#and daring to put penalty on their great white hope as well

[kesterdbihown]

To that one verstappen fan here being worried about Johnny Herbert saying 2025 could be lewis's year, you can rest easy now lol your ultimate enemy has already been defeated lol. But now you should probably start looking for other scapegoat.

[maybe-your-left]

Window Panes - Forever

We made it! 

Here is the Window Panes Masterlist and my Masterlist for all my other fics. 

Summary: A cool breeze nipped at your exposed legs, causing goosebumps to erupt over your skin. You were curled into your comforter, comfy and safe, your cheek pressed against your pillow. Lips pursed and a small amount of drool seeping into the fabric. A creak came from the corner of your room, slightly rousing you from your slumber. You glanced around, your drooping eyelids barely taking in the scene. In your sleep riddled state, you didn't see him, his large figure stalking towards you. The whites of his eyes shining in the moonlight, it wasn't until you felt a palm slide up your side. Following the natural contours of your body, the warmth emanating from it lulling you to sleep once again. A dip in the mattress, the springs creaking under the weight. 

Hot breath fanned over your neck, soft lips pressing onto the back of your ear. A deep hum filling your senses, you sighed. Cuddling back into the figure, wanting to get closer to the warm entity. A low chuckle sounded behind you, and then... 

Nothing. 

TW/CW: This is dark shit, like explicitly horrible shit happens in this. However, I enjoy reading dark fics, and I super loved Stalker Clyde by @clumsycopy​ & was inspired by the oneshot EOS by @thetorturerwrites and I wanted to write something with the sameish tone for Halloween. NSFW, Violence, Murder, Non-con elements, Domestic Violence, Surgery, Explicit sex, oral sex, anal sex, sex toys, miscarriage, mental manipulation, stockholm syndrome, waterboarding, forced feeding, Animal abuse (just a brief mention, I do not go into any detail). 

“Is it-Are we rolling?” 

“Yeah, we’re rolling.” 

“Okay, great,” a sigh of relief. 

You shifted in your chair, smoothing back your hair and itching the microphone that was attached to your shirt collar. Crossing and recrossing your legs, you should’ve worn pants, a skirt was a stupid idea with these boots. You gave a weak smile to the woman across from you, her white teeth flashing the cameras all around the sound stage. 

“Okay,” she looked into the lens, “We are here tonight with one of the victims of the famous 2020 murder trial from New York. She went through over five years of repeated abuse at the hands of her kidnapper, all while he was out killing people around the city.” She turned to you, nodding her head as a show for you to react to the TV. “It’s so nice to have you here, Miss (Y/N).” 

You cleared your throat, shifting once more, “Thank you, it’s a pleasure to be here.” 

“How are you doing?” 

You bit back a scoff, what a stupid thing to ask. After that introduction, what was she expecting you to say, ‘oh I’m fucking fantastic, I’ve been running since the day he was sent to prison and going through intense psycho-therapy to rid myself of Stockholm syndrome.’. 

“I’m great,” you faked a smile, “Always nice to visit New York again.” 

“I’m sure,” she smiled once more, all you could think about were the wrinkles on her face, the crows feet on the corner of her eyes. She must get botox for working at a news station, there’s no way her skin is on with just natural confidence. 

“When was the last time you visited?” 

You had to stop yourself from blurting out an answer, knowing that this would be on national television. Which you knew federal prisons watched, you wouldn’t want to give away any of your whereabouts since the incident. “Uh-it’s been a few years, I haven’t had much reason to be back. My life has shifted to another part of the world.” 

“That’s fantastic! So you’ve been doing well for yourself the past six years?” 

“Yeah,” you gave a genuine smile, “It’s been tough, no off days really. Trying to gain some normalcy from it all, but I’ve done well. I live relatively fearless, of everything.” 

“We have you here because of a break in your case, as I’m sure you know.” 

You gave a grim nod. 

It’s all anyone wanted to talk about since the story flashed on the news last week. Leaving your once quiet home filled with reporters. You weren’t even home when it happened, out getting groceries, gripping your sons’ hands firmly as you walked the aisles. Letting him pick out some snacks for his lunchbox, like any mother would, when your phone blew up. 

Dozens of messages, calls, articles, you name it. 

All with his face plastered on it. 

Convicted murderer and kidnapper, Kylo Ren, has requested the death penalty. After being found attempting to escape federal prison for the 6th time in the past five years. The convict claims that he ‘would rather die than live another day rotting in his cell’. Dropping all the appeals cases that his lawyers have been pushing since his initial sentencing. 

The former New York state governor was on trial for murderering and disemboweling 9 separate victims and kidnapping an 18-year-old girl. He kept her in his basement as his sex slave for close to 3 years before he married her, the young girl escaping into the streets when she was just 22 years old. Covered from head to toe in gashes, blood, and bruises. Claiming that her husband had beaten her within an inch of her life. 

