ‘waheys’ of the Arsenal fans, he throws his head back and screams in frustration.

Things don’t get much better for him. He hits the crossbar, skies one over the bar much to the enjoyment of the Arsenal fans, takes too long getting the ball out of his feet to get a shot on goal and inviting the defender to dispossess him, trips over his own feet on a ‘got-to-be’ opportunity, and puts at least three shots wide of the post.

To make matters even worse, Arsenal go up the other end and score during one of their only ventures into the Villa half since their first goal. Killian kicks the ball from the centre circle to restart the game and the ball doesn’t even make it to Locksley before the referee blows the whistle for halftime.

“This isn’t fair!” Henry complains as the players make their way off the pitch. “We’ve been all over them!”

“Got to take your chances in this game,” David shrugs.

He’s not too bothered by the result, indifferent as to who wins. An avid follower of the Major Soccer League back home, his loyalty lies entirely with New England Revolution – a name Killian had openly mocked on the London Eye – so whilst he follows the Premier League and is entirely enjoying Henry’s newfound interest in the sport, he has no particular allegiance to any team competing in it.

The fans seated behind them are keen to join in the discussion for one of them leans forward and comments, “We’re lucky your striker can’t even finish his dinner today. If he were on form, this game would have been put to bed twenty minutes ago.”

“Yeah, we don’t deserve to be two up,” his friend adds. “I’ve never known Jones miss so many clear-cut chances.”

“He could have a hat-trick!” Henry says.

“One of the best strikers in the league right now,” the first man nods. “He’s put at least five passes straight out of play. I wonder what’s going on. Maybe he’s got a niggling injury?”

He didn’t. Not as far as Emma was aware. He’d been fully fit last night, though she opted not to contribute that thought.

“There’s always a chance of a comeback,” David reminds them all. “The players just need to show that they want it.”

--

Killian is the first one into the away changing rooms; he’d been straight down that damn tunnel the second the half had ended, wanting to put that forty-five minutes of football far, far behind him. His head wasn’t on straight; his thoughts were too slow, not keeping up with the speed of the game, and his feet wouldn’t move fast enough. A pit of nausea is growing in his stomach, imagining the discussions going on in the crowd, the fans slating him; and he can do nothing but sit and wait for the oncoming storm of Gold. He puts his head in his hands. He’s going to throw up.

Robin sits down next to him and places a sympathetic hand on his shoulder which he abruptly shrugs off. The man hasn’t said a word but Killian can just feel the ‘I told you so’ radiating off him.

Life is bloody shit. A few hours ago, he was living the life, it hadn’t taken long for it all too come crashing down around him.

“Jones.” The gaffer; here it comes. “The off Locksley.”

What?

Killian stares at him blankly. Gold held his stare, a thunderous look in his glare. Had he angered him so much he couldn’t even string a sentence together?

Robin taps his left arm. Jones slowly turns to face him, glad to break eye contact from Gold, and finds a grimace on Robin’s face as he holds his hand out expectantly.

Killian’s totally lost.

He looks around the room, searching for any hint. The rest of the team are slumped in their seats, busying themselves with correcting their socks or shinpads, or just straight staring at the floor.

Gold steps closer and, with animated pointing, speaks again, “Armband. Locksley. Now.”

Killian’s hand goes to the captain’s armband Gold had pointed at, running his fingers over it hesitantly and his brain slowly puts the pieces together. He stands up immediately in outrage, the resulting headrush making his legs weak and he almost drops right back down again.

“You’re benching me?” he exclaims in disbelief.

“Now you’ve got it,” Gold confirms, pointing two fingers at him.

“You can’t bench me, gaffer,” Killian protests. “Fletcher’s injured, there’s no striker on the bench.”

“Jones, I could put my grandma up top and she’d do a better job than you today,” Gold returns, not backing down. “And she’s dead.”

“Keep me on. Let me put things right,” Killian’s ready to beg.

“Decision’s made,” Gold stands firm and flicks his finger towards Robin. “Armband.”

