#Top Teams

[sccpmccabe]

CORINTHIANS IN THE TOP FOUR, OH WE'RE SO ON

[tibby-art]

this is everything i could have ever asked for

[moonlightmagical]

jennifer drips canonically serves cunt and also loves her slut dad <3

[tthinking365]

Season of Gratitude

And so now it begins. I am leaving behind my last year and a half of building a new business for Korn Ferry to start a new adventure. In this season of gratitude, I am so blessed to have had the amazing experience of building Korn Ferry’s Leadership & Development Outsourcing business with a world-class team: (Jeff Orwin, Joe Clouse, Lorne Hamilton, Megan Jackson, Ellen Foley, Michaela Butler, Jodee Welsh, Kim Arellano, Kevin Gagan, Sue Lavey, and Kim Donnelly) We started with nothing, and put our hearts and souls into the new business creation. As all good servant leaders do, when they recognize their team is executing in perfect harmony, that the leadership for the business resides within the members themselves, and that the supporting mothership (Korn Ferry) could use the savings, the leader steps up to identify it and then steps aside to let their team lead. Three months ago I told my senior management that our business could stand on its own. If they needed to, they could let me go. And, with the recent round of layoffs, I too exited with many of my colleagues.

Just as Korn Ferry is known for it’s leadership development, there remain many amazing leaders still there that took me under their wings and helped me to advance my own leadership capabilities: (Bob Rozek, Mark Arian, Ron Johnson, Naomi Sutherland, Mike Franzino, Doug Charles, Albertina Vaughn, Tessa Misiaszek). Thank you Korn Ferry for allowing me the opportunity to serve. Thank you to all the Korn Ferry employees and a special thanks to my team who is second to none. It was a true pleasure.

[zipsunz]

partner pokémon (2004 / 2007)

[marmeamare]

Dream Team Shadow and Amy

Os headcanons de Shadamy do Twitter são tão divertidos rsrs, então quis fazer também.

Twitter is so fun with its shadamy headcanons lollll I just had to do it.

[vaxxman]

You'll be at peace.

Archimedes is watching these two pop off and clean the capture point.

And here is the second panel without text.

The text is based on a Moravian (geographically that's in the Czech Republic now) Christmas song that was adapted into German in 1973. It has a very lovely tune.

The translation is based on the German lyrics because they are more vague than the original Moravian lyrics and therefore more fit as narration text. I made them singable in English, you are welcome.

Happy holidays.

[footballcardsstickers]

Liverpool Kevin Keegan rookie card on an uncut sheet from the 1971 Top Teams cut-&-collect series by Marshal Cavendish, an early Allan Clarke in Leeds United colours, too.

[lucabyte]

siffrin starts the game with oddly empty pockets for a rogue who has a habit of stashing away every little trinket that isn't nailed down

and a hardy pocketwatch is an indispensable tool for oceanic navigation

[floweroflaurelin]

BigB is making me lose my mind.

—

My buddy @salemoleander made a post going over all the weird stuff with BigB’s unusual Secret and it got my mind racing. The red icon... The isolating, grindy, antisocial task... The strange phrasing… Makes you think 👀

(Even if it turns out to be nothing I WILL be headcanoning lore about it hehehe)

[pinacoladamatata]

blink and you'll miss it moments around skyhold....

[egophiliac]

Why do you think they put Savannah Claw Rook up to pull??? Is he even going to participate in Book 7???? I am so confused WHY HIM??? WHY NOT IDK, CREWEL? VARGAS? MAYBE TREIN?? WHY HIM.

I’m SO CONFUSED. Is it just for money grabbing or something like that? It doesn’t make any sense.

Also how prepared you are for the probably last update of Book 7?

I mean...it said he's a story card, and all the other story cards have had major roles, so I see no reason to assume he won't as well! (plus any staff cards are probably all going to be events like Crowley was; I would honestly be MORE surprised to see them as story cards.) really though I'm having fun trying to figure out how he's going to tie into things! we're back at Cerberus Ortho levels of "WHAT DOES IT MEEEAAAAN" and it's great. :D

I assume we're going to be doing some more dream-hopping, but I think it would be hilarious if it turned out to be someone else's dream instead of Rook's. who else could possibly be dreaming about him pre-fancification.

(I'm also half afraid that this really is the last part, and half afraid that it isn't. I'm -- I'm not going to believe anything until we get the diadorm rerun pickups, and maybe not even then)

[capquinn]

Just thinking about how Quinn said he was on a health kick two summers ago and didn’t drink at all then admitted he was the snappiest guy to be around so imagine how moody bf!quinn must be right now with that split lip, stitches tugging every time he so much as opens his mouth — it's not pretty.

He’d be so quiet, and not in the reserved, introspective way you’re used to, but in a brooding, simmering frustration kind of way that seems to pull the air out of the room. Like he’s retreating into himself because everything hurts. The stitches pulling with every word he says, and bruising that makes even the smallest movement a sore reminder. He's frustrated and just done with the week.

It’s the little things that pile up, the ones that are so routine, so instinctive, that they feel impossible to escape. First world problems, sure, but they grind him down all the same. Like how brushing his teeth feels like a battle — every bristle scraping against raw skin, the sharp sting of mint hitting the split in his lip. Or how he can’t kiss you without the stitches tugging, the area far too tender for any sort of outside contact, forcing him to pull back with a wince.

Smiling is a chore, laughing is unthinkable, and the absence of both casts a shadow over the entire week. He’s stuck in this cycle of discomfort, where even the smallest attempt at normalcy — something as simple as grinning at one of your dumb jokes — turns into a reminder of just how far from normal he feels. It’s maddening, this constant push and pull of wanting to feel like himself but being held back by the pain that seems to weave its way into everything.