The subsequent trial lasted three months after his arrest. Leading to him being convicted of first-degree murder, rape, and domestic assault. He was sentenced to life in prison, his then-wife was placed under medical care for an undetermined time. 

Mr. Ren has tried to get his charges appealed since the initial sentencing, claiming that his wife was mentally insane and an unfit witness. Along with other claims that include bribing members of the jury to change their verdicts. The whereabouts of Mr. Ren’s ex-wife is unknown, but he claims that he has kept tabs on her even from ‘the inside’. 

“Your kidnapper is being put on death row, which isn’t allowed in the state of New York. Which means he is being transferred over state lines to another prison. However, it hasn’t been revealed where he is being brought because of people interfering with the swap. How do you feel about that?” 

You chewed your cheek, thinking for a moment. There was no way he did this willingly, Ren was never someone to take the easy way out. The last time you heard from him was three years ago, on your son’s birthday. 

Receiving a call from the prison, the only one you had gotten since the sentencing. 

You remember picking up the phone, throat going dry as you whispered that you accepted the charges. Waiting for the operator to connect you to him, after three long years without his voice. 

“Hello, love.” 

“What,” you whispered, stepping away from the living room of screaming toddlers. Your boyfriend gave you a weird look when your face went white as a ghost. “What do you want, Ren?” 

“How are you? Doing well I hope?” 

You huffed, moving into your kitchen and ripping a bottle of wine out of the fridge. Taking a drink as you snarled, “Just tell me what shitty thing you have to say so I can go back to my family.” 

“Oh, yes. Your family.” he sighed, “And what a sweet family it is… little Luke is how old now? I would think he would be about… three.” 

“How do you know about my son?” 

“Hm.” 

“I don’t think he’s just yours.” 

“You shut your mouth, Luke is not your son. I’m going to hang up if you don’t get to the point.” 

“He’s growing up so well. Hairs getting longer, but I know you like to keep it short. But he complained about his ears last time-so big.” 

You took a deep breath, peaking into the living room. Just in time to see your baby boy, smiling and laughing with his friends. Sitting in your boyfriends’ lap, tearing into presents. His big eyes shone with tears of joy when he ripped through a gift that was his favorite color, red. A squeal so loud it could’ve shattered a window, pulling out a giant plush toy. It was like a penguin-mixed with a little dog, no nose, and some sharp fangs. From one of his favorite TV shows, along with a card and some other little toys. 

“Tell me, love,” he chuckled, “Does he like his present? He sounds over the moon about it through the speaker. What I wouldn’t give to be there to run my fingers through his dark hair, look him in the eyes and tell him how much his father loves him.” 

You made Luke sleep in bed with you that night, holding his small body flush with yours. Running your fingers through his curls as he snored into your chest, small tracks of drool seeping into your nightshirt. Trembling as you stared at the shadows, dancing across the bedroom from the window. Full moon shining, you could’ve sworn the floor was creaking downstairs, the sound of footsteps climbing towards your room rang in your ears. 

You didn’t sleep that night, staring into your son’s face as he woke. Blinking awake to smile as you, his grin reaching across his face. All the way to his ears, large ears, covered by his almost black waves. His long lashes fluttering as he greeted you, “Hi mama.” 

His eyes. 

Fuck. 

One of them your eye color, shining back at you. But the other, it was his. 

Deep auburn, shining in the sunlight. Daring you to challenge him, defy him, prove him wrong, anything that would allow him to unleash whatever hell lived under his skin. Flowed through his blood, tainting every corner of your psyche. His child, the one you hid from the world. Moving as far away as you could, claiming it was your boyfriends’ child. 

But he knew. 

And Luke was starting to notice. 

“I feel,” you looked at your hands, forcing them into fists to stop them from shaking, “Just fine, he’s not in my life anymore. Just a small chapter in the book of my story, I hope that he finds peace. Wherever he goes.” 

“Peace? For a man that almost killed you multiple times?” 

You nodded, “Yeah, I do. I can’t change who he is, or what he’s done. I can just try as hard as I can to move on. And if being on death row will help him find what he’s looking for then I wish him the best of luck.” 

She gave you a weird look, shifting in her seat, “Do you think it says anything about his guilt?” 

“Guilt?” 

“Yes, for the past six years he has never acknowledged that he was guilty. Claiming that the jury and witnesses were bought and that you were mentally unstable-making up half the accusations against him. Do you think that him asking for the death penalty is a way of admitting that he was guilty?” 

“Hell no,” you blurted out, eyes going wide at the camera, “Oh-can I swear? I’m so sorry.” 

She laughed you off, “You’re fine, we can blur it out. But you sound so confident? Do you think he believes that he’s done nothing wrong?” 

Now it was your turn to laugh, “Not to repeat myself but, hell no. That man knows, he’s very conscious of his decisions. Everything has a purpose, everything is done for a reason, Ren doesn’t waste his energy on doing something for no benefit.” 