Killian slumps back down into his seat, dejected, and reluctantly hands the armband over to Robin, nausea overcoming him once again. He drops his head back into his hands, squeezing his eyes shut as he rubs his temples; the right side of his head throbs and he would do anything to go back to the morning, lying in Emma’s bed, agreeing to give long distance a go, not a worry in the world.

Gold breaks the news to Phillips that he’s on for the second half and asks Scarlet to step into the striker position, the younger man all too keen to play centrally and have a shot at bolstering his goal tally for the season. Gold dives into an impassioned speech about the game being far from over, continuing to take the fight to them and finishing their chances.

In an unusual move, he sends the team out for the second half with five minutes to go until it’s scheduled to recommence, instructing his coaching staff to get the players and substitutes raring to go. Killian is in no hurry to head out and sit on that blasted bench, and when Gold’s the only one who remains in the room and doesn’t tell him to head out, he has a feeling the man wanted to talk to him one-on-one all along.

“I’ll accept partial responsibility for this disaster,” Gold speaks up and Killian lifts his head, staring at him in surprise. “I made a judgement call this morning and it appears I made the wrong choice. You need to get your head in the game, Jones, and fast. You’ve been distracted all week, in training, at meetings; you’ve hidden it well but I caught it. My call this morning was swayed only by the professionalism you’ve displayed over the last thirteen months but I fear you’re slipping into old habits.”

“I don’t know what you’re saying,” Killian stares blankly at him.

He can’t keep up with all the words; they’re too fast, too jumbled, morphing together, creating gibberish which was unusual in that typically Gold excelled in getting his point across through well-fashioned speeches.

“When I came to this club, you were a decent player but you were being held back, distracted,” Gold emphasised, “by a woman.”

Killian follows that better and immediately protests, “That’s not what this is.”

“Isn’t it? Since you got that blonde’s number last match you’ve barely paid attention in briefings and meetings and this morning you rock up late, shirt buttons all wrong and hair tousled,” Gold seemingly hasn’t missed much. “What’s the biggest thing I’ve been drilling into you all since I got here?”

“Victory comes at a price; focus, determination, grit and hard-work,” Killian recounts instantly, it’s like an automated response, rolling off the tongue.

“Exactly. And no distractions is crucial for three of those,” Gold points out. “And, you see, new blossoming of love is a distraction, the most dangerous distraction of all. It makes us sick, clouds our judgement, throws your focus.”

“This isn’t about Emma,” Killian maintains.

“If you say so but, if it is something else, you best figure out what the hell it is about and fast,” Gold returns. “Do you want Aston Villa in the Champion’s League next season? Because that first half display had you playing like a man jumping ship to Man City in the summer and let me tell you something, son, you carry on like that, and they’ll lose interest in pursuing you.”

He watches glumly as Gold exits, leaving behind him a load of racing thoughts in Killian’s pounding head. The image of the European Cup, pride of place in the Aston Villa tunnel, bores into his mind.

That’s my ultimate goal, right there.

The very words he had spoken to Emma just five days ago echoes in his head. The ultimate goal, the ultimate treasure; he needs to land his hands on one of those bloody trophies. Whilst he dreams to do it with Villa, there’s a reality in which they don’t clinch fourth spot and fail to qualify and, if that were to happen, there’s a reality in which he’s left to seriously consider the Manchester City option. He’s twenty-nine, there’s no telling how few years he has left in him for top-level football. Whichever happens – whether he’s playing Champion’s League football for Aston Villa or for Manchester City next season – there is one thing he does know; he needs to be playing well for the remainder of the season for either to become a reality.

He needs to work out what the bloody hell is wrong with him. He picks up his phone, pulls up the messages between him and Emma.

He ponders whether Gold is right, whether Emma is the reason for his poor performance. He considers Eloise Gardener, the way his performances had improved after that had come to an end; he’d put it down to Gold – his world class coaching – but was it all Gold? Was there a chance he was cursed to play poorly when his personal life involved a woman?

Or was it a coincidence?

Could he really afford to find out?