Clipped answers become his norm: “yeah,” “no,” and “I don’t mind.” Even a simple, “what do you want for dinner?” gets met with a grumbled, “doesn’t matter,” because he knows whatever it is, it’s going to hurt to eat and he won't be able to finish it anyway. And the thought of wasting more food makes him even angrier at the whole situation.

“This sucks,” he mutters under his breath one night, poking at the soup you made him, the corner of his mouth twitching every time the spoon scrapes the bowl. Not that it actually sucked — it was good soup, great even, but everything else sucked, and the soup was just collateral damage in his war against the universe.

You bite back a smile, brushing your hand over his arm. “Want me to make something else?”

“No,” he mutters, leaning back against the dining chair. His hand drags through his hair in frustration before he props his elbow on the table, cupping his chin in his palm like he's truly defeated. His shoulders sagging as though the weight of the week is pressing down harder than ever. “It’s fine.”

Except it’s not fine. He’s not fine. He hasn’t been since that high stick knocked the wind out of him and it’s bleeding into everything.

Thinking of leaving the apartment? Forget it. Unless it’s absolutely necessary — practice, the gym, or a doctor’s appointment — he’s planted firmly on the couch, arms crossed, brows furrowed like he’s in a standoff with the world. If you try suggesting a walk, maybe some fresh air to help him reset, he just shakes his head, muttering, “don’t feel like it,” voice flat, eyes trained on the TV, and the conversation dies there.

Even in the middle of the night, he's moody. He shifts endlessly in bed, trying to find a position that doesn’t make his mouth throb. He rolls onto his back, then onto his side, then back again, each movement accompanied by a quiet sigh of frustration. When he tries to rest his cheek against your shoulder, seeking comfort in the usual closeness, it only makes the pain worse. He pulls back with a wince, muttering under his breath, his brows furrowing deeper as he resettles with a sharp exhale.

“Are you okay?” you murmur softly in the dark, your voice thick with sleep. “Anything I can do?”

“No,” he mutters, and there’s enough of an edge to it that you can tell he’s at the end of his patience. And then he sighs heavily. “Just… go back to sleep.” His voice softens, but only slightly, the strain still unmistakable. It’s clear he’s trying to hold back the weight of his frustration from spilling over entirely.

You don’t say anything. Instead, you shift closer, your hand brushing over his chest as you nestle into his side, your warmth folding into him like second nature. Half-asleep and instinctive, you press a kiss to his shoulder, the faintest, softest reassurance, as if to say I'm here, and you feel him exhale steadily, the tension in his body easing just just that little bit under your touch. His hand moves to rest on your back, his fingers tracing a slow, absentminded path across the fabric of your shirt, and i’s the kind of gesture he doesn’t even about, but it grounds him all the same, letting him focus on something other than the ache in his mouth or the restless churn of his thoughts.

The worst part? The guilt. It gnaws at him in the quiet moments, filling the spaces where his usual softness should be. Every sharp answer, every impatient huff, every time he brushes you off — it all piles up in the back of his mind, heavy and relentless. He doesn’t mean to take it out on you. You know that, and he knows you know that, but it doesn’t stop the weight of it from pressing down on him, tightening his chest with a frustration that feels as much internal as it does external.

There are times when he hears the bite in his own words before you do, the way they come out too quick, too rough, and the regret is immediate.

“Sorry,” he mumbles after one particularly clipped response earlier in the day, when your only reply is raised eyebrows, the universal look of really? His lips barely move when he says it, like even the act of apologising feels like its own brand of punishment — sharp, stinging, and a little too close to the guilt already swirling in his chest.

Sometimes, there’s no apology at all — just a quiet brush of his fingers over yours, or the weight of his palm resting on your leg when you sit beside him on the couch. His thumb moves in small, absent minded circles on your knee, a silent gesture of contrition and love. It’s not grand, it’s not elaborate, but it’s everything — his way of saying I’m sorry, I love you when the words won’t come, when he feels like his brooding might swallow him whole.

And yet, even in the middle of all of his frustration and discomfort, even when he feels like he’s at his worst, there’s still a part of him that tries. He catches himself before he can say something too sharp, lets his hand linger a little longer when he reaches for yours, or pulls you into his side on the couch even when it’s the last thing he feels like doing. It’s quiet, subtle effort, but it’s there — a reminder that no matter how bad the week has been, no matter how much he’s hurting or how heavy the guilt feels, his love for you is always louder than the noise in his head. It’s in the way his fingers thread through your hair later that evening, gentle and steady, as you rest your head in his lap. He leans down, presses the faintest kiss to your temple, even if it's a struggle, and whispers, “thanks for putting up with me.”

And of course you’re putting up with him. Because no matter how snappy or brooding or quiet he gets, he deserves all the love and patience he can’t quite muster for himself right now. He deserves the steady reassurance of your presence, the way you smooth your hand over his arm, or nuzzle closer into his side, silently reminding him that he’s allowed to have bad days, bad weeks even, and it doesn’t change a thing. But really, it's not about putting up with him; it’s about being there for him — fully, unconditionally, because if the roles were reversed, you know he’d do the same for you without question.

[inthegardensofourminds]

I'm so happy that the beach volleyball players get to wear proper pants and that one of the women was allowed to wear a t-shirt under her uniform bathing suit top.

This is the least amount of skin I've seen in thus women's sport and I'm happy to say it. Love it when women have options and aren't forced to wear skimpy clothes!

[puppppppppy]

surfs up!!

[mistressemmedi]

Objectively speaking, this is the funniest quali we've had in a while