“What would be the benefit of being put on death row?” 

You sighed, thinking about Ren, trying to get into his mindset to see how he could angle the sentencing changing. Letting out a sharp laugh as you rubbed your eyes, “Well-you said it earlier.” 

She looked at you confused. 

“New York doesn’t have the death penalty.” 

New York doesn’t have the death penalty. 

New York doesn’t have the death penalty. 

New York doesn’t have the death penalty. 

“Oh my god,” you whispered, looking around the room frantically. “Oh my god-oh my god-oh my GOD-New York doesn’t have the death penalty!” you screamed, shooting out of the chair. Grasping the reporter by her shoulders and shaking her violently, “He knew! He knew I was coming here! He’s gonna take him!” 

“Miss (Y/N),” the reporters and security officers yelled. Trying to calm you down, but no, she had said it. 

New York doesn’t have the death penalty. 

You ran from the TV station, hailing a cab on the packed streets. Frantically calling your boyfriend over and over, he was at home. Back in Nevada… where the death penalty is legal, with Luke. He wouldn’t pick up, the dial tone ringing three times before his voice sang through the speaker. 

You wailed in the back of the cab, calling everyone you knew back at home. Asking if they could go get Luke from school, if they had seen him that day. Anything to try prove false the sick feeling in your stomach you knew was true. 

Running through airport security as fast as you could, taking the first flight back home. You prayed on the way that your boyfriend had Luke, safe and sound, back at home. Hopefully, curled in his red blanket, snuggling the stuffed animal he got that faithful birthday. 

Even though no one knew where it came from. 

Luke wouldn’t let you get rid of it. 

Claiming his daddy gave it to him. 

You just let him have it, he was three there was no way he would let you take his toy away once he had held it to his chest. Kissing it with his full lips, dragging it around the house every fucking day. It was his best friend, from the moment he saw it. 

You cried on the plane, realizing too late that the gift was from him. 

His real father. 

Watching after his miracle child. 

When you touched down in Las Vegas, your phone blew up. Your stomach flipping as you read through the messages from your boyfriend, explaining that he let your friend pick Luke up from school. The same friend claimed that your boyfriend had picked him up, Luke’s teacher calling to let you know someone in a black Porsche picked him up. 

Whisking away his child from under your nose. 

You choked on your tears as you read the message from his teacher, telling you how happy Luke was when he left. How he ran into your new boyfriend's arms, like he had known him for his entire life. She told you that he had introduced himself, Ben was just the most amazing father figure she had ever met. Stowing away Luke, surrounded by toys and chocolate when she waved them off. 

After you gathered your luggage you walked towards the cabs out front. Stopping cold in your tracks when you saw a chauffeur holding a sign that said your old name. 

Mrs. Ren. 

You climbed in, body feeling numb. 

Your phone dinged, a picture being sent to you from an unknown number. 

A picture of Luke, held tightly against his real father’s chest. Drifting off to sleep in his strong arms that once choked you to death. 

See you at home love, we miss you. 

-----

I wanted baby luke to say something like ‘my daddy visits me at night’ but it was too on the nose. 

TAGLIST: @finn-ray-nal-beads @millenialcatlady @ohdamnadamm  @daydreamsofren @candycanes19 @caelum-phyriina-vermillon @millenialcatlady @safarigirlsp  @caillea @roanniom @insufferablelust @mrs-zimmerman​ 

[visenyatargaryn]

Once, she had been a wife, a mother… someone who had finally found their happily ever after. However, that all came crashing down once the bombs fell and her once beautiful life turned into ashes before her eyes. After being the only survivor from Vault 111, Evangeline made her way into what was now known as the Commonwealth with one mission in mind:

To find her son and get revenge on the bastard who murdered her husband.

With the ongoing search, Evangeline eventually found herself in one particular neighborhood where she would meet a peculiarly dressed ghoul who—unbeknownst to her, would become the one to drag her out of her ever-growing darkness and back into the light. However, will it be enough to find her son? To save him from the clutches of the Institute? Or will she forever lose the last thing that brought happiness to her?

CHAPTER TWO || Reclaimed Memories || G || 2610 words || ao3

After her arrival to the strange neighborhood and barely escaping a near-death situation, Evangeline must consider her options while learning who she can and cannot trust. The ghoul who had saved her seemed trustworthy, but was it the truth? Or was there something deeper that lay hidden behind the smiles and charm of Goodneighbor's Mayor? Either way, her life was now in the hands of the strangely dressed ghoul and Evangeline hopes that his actions are genuine and not something of a façade.

When Evangeline woke, it was to the sound of birdsong outside her window. The pillow against her cheek was soft and smelled faintly of roses. Blinking away the sleep in her eyes, she felt the warmth of the sun as it shined through the partially opened window. A crisp autumn breeze filtered into the room, making the thin, dark blue curtains flutter. She found herself lying on a queen-sized bed with freshly laundered sheets. Across from her was the man she fell in love with many years ago, sleeping peacefully. Evangeline reached over to stroke his face lightly with her fingers.