--

The Villa players emerge from the tunnel early and begin passing the ball amongst themselves whilst waiting for the referee and opposition. Emma searches the group for Killian to no avail. Henry notices his lack of presence and dives into theorising with David whilst Emma fixes her expectant gaze on the tunnel; he’ll return. A captain doesn’t abandon his men when the fight is yet to rage on.

“Locksley has the captain’s armband on,” Henry notices.

Emma’s eyes snap from the tunnel to the field, scanning the claret and blue players until she finds Locksley and sees for herself; the black and white armband is fixed around his left arm.

“Looks like Jones’ day is done,” David comments.

Emma sinks down in her seat. It isn’t what she had been promised. Henry had been going on about Killian having to play every minute of every match whilst the team’s only other striker was ruled out through injury. Her interest in the game drops slightly with the latest development, two goals down leaves a big mountain to climb and with Killian out, the Villa team just becomes a group of unrecognisable soccer players in claret and blue again.

“So are we just going to play without a striker?” Henry is confused.

“Gold will move someone into the forward role, play them out of position,” David explains.

“Will that work?” Henry asks doubtfully.

“Time will tell,” David returns with a shrug.

The cheers that greet the returning Arsenal players does not match Emma’s suddenly sullen mood; it feels like fifty-seven-thousand people are taunting her. The players and referee all take their positions, ready to commence the second half, but not before the fourth official raises the electronic board to signal Villa’s half-time change, Jones’ number nine in red and Phillips’ number eighteen in green. As if she had missed the fact that she would not be watching Jones play for the remainder of the game, the stadium announcer blasts it across the stadium to further rub it in.

Arsenal have the ball to initiate the second half, their own number nine – still very much on the pitch – plays a simple pass to one of his midfielders upon the referee’s whistle. Scarlet applies pressure immediately, raring to go, forcing a miskick from the opposition player, his own pass falling right to the feet of Booth. Booth plays a sideways past to Humbert who wastes no time in lifting the ball over the sleeping Arsenal defense, seeing Scarlet’s continued run. It’s a similar move to Killian’s first chance of the game, except Scarlet takes the ball neatly under his control, putting him one-on-one with the goalkeeper. The goalkeeper is fast off his line, closing down the gap, spreading his arms out to make himself as big as possible. Scarlet glances to his left, spotting Locksley’s run into the box alongside him, and passes the ball to him. The goalkeeper has committed, leaving the goal wide open for Locksley who slots the ball home.

“Yes!” Henry screams, jumping to his feet and bouncing around in celebration.

Mary Margaret glances around nervously, but the Arsenal fans seated in hospitality are light-hearted, some chuckling at Henry’s outburst.

It's an instant reaction to going in two to nil down and the Villa fans in the far corner love it, launching into celebrations. Locksley grabs the ball from the net, eager to get play restarted again; two goals down seems like a long way to go, one down reinstates belief that the game is still within their grasp.

The game restarts and quickly falls into a similar pattern to the first half in that Villa retain most of the possession. The Arsenal manager makes his own changes, putting on an extra defensive midfielder, tightening things up at the back and limiting Villa to less clear-cut chances than they’d had in the first half. Scarlet is a willing running, emulating Jones with his runs in behind the defence but attempts to play the ball to him are either cut out by the awoken, resolute Arsenal defenders or put just a little bit ahead of him, allowing the goalkeeper to rush out and collect.

Time ticks by, sixty minutes, seventy minutes, eighty minutes, and the game grows more and more frustrating from a Villa viewpoint; the play is impressive, passes and movement intricate, until the ball reaches the final third and it all crumbles apart, allowing Arsenal the chance to slide in, block, or see the ball out of play.

Henry’s huffs and grumbles get louder and louder. The clock ticks over into the eighty-second minute as Scarlet plays the ball to his right, Locksley collecting and running at his defender who sticks a foot in and knocks the ball out for a corner.

“You’ve got to play it to the left there!” Henry yells, jumping to his feet, his frustration boiling over, as his outstretched hand gestures wildly to the left-hand side of the field. He drops back into his seat, throws his hands to his side, and complains, “Phillips was wide open then!”