“Good morning, beautiful,” Dmitri said with a sleep-induced voice as a smile appeared at the corners of his lips.

Evangeline could not stop herself from smiling as well, kissing him lightly on the mouth. She could scarcely imagine spending her life without him as it would be one that was not worth living. He caressed her cheek, gazing deeply into her emerald-green eyes.

“What shall we do today? Hm?” she asked, propping herself up to get a better look at her husband.

His bed-ridden hair was dark like hers and cut short to the military standard all soldiers wore. His eyes were a blue so vibrant that Evangeline would sometimes get lost in them as if she were looking into the deep blue sea itself. Studying his face, she noticed the scar that ran across his left eye that Dmitri had earned during his time with the Russian Mafia—a life they had both miraculously escaped from in the end. Evangeline was far luckier as she had left unscathed. However, Dmitri's past had caught up to him, and the government had given him a choice—face the death penalty or fight for their freedom by joining the military ranks. Either way, it was a death sentence as not long after he had joined, the Great War had begun.

“After breakfast,” he began while tucking a strand of Evangeline’s hair behind her ear. “We could take Shaun to the park. It’s supposed to be a beautiful day today, and it would be good to finally spend some time together—all of us. It’s been some time.”

He was right, of course. It had been far too long since all three of them got out of the house and spent time together. Dmitri had just returned home from the war. Evangeline was always busy at the Detective Agency with the recent rise in homicide cases. There had not been a chance to have an opportunity like this arise, so she wanted to make the most out of it.

The park, though…

Evangeline vividly remembered the last time they had gone to the park together almost a year ago. It was before Dmitri had left to go fight in the war. She recalled begging him endlessly not to go, afraid that he would be added to the long list of those that had left her in some way. He had refused but promised her that he would return to her, no matter what it took. It was an empty promise, she knew but dared not tell him that. To return from war in one piece is no easy task, and it always came with the risk of losing a part of yourself along the way—that is, if you survived at all. It was not long after their conversation had ended that they had made love behind the great oak tree.

“What, so you can get me pregnant again?” she joked lightly as the memory brought a smile to her face.

Suddenly, the deafening sound of sirens blaring came from outside. Her attention going towards the window. Evangeline watched as her neighbors rushed past as if to outrun the inevitable doom that was about to rain hell down upon them.

“Shaun!” Evangeline yelled while scrambling off the bed and into her son's room. However, upon entering the nursery, she found the crib empty and her son gone. How can that be? He should be here… Evangeline’s heart began to beat rapidly as she felt the panic slowly rise inside of her.

“Evie?” Her husband called from the doorway. “What’s wrong, honey?”

 “W-where…” she spoke to no one in particular. Shaun—her beautiful son, was gone. Turning to where her husband stood, Evangeline’s breath caught as her eyes widened in terror. Dmitri, who had been fine just moments before, now looked as if he had been shot in the head. She watched in horror as blood slowly oozed out of the gaping wound. Evangeline’s breathing became ragged as she started to sob.

Soon after, a blinding white light burst throughout the room, just as a scream tore from her throat. The cloud mushroomed upward, piercing the sky. Rings of white bloom around the peak as if they were halos, and the cloud itself was an angel—one that was wreathed in pure terror and destruction. The great inferno then erupted outwards, devouring everything in its path. A wave of heat hit in full force, but it did not hurt Evangeline. Not even when everything around her buckled into itself. Evangeline tried to call out to Dmitri, but it was useless. Everything was far too loud for him to hear her pleas, and all she could do was watch as the love of her life transformed into something else—something horrific. His clothes turned into a faded crimson, while his skin looked as if it were melting and then hardening all at once. Meanwhile, all around them, the world continued to burn, engulfing them both in flames.

-------------------------------------------------

Reality crashed into Evangeline as she awoke, gasping for air as if she were drowning and couldn’t resurface. Her body ached from every little movement she made. Finally, coming to her senses, Evangeline realized that she was lying in a bed with a soft blanket covering her. Looking around, she noted that it was a moderately clean room, especially for one that was found in the Wastelands. She attempted to get up, but the pain shooting through her leg quickly put an end to that.

“Easy there, sister,” came a familiar voice. She saw that the ghoul who had saved her was sitting at the edge of her bed. His face was masked with concern as he looked her over. “You’re not quite ready to take on the day just yet.”

“Where—where am I?” Evangeline asked, still shaken from the nightmare. The bed creaked beneath her weight as she shifted to prop herself up to look around the room. She noticed it was a simple enough room with the basic furniture that every bedroom had.

“Goodneighbor, but you probably want the specifics. This is my office.” Hancock’s expression softened. “After what happened two nights ago—I wanted to keep you close.”