Locksley places the ball at the corner flag and waves his arm, urgently encouraging his defenders – strolling up to the box for the coming attack – to hurry up. Booth and Humbert promptly break into a jog and take up their positions, Booth lingering on the edge of the box whilst Humbert gets involved in the group of players within the box, all jostling for position. Locksley launches the ball into the box and Booth makes a late dart to attack it, leaping high and nodding it goalwards. The ball bounces just before the goalkeeper, lifting over his hands and into the back of the net.

Henry’s on his feet again, punching the air with two fists, and screaming at the top of his voice. Booth has run to celebrate with the horde of Villa fans going almost as wild as Henry who has since leapt at David, practically shaking him with glee. Locksley’s in the goalmouth, the ball back in his hands instantly. He thrusts the ball into Scarlet’s chest, pointing for him to take it to the halfway line before jogging over to Booth, patting him on the back before urging him away from the celebrations. He can sense blood; an opportunity to nick the victory in the final seven minutes of the game.

The game promptly restarts and chaos erupts, passions flared high, everything at stake; tackles fly in left, right and centre, all matched with an encouraging roar from supportors, some spectacularly timed, others not so. The game is stop and start, the referee’s whistle going every few seconds, yellow cards being brandished for every dodgy tackle.

“This is benefitting us,” one of the fans behind muses. “The more stoppages, the more we knock them off their stride.”

“Oh, for sure,” his friend agrees. “We’re proper under the cosh here. Just need to see it out now.”

There’s an uproar amongst the crowd and Emma fixes her attention back to the pitch to find a hoard of players swarming around the referee. Emma’s missed the cause of it but tempers are flaring. Locksley is holding onto Scarlet, pulling him back from an opposition player, Scarlet pointing and yelling angrily. The opposition player receives a yellow card from the referee who proceeds to raise it at Scarlet to, an action receiving a huge cheer and waves from the Arsenal fans, as it’s his second of the game and is shortly followed by the brandishing of a red card.

Scarlet throws his hands up in utter disbelief and looks ready to go for the referee, if it weren’t for Locksley maintaining a tight grip on him and leading him towards the tunnel. The clock ticks into the final minutes of stoppage time, Villa are down to ten men and suddenly nicking a winner looks to be a momentous challenge. Locksley jogs back onto the pitch and sets the ball down for a free kick – Emma assumes the loss of tempers was a result of yet another bad tackle committed by an opposition player. The ball is positioned near the edge of the box, almost dead centre, and Emma’s reminded of his free kick in the dying moments of the last game, the one which elicited a world-class save from the goalkeeper to keep it out.

She held her breath as the players positioned themselves. One man down, all eleven Arsenal players crowding the box, the chances of directing the ball goalwards without a block looks especially difficult.

“There’s no angle,” David comments. “It’s too central. He won’t be able to score directly from this.”

Despite the apparent lack of angle, Locksley’s eyes are fixed on the goal, spotting his opportunity to complete a most amazing comeback. He takes three strides back, drops his gaze to the ball, takes in a deep breath and charges towards the ball. He pulls his left leg back, looks dead set on striking the ball homeward, but when his foot connects with the ball, it knocks it sideways.

Phillips is running at the ball, the angle changed by Locksley’s soft touch, opening up the left side of the goal as a tempting possibility, if only he can guide the ball through all the red shirts. He pulls his right leg back and strikes the ball, hard.

Time slows and Emma holds her breath, daring to believe as the ball lifts over the heads of the opposition players, beyond the outstretched glove of the goalkeeper, and nestles into the top right corner.

Beside her, Henry goes wild for the third time, opting to leap at her this time. She jumps up, joining in with his celebrations – to hell with hospitality – bouncing up and down and cheering, at least until a steward approaches and kindly requests they mute their jubilations. She complies and sits herself back down, wondering if she would have been so willing had it been Killian scoring the winner, and faces a hard time getting Henry back on his seat. He looks ready to rip his jumper off, unveiling his shirt underneath and she just about manages to convince him to wait until they’re outside the stadium. The Arsenal fans around them have been quite patient but she doesn’t want to push their luck any further.

The Villa players dig deep for the final minutes of the game, Arsenal throwing everything at them – every question Arsenal poses, Villa have an answer, whether it’s a tackle, block, or professional foul, the claret and blue men defend as if their lives depend on it. Locksley unknowingly blocks a shot from the line, taking a ball square to the forehead in the process. He drops to the floor and the game is immediately halted by the referee whilst the club doctors charge on to undergo their concussion checks.

After a few minutes, Locksley is deemed to be fine. Play resumes, Locksley getting waved on and Villa doing everything in their might to prevent Arsenal from nicking a goal back. Stoppage time seems to last forever, Arsenal continually peppering the Villa goal until finally, finally the three whistles go, signalling the end of the game.

The hospitality section – like most of the stadium – empties out quickly. Emma, Henry, David and Mary Margaret find themselves surrounded by empty red seats as they watch the Villa players celebrate with the packed away section, tossing match worn shirts into the crowd. Emma throws an arm around Henry’s shoulder, pulling him close as he grins madly.

“We really could make Europe this season!” he exclaims excitedly.

Scoring three goals to come back from two down against a team challenging for the top spot was enough to get anyone to believe. Emma smiles at him, envisioning Killian with his hands on that long-sought after trophy.

Killian may have had a bad game, he may not have seen it all through, he may not have come out to watch the game from the bench, but she likes to imagine him somewhere within the stadium, furiously celebrating the winner with Scarlet.

She looks forward to celebrating with Killian herself, later that night.

--

Henry is on his fifth kids cocktail since the game ended about an hour ago, properly throwing himself into post-match celebrations. She wonders whether he’d be necking beers so fast after a victory in eleven years time… or eight years, if he were to travel to England for a Villa game for his birthday. The thought throws her – he’s growing up too fast, she knows that day will arrive sooner than she excepts – and she swigs her own drink, an alcoholic cocktail, almost finished.

She drums her fingers against the table, looking around the room. It’s near empty; most fans hadn’t bothered to hang around after the disappointing result from their viewpoint but of the few that had, most have since left.

Killian is taking his time, and she’s getting impatient.

She pulls her phone out of her pocket, wondering whether she had misread the message; perhaps he’s waiting elsewhere for them. She has a message from him and she clicks on the notification, opening it up.

sorry love cab’t risk distractions oflong distants with europe victoru so close thanbks for the goof night zzz

She’s out of the stadium immediately, giving her parents and Henry some nonsense about not feeling well. They don’t buy it – the exchange of concerned looks when Henry asks about Killian and she fails to hold back a grimace tells her they didn’t buy it – but they go away with her, nonetheless.

On the tube, Mary Margaret keeps Henry close and occupied whilst David takes the seat next to Emma. He doesn’t say a word but he puts an arm around her and she leans her head, defeated, on his shoulder.

She’s Arsenal; a winning start to the day, only for it to be ripped away so cruelly at the end.

--

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

[bandcampsnoop]

5/27/24.

I don't know why I'm surprised by this - given the sheer amount of music I listen to it's inevitable that I forget about bands I've posted here.

But this is the 3rd post about the work of this Melbourne, Australia based band that serves as the vehicle for the work of Dylan Young. In the past Lachlan Denton served as the drummer. Liam "Snowy" Halliwell mastered the last album "So Familiar" and plays saxophone here. Good Morning's Stefan Blair co-produced and engineered this. So Dylan Young has connections to some of Australia's best musicians

"Material" grooves and sounds more indie pop than other songs that are clearly influenced, as the Bandcamp page states, by The Beach Boys and Nillson. Previous posts also mentioned Field Music and Steely Dan.

This is being released by Spoilsport Records (Australia) and Earth Libraries (US).