Evangeline didn’t know what to say. They had just met, and already he wanted to protect her? Of course, this wasn’t the first time she had been told such things. The people in Evangeline’s life had told her something similar all her life—including her own father. In the end, they all had left her one way or another. The only person who had stayed true to their word was Dmitri—or so she thought. Before the bombs fell, Evangeline had accidentally stumbled across divorce papers stuffed at the bottom of the dresser. It had felt like a full blow to the gut, but now… now she felt stupid for not realizing it sooner. All of those drunken late nights coming home, finding the wine stains that weren’t visible to the common eye and the lipstick that was the wrong shade found underneath the collar of his shirts. All the evidence was there, but still, she turned her head the other way, not wanting to believe the horrible truth that was right in front of her.

“Two nights ago? Have I really been out that long?” Evangeline asked, not quite believing that she had been incapacitated that long. It had seemed like it was just a couple of hours, but feeling how stiff her limbs were—perhaps that may not be the case.

“You were in pretty bad shape,” he answered, not taking his eyes off her. “Hell, you left a trail of blood leading outside the gate…”

She had almost forgotten about her encounter with the group of raiders who had set a trap prior to her arrival. If she had only seen through the lie that the woman had told her, then perhaps she would not be in this mess. Evangeline had always been too trustworthy of strangers, even after she had been fucked over by plenty of people in the past. It was something Dmitri had told her to be cautious of on multiple occasions. If only she had listened to him all those years ago.

“The name’s Hancock, by the way. How you holdin’ up?” he asked while tilting his head to the side, examining her.

Fucking terrible. Evangeline wanted to say but didn’t, but in all honesty, she wasn’t sure anymore. Her old life had been unfairly taken from her, and she now lived in a world full of strangers where none could be trusted—not even those that seemed trustworthy. To make matters worse, everything out there wanted to kill her—let it be people or creatures alike.

Evangeline let out a deep breath. “I’ll manage,” she said with a wave of her hand as if dismissing the fact that she was slowly falling apart, whether it be mentally or physically. Looking at the ghoul, she wasn't sure if he actually believed her or not, as his black eyes didn't reveal anything. “The name’s Evangeline, but you can call me Evie if you like.”

“So, what the hell happened to you out there?” Hancock asked instead, changing the subject entirely.

Where do I even begin? So much has happened to her in the last few months, and right now—the bad was outweighing the good. She figured telling him a bit of truth wouldn’t hurt while focusing on the more recent events. Evangeline kept more of the personal stuff out, like how her son was missing and how she had been alive before the war. Perhaps one day, she would tell him, but right now, Evangeline didn’t know whether or not to trust the strangely dressed ghoul even if he did save her life.

“I was careless..” Evangeline began, closing her eyes as if reliving the entire thing over again. “I should have known better, but I was so goddamn stupid.”

She continued, telling him what happened. About the desperate mother screaming about her child who had been gravely injured. Evangeline had not even given it a second thought, her mother instincts taking over. However, she found out later that it was a trap, an ambush set up by raiders. The woman, who had been disguised as the fretful mother, was part of the entire thing. Evangeline had been foolish enough to fall for it, which nearly cost her her own life.

“Shit.. and you survived all that?” Hancock asked, with a hint of surprise found in his voice.

A sudden burst of anger flared up inside of her.

“Just because I needed saving once,” she said, feeling irritated that he would undermine her ability to handle herself, “doesn’t exactly mean that I’m some fucking damsel who always needs some knight in shining armor to rescue me.” For once, Evangeline wanted people to not think just because she was a woman did not mean that she was incapable of taking care of herself. Why were men so hard to comprehend the matter, she wondered. She was just as capable as any man—if not more so.

“Woah, didn’t mean to cause offense there, sister,” Hancock said, defensively raising his hands. “I’m just impressed, is all. Most vaulties wouldn’t last a day out there, but you—you’re not like most vaulties… are ya?”

“Vaultie?” she asked, confused by the term. Hancock nodded to the pile of neat and freshly laundered clothes that were laid on the dresser. Oh. Evangeline realized the obviousness of the vault-tec suit she had received upon arriving at Vault 111. Soon after, her cheeks then flushed from embarrassment as the realization hit her like a brick smashing through a window. Looking down, Evangeline found that she was wearing nothing but her undergarments beneath the blankets.

Hancock let out a chuckle, which only made her blush more. “Don’t worry, the doc was the one who did all the undressing.”

A slight wave of relief flowed through her from hearing his words. Usually, Evangeline would not be so easily phased by the nakedness of her body around others. After running away from home after turning eighteen, Evangeline was employed as a dancer for eight years at a club on the strip district. During her time there, most of Philadelphia's male population had seen her in very little clothing. This was different, however. Evangeline wasn’t performing a show, and that was a time long before she had gained all the scars that will forever mark her body—face included.