[senorboombastic]

Live Review: Delivery at Big Hands in Manchester 5 May 2023

Words: Andy Hughes Post-Covid (I know), there was a feeling for a while (and maybe there still is in your local area) that one must get out there and experience LIFE. Go to that concert and sweat all over everyone in sight, babe – you deserve it. Whilst we’re all for sticking our noses right in it, a sense of familiarity and going through the motions started to creep in for us (which is…

[mabelstone]

Congratulations

matt stone x f!reader

genre: enemies to lovers, mature

summary: part three of Provocateur

short one, sorry <3 ran out of ideas but wanted to give you something to tie you over until the next one

word count: 1.4k

cw: workplace sex, oral sex (f receiving)

Monday the following week was anything but an enjoyable shift for you. You were informed you had not been selected for the promotion. The far-too-wordy email didn't disclose who had been selected, but you only needed one glance at Matthew to get your answer. He absolutely beamed all day, a smug grin seemingly cemented to his face as he bounced through the halls, shaking hands with higher-ups, bashful, "ah, thank you"s repeated all day like a broken record.

You didn't say anything. You'd had taken multiple bathroom breaks throughout the morning to calm yourself down and keep from crying.

Call you a spoilsport, but you just couldn't be happy for him. Especially not after his spiel that you had no chance against him given your smaller name. You just sucked your teeth and got back to work. You still had your prestigious dream job, and it isn't like you were expecting to get promoted. It just sucked a little more when it was your arrogant, fucking sexy coworker surpassing you.

He started to approach you, but after examining your abhorrent expression, he decided to turn on his heels and make himself busy elsewhere. Probably gloating via email.

The morning passed you quickly, thankfully. As you were about to head downstairs for a coffee break - anything to get out of the thick, smug air of the office - an email popped up on your screen. Expecting it to be another disappointing denial, you sighed and sat back down, reluctantly opening it. When it rains it pours, you thought, bracing yourself. Bit dramatic, you must admit.

Good Morning,

We do congratulate your efforts upon applying for the editorial position. Although unsuccessful, we are eager to present you another opportunity for the same position. Special consideration, if you're interested.

To spare the boring details, the email essentially provided step by step instructions on how to submit a new article. However, this time they wanted to know more about you and why you should be selected. Basically, they granted you an opportunity to blow smoke up your own arse and make Matthew feel a little less special. You were not going to mess this one up.

***

The evening rolled around quick, the clock reading 6:05pm. You'd spent 8 hours writing your piece, nearly having chewed off all your nails in the process of perfecting it. You even skipped lunch today, far too focused on getting it right to think about anything else. You uploaded your article after diligently following the instructions of the email, logging out of your computer with a relieved sigh.

You rolled back in your chair, a proud smile dancing across your lips now that it was finally done. There was nobody else left in the office as most of your coworkers left around 4:30pm. Of course, all but one, who's office light shone out on the ugly office carpet. You tried to ignore it, getting up to head home for the day.

He must've been waiting for you, whistling out when you walked by his office. For fuck's sake, you muttered under your breath, rolling your eyes before retracing your steps and stopping in his doorway.

"Aren't you going to congratulate me?" He raised his eyebrows expectantly with a slight tilt of his head.

"Congratulations," a contradictory fake smile delivered the praise a little too enthusiastically.

"Close the door."

You obliged, trying to ignore the twinge in your stomach as you caught the glint in his eye that told you exactly what was about to unfold. "Good. Now, come over here and congratulate me."

You sighed, dropping your bag onto the velvet atrocity he called a chair, then placing your work binder on his desk as you walked toward him, stopping before his feet.

He wasted no time grabbing you by your waist, hungrily pulling you into his lap. You were sitting with your legs extended across his, his strong hand on the back of your neck as he pulled you to into the most heated kiss you'd ever experienced. Judging by the indubitable hard-on pressing into your hip, he'd been waiting for this all day.

"I saw you crying today," he broke the kiss to say, soft fingers creeping underneath your dress. "I don't like to see you sad."

"Yeah, right. Spare me," you scoffed, though incredibly resentful toward him, you knew the sex to follow would make you forget about losing, if only for a short while. Your brain was far too clouded with lust to protest his actions as the soft touch on your thigh moved to palm your breast roughly. You pulled him in by his collar, connecting your lips with his so hard your teeth would've smashed had your lips not served as a protective barrier.

He pushed you back gently by your shoulders, warm, firm hands holding you inches from his face, eyes searching yours. "No, I mean it. You're pretty when you cry. It made me feel weird to see you like that still."

You felt weird just hearing that.

"Are you gonna fuck me or are we having a therapy session?"

There you were again, repressing your emotions when things got too touchy. You tried to pretend not to see the way he frowned at your words.

He grabbed you by your hips, flipping you against his desk so hard your hipbones ached dully at the contact - likely to bruise after tonight. He shoved your skirt up above your ass, roughly ripping your underwear down to your ankles. You only managed to step out of one side of them before his tongue was lapping tentatively at your cunt. You gasped his motions, his hands on each of your hips, holding your dress up as he relentlessly ate you out; his tongue flat and heavy with each lick. You clung to the front and side of his mahogany desk, feeling his nose nudge at your entrance, eyes screwed shut, mouth already drying from the panting.

He pulled away fast, unbuckling his belt and dropping his slacks. You turned your head, watching the way he lazily pumped his cock, lathering it with his spit before slamming himself into you. You involuntarily arched your back at this, a sharp breath leaving you at the delicious stretch, that all too familiar sting that soon melted into pleasure.

He was so warm and thick that your vision blurred quickly and you didn't give a fuck that he beat you to the promotion. He placed on hand on your hip, fingers digging in hard to your soft flesh, the other on the back of your neck squeezing ever so slightly.

"Oh my God," you cried out with each thrust, sounding like a well rehearsed pornstar. You turned your head to face him again, his fingers now dancing across your tongue, sucking them the best you could while you moaned his name over and over.

His hand on your hip now travelled to your lower back, pushing your hipbones further into the wood, each thrust delivering a sharp pain to the area. He moaned out this time, throwing his head back as he continued his fast pace. You wondered how he had the stamina to fuck you at such speed the entire time.

You were reaching your peak embarrassingly fast, which apparently was going to happen each time you slept together. "M-Matt-"

"I know, I know," he cooed, and you could feel his thrusts starting to falter. He was close too.

Without warning, you came around him, walls tightening, pulsing in overflowing pleasure.

"Ah, fuck," he came too, filling you without a second thought. He slowly pulled out and delivered a hard smack to your ass, causing you to yelp.

In the midst of your... session, quite a few items had fallen from the desk that neither of you had noticed. Including your work binder, exposing your notes on your most recent article for your 'special consideration,' as it was put.

You caught your breath for a moment, leaning on your elbows, head down to the desk. He'd already pulled his underwear up, and when you turned around you saw red again. He'd picked up your paper and was reading over it.

"They've given you another chance," he asked, though it was more of a statement. You angrily snatched it off him, nearly tripping on your underwear in the process.

"Yeah? And?" It came out a bit more defensive than you'd hoped but you didn't know what to say. You wish he didn't know.

He just shrugged, pulling his slacks back up. "All the best, sweetheart. Maybe your piece wasn't so bad after all."

didn't proof read i'm too tired sorry!! i will tomorrow

[raitrolling]

📝 Glasya

Glasya sauntered out of their office, making their way over to their assistant's desk with a lazy yet amused smile on their face.

"Hey, Astera. Did you peep the latest FOI request?"

Astera looked up from her computer screen - then promptly sighed as their boss moved some files aside so they could sit on their desk, kicking their legs as they waved the printed copy of the aforementioned request.

"Glasya, can't you just bring your chair with you?" The greenblood stated with slight irritation.

"I'm the boss here, I do what I want," Glasya replied with a cheeky smile on their face, prompting another sigh from Astera.

"But, yes, I'm looking at it now. It's..." Astera peered in closer to her screen, squinting at the words in disbelief. "Oh, come on, really? This person wants proof for the Flat Alternia theory? What an idiot."