“I’m sure you didn’t just stumble through these parts by accident,” Hancock pointed out, his voice changing to a more serious tone. “Even for someone as capable as yourself, this area is dangerous. If it’s not the raiders that you need to watch out for, then it’s the gunners or supermutants—both of which are worse than those that did this to you.” He waved a hand toward her leg.

Evangeline chewed on her bottom lip, grimacing slightly from the pain where it had been busted. “I was to meet a synth—by the name of Nick Valentine. He’s… did he by chance come by while I was out cold?”

He shook his head. “No sign of our synth friend yet, but I’ll make sure to send word as soon as that old bag of bolts walks through the gate. Now, you should get some rest because those wounds aren’t gonna heal overnight.”

She watched as the ghoul—her savior, walked toward the door.

Rest. Evangeline didn’t want to rest. She would rather be out there trying to find her son, who was still missing—and possibly in danger. Besides, she doubted it would come to her so easily. Not only that, but the thought of closing her eyes for more than a minute terrified her. Evangeline's nightmares were not getting any better, and she didn’t know how much longer she could handle these sleepless nights.

“Hancock?” she called after him, causing him to pause at the door with his hand rested on the handle.  “I—thank you for… y'know, saving me.”

He looked back to where she lay. “Don’t mention it, but please, get some rest.”

Without another word, Hancock turned and left the room, gently closing the door behind him. Now that he was gone, Evangeline’s mind wandered freely about her current situation until her eyelids became too heavy. Although she wanted to trust the strangely dressed ghoul, there was no telling whether the kindness he gave toward her was for his own gain—or if it was actually genuine. A part of her knew everything in the Commonwealth came with a price—even if it was something as small as saving someone’s life. Either way, that scared Evangeline the most.

The unknowing.

Evangeline was always one who stayed a couple of steps ahead of everything, but now? Now, it seemed that no matter how hard she tried, she was always more than a few steps behind, and that—that didn’t sit well with her at all.

[jrpneblog]

Memories, what memories.

Fifty years ago on Saturday I experienced my greatest high watching our famous club. It took place in London on a Beautiful Spring day by the banks of the Thames. More of that later as first we must concentrate on the matters in hand with an excellent win at Coventry last Saturday and the visit of play-off achievers, Barnsley, to Deepdale on Saturday for our final home game of the season. Please God let this be the last home game ever played at Deepdale when no fans will be there to cheer the boys on.

Last Saturday we mathematically made ourselves safe from relegation and by the time Monday had come I was trying to work out if we could make the top half of the league or not if results went our way. North End beat and in form Sky Blues by one goal to nil scored by Captain Alan Browne and I think on the day North End deserved the victory. Coventry play a lovely brand of football and it is a credit to Mark Robins what he has done for them given the almost impossible circumstances surrounding the club. North End won with a stonewall penalty midway through the second half nicely put away by Browne. To be fair we should have had another but thats another story. The win left North End on fifty five points with two games to go and the real fear after the Luton defeat at home had dissipated.

On Saturday we face Barnsley at Deepdale in our final home game of the season. It has been so tough watching the boys on a computer and hopefully this will be the last time. The Tykes have done an excellent job in finishing in the top six and they have proved that money isn't everything in the Championship and their achievement should really give North End some inspiration for the next campaign. This is one of those game that you just cant judge who will do what. Will Frankie try a couple of fringe players with next season in mind or will he stick with his tried and trusted system and try to make his case to get the job full time stronger. With Barnsley you wonder will they try and keep going for fourth place to get the second semi final leg at home of will they rest one or two of the key players for the big play off games that lie ahead. I think it will either be a very boring 0-0 draw or might be a real full bloodied encounter. Lets hope its the latter.