The indigoblood cracked up.

"Man, I know right? Would've dismissed it as a prank but nah, this dude's legit. Put a whole ten paragraphs about his research in the reasons why he needs this info, that's when you know you've got a real cooker," They say with a snort. "Anyway, so I've been looking up some memes we can send him-"

"Glasya, it's an official Freedom of Information request. We have to take it seriously," Astera cut them off before they could finish. They glanced back at the screen, and opened up the electronic database to begin a preliminary search.

"Booo, spoilsport," Glasya huffed, pulling a face of mock disappointment before resuming to their usual cheeky expression. "I'll send you 'em anyway, bet they'll crack a smile on your sour apple face."

Astera responded with nothing but an eyeroll.

The indigoblood snorted in amusement, as they did not expect anything different. Astera took everything seriously - too seriously, they felt, but they suppose they understood why. As the sole remaining survivor of the records manager's assistants, there was a heavy weight on her shoulders to perform at her absolute best and to pick up as much slack as possible. Especially when the manager of the department came across as someone who did not take anything seriously.

Glasya just wished she could feel like she could relax more. They weren't putting any pressure on her performance, that was purely her own doing. If anything, they'd rather she took more time off for herself and let them handle the entire records department.

They're the reason why there's been no new hires for assistant roles to replace the previous ones, after all. They still can't let go.

But, no time to bring down the mood again. They clear their throat, and pick a new joke to roll with.

"Hey, Astera, you think these conspiracy theory guys believe that we breathe in the atmosflat?"

Astera said nothing, but Glasya could see a hint of a smile on her face.

"What about the other planets? Do they think they're flat too or did we just luck out and end up on 2D world?"

That smile got a little more noticeable.

"And what about conscription? Imagine being one of those guys and leaving the planet for the first time. You think they're being like 'ah lads we got it wrong now, shit's a wholeass space basketball', or do they think that it's still flat and it's just always facing them every time they look out the window?"

Finally, Astera snorted.

"Glasya, oh my god."

"Damn, that last one was a real knee-slapper, huh?" They reply with a grin. "Didn't think it was that funny, but we take those."

"No, not your stupid comments - Look."

Astera pointed at her computer screen, prompting Glasya to hop off the desk and stand next to her for a better look.

On one of the monitors, a report from the archives titled 'Report #20033120: "Magically-Induced Mass Delusion Within Block 361 - Flat Alternia"' stared the two trolls right in their face.

Glasya's jaw dropped.

"My God, a wizard did it all along."

[imagining-in-the-margins]

Here's a video of the subtitles I found on Twitter

CRIMINAL MINDS: EVOLUTION S17 SPOILERS IN THE LINK.

Yep, I’ve seen at least 4 completely different recordings that all show the exact same thing. Also, my friend @foxy-eva did confirm it (paid a whole €3 for it). I trust her. She wouldn’t lie.

Below I will post a very clear photo of the text that reveals who opens the door. The image includes a reflection on the computer screen, also from (yet another) Twitter. It’s definitely there.

It is, however, ONLY on the German version, English subtitles, on Amazon Prime. You won’t see it anywhere else. It was clearly a mistake.

Also, again, PLEASE BE DISCREET IF YOU REPLY. Don’t be a spoilsport.

We’ll see what happens… Gubler was asked by a fan very recently if he was returning and he “didn’t say no.” Erica Messer has also been dodging questions by saying it’s “not her promise to make.”

On Deuxmoi (a gossip column who accepts most anonymous posts), some time ago, someone entered the following UNVERIFIED information.

This could just be a fangirl. Gubler specifically has had several false reports on the page. But, I will note that, when talk of the reboot was happening last year, Gubler did visit Gibson.

I wish the showrunners would just be honest with us. This guessing is just frustrating.

But, oh well. I’ll be watching regardless 🤷🏻‍♀️

Filming begins in April, so we’ll see what happens.

I’m excited nonetheless!

I’m excited nonetheless!