And finally this week:-   Indulge me as I take a personal trip down Memory Lane and to an event which now seems a lifetime away. The date is Saturday 1st May 1971 and the venue is Craven Cottage, home of Fulham Football Club, in West London. The game is Fulham v Preston North End and with the home side already promoted the Football league have brought the Third Division trophy to the game to present to Fulham after they have duly won the encounter. For Alan Ball`s Preston there is a chance of automatic promotion as North End sit three points clear of their only rivals, Halifax, with just two games to play (2 points for a win in those days). The equation is quite simple for Preston - win the game and we are promoted back to the second tier at the first attempt after being relegated 12 months earlier by Blackpool at Deepdale. I cried that night as a nine year old and thought the world had ended after my beloved North End had dropped into the third division for the first time ever. Just ten years after Sir Tom had retired and we were down with the also rans. The day started around 5.30am as I excitedly scurried about bursting with anticipation and anxiously asking my Dad was it time to set off for the coach. Fishwicks ran two coaches to the game from Leyland and they were to depart at 7am prompt with the long journey to London ahead of us.Finally the clock ticked round to 6.40 and we set off on the 10 minute walk to Fishwicks to catch the coach that would take us to our destination. London seemed like the other side of the world to me and as we passed Charnock Richard I thought that we must be getting close as we had been on the road for ages. My Dad and my Uncle chatted to the others on the bus as I just looked out of the window hoping to spot a blue motorway sign saying London. We stopped at Keele for half an hour and my excitement grew as there were hundreds of other North End fans on the same pilgrimage. Off we go with the next stop being Watford Gap. Even more North End fans who were singing and shouting and even though we were 90 miles from Fulham the atmosphere was starting to build. Finally I saw a sign “London 44”, we were getting nearer as Lunchtime approached and we hit the North Circular Road to take us towards Hammersmith. It must have taken us half an hour in those days to do the mile and a half from Hammersmith to Craven Cottage as the traffic was horrendous.At last we are there and are met with a buzzing around this famous old ground the likes of which I had never heard before. The crowd was officially recorded at 25,774 but it seemed almost like Wembley on Cup Final day with the chaos and noise around the ground. The queues to get in were massive but my Uncle Charlie could get where water couldn`t get (God rest his soul). Suddenly he burst out - “stay there, Stan” (to my Dad), I will be back in a few minutes. Incredibly he was back in no time with three stand tickets for the Stevenage Road stand right in the middle of the Fulham fans. Most of the North End fans were on the open Putney End but there were pockets of Blue and White all over the place. We are in and as the clock ticks round the teams run out separately at 2.55 with North End playing in Red.The Teams are announced, Fulham first then North End …. Kelly Ross McNab Bird Hawkins Spavin Heppolette Ham Lloyd Spark and Clark, with Dave Wilson as sub. John Gow from Swansea is referee and the game kicks off to a thunderous roar as North End are cheered by about 5,000 fans.The game is cagey but quite open and North End are holding their own kicking towards the Hammersmith End in the first half. Twenty two minutes gone and North End get a corner on the right hand side. Clive Clark jogs over and takes an in-swinger which Norrie Lloyd flicks on to Ricky Heppolette who gives North End the lead with a diving header into the Fulham net. The Putney end goes mad and all round the ground the satellite groups of North End fans are dancing with delight. Fulham counter quickly but Bird and Hawkins see them off like two rocks in the middle of the North End defence. Half time comes and goes as the Preston fans start daring to dream, can we do it against the odds at the home of the league leaders. North End are on the back foot in the second half but only really have one scary moment as Fulham throw everything forward. Five minutes to go, four, three, two, one, “TIMES UP” my Dad announces to the world as half the stand give him a look of disgust. How long will Mr Gow add on as North Ends slender lead remains intact? All eyes on the man in black as the whistle goes to his mouth Yeeessss…….ah No, wait, the whistle hasn`t blown and Fulham have the ball. Suddenly, from nowhere, the long shrill blow of the three whistles and we`ve done it - yes we`ve done it, Preston are back. Alan Ball runs on to the pitch and kisses the turf as the Championship Trophy quickly disappears from out of the stand. The Putney End is going berserk and me and my Dad and my Uncle are hugging each other amid a crowd of home supporters looking slightly mystified as to why the plan has not worked out. The North End players hug and congratulate but its not euphoria just a job done by the late great Alan Ball and his boys. We come down the steps to the stand entrance and our coach is the first one we see among about 60 others the length of Stevenage Road.Its 5.50 before we move an inch but nobody seems to care as the singing goes on and on until we finally make our way back up the M1. By the time we reach Coventry it is well past 8pm but the coach is thirsty and its an ale stop for the adults and pop and crisps for the ten or so kids on the bus who are entertained by a jovial coach driver. Finally we get back to Leyland, it`s Midnight but nobody seems to care as the streets echo to the sound of “Preston, Preston” and the road back to the second division is finally complete. Without actually trying to count them I have probably seen over 2,000 North End games since then but I doubt anything will ever surpass that day in West London and if it was ever in doubt before where my footballing loyalties would lie I knew from that day that me and Preston North End would be together for a lifetime.

.

JR`s HIGH FIVES                              

West Ham to beat Burnley 6/5                        

A £5 Stake returns £11.00 on bet365                

SEASONS STATS                              

Returns  £209.75    Stake £170.00    percentage profit  + 23.4%                       

Predictions 34   won 19   lost 15

[aeon-wolf]

Two Idiots & A Closet - Julie Ertz x Reader

Word Count: 2.7k+ Pairing: Julie Ertz x fem!Reader

A generic “two idiots have feelings for each other and it takes their friends to “convince” them to actually woman up and admit it” fic. Ft. Alex, Kelley, and Allie as the friends. And an athletic closet.

You heard a knock at your hotel room door. You groaned, not wanting to get up from your spot on your bed, but the knock didn’t stop, in fact becoming more insistent the more you tried to ignore it. So you pulled yourself to your feet, pulling on a shirt that was lying on your bed and opened the door. The moment you cracked open the door, Kelley pushed her way into your room, Alex, and Allie on her heels. “Hello to you too.” You said, a little grumpily at being woken up from your nap. 

“This is an intervention!” Kelley demanded as you shut the door, Alex, and Allie also looking at you expectantly. You frowned, rubbing the remnants of sleep out of your eyes. 

“What are you talking about O’Hara?” 

“Your pining after JJ.” She said. That jolted you awake. 

“I don’t… I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You replied, a bit nervously. You thought you had been hiding it so well. Your slightly larger than normal crush on the defensive midfielder. 

“Bullshit.” Alex chimed in, Kelley and Allie nodding in agreement. “We’ve put up with your heart eyes for long enough.” You just roll your eyes at your friends. 

“Yeah, we all saw the way you were making eyes at her after she scored against Chile,” Allie added. You blushed a little, not disputing that fact. You were so proud of Julie getting her first career World Cup goal that you had hung around the huddle hug a bit longer than everyone else. 

“I don’t have a thing for her. I was happy that my best friend scored her first World Cup goal!” You tried, but Kelley wasn’t having any of it. 

“Oh c’ mon. Almost the entire team knows you have the hots for her.” She insisted. “I think the only one who doesn’t know how you feel is JJ herself.” You cringed a bit.

“I don’t know what you expect me to do.” You relent. 

“Ask her out for fuck’s sake, (Y/N),” Alex said like it was the simplest thing in the world, but you shook your head fiercely in the negative.

“No way. She doesn’t even feel the same way. And even if she did, I’m not screwing up our friendship for that.” You said, a little dejectedly. “It’s just a little crush. I’ll get over it.” You defended, but all three of your fellow national team players just looked at you skeptically. “What?”  

Kelley just laughed. “Girl, you’ve had it bad ever since you met her. It’s been 3 years, if you’re not ‘over it’ by now, you’re sure as hell not going to be.” She said. You just blinked. 

You had actually met Julie for the first time at training camp when you had been called up at the age of 20. You had known of her for a while, given she had captained her own U20 team to a U20 World Cup win in 2012 and also from playing against the Chicago Red Stars. But you didn’t get the opportunity to actually talk to her until you were both at camp. Being the new center back called up, Julie seemed to take you under her wing, helping you improve in her old position. 

From there, you two became thick as thieves. Almost inseparable. And you developed your crush on your best friend. You thought you had been hiding it well, but considering Kelley, Alex and Allie all seemed to know about it, maybe you weren’t as sneaky as you thought. 

“If you don’t grow some, I’m going to go over and knock on her door right now and…” Alex threatened but you threw a pillow at her. 

“Don’t you dare, Morgan.” You grouched. “You’re not going to do a single thing.” She looked at you innocently. 

“What? I was just going to say I’ll go over there and tell her that we’ve got to be at training at 9 in the morning.” You just rolled your eyes. 

“She knows what time practice is.” You retorted. Alex shrugged. 

“Seriously (Y/N), what’s the issue? You’ve got a thing for her. Pretty sure she’s got a thing for you. And you’d make a great couple. I don’t really see the downside here.” Kelley said. You just huffed. 

“JJ is my best friend guys.” You said. Kelley feigned devastation but you just shoved her. “Feelings or not, I can’t lose that.” You continue. Alex sat up a bit straighter. 

“Jules wouldn’t end your friendship just because you have feelings for her, you know that right?” She said. You nod. 

“Of course I know that. But it will still make things awkward. I don’t want that.” 

“But if we’re right and she does have a thing for you, you two would make the perfect couple. You two already act like one except all the fun stuff.” Allie chimed in. You glared at her and she just raised her hands in surrender. You were about to reply but there was another knock at your door. You looked at the three women sitting on the other bed in the room which belonged to you roommate, Lindsey Horan, but they all just shrugged. You got up and padded over to the door. Opening it to find Julie on the other side. 

“Hey JJ.” You greet. You can hear Alex, Allie and Kelley all giggling and murmuring to themselves. 

“Hey (Y/N). Want to go grab dinner?” She asked. You looked down at your state of dress, which was just black sweatpants and the white t-shirt you had thrown on. You were sure you looked like a hot mess. She seemed to notice and just laughed. “You have time to get changed.” She assured you. You shrugged, nodding in acceptance of her invitation, opening the door for her. 

“Sure, want to come in while I change?” You asked. She nodded, stepping into your room. You wandered back to your stuff and teammates. “You three, out.” You said. Alex, Allie, and Kelley got up off Lindsey’s bed, shuffling out of the room. You went to see them out when Kelley grabbed your wrist. 

“This is your chance.” She whispered to you. You just flipped her off and shoved her out into the hallway. You went back to your luggage, looking for a pair of jeans as Julie made herself at home on your bed. 

“What were they here for?” She asked curiously. You just rolled your eyes. 

“To bother me.” You said, not wanting to elaborate. She seemed to accept your answer as you pulled off your sweats and changed into jeans. It wasn’t like the two of you hadn’t seen each other in your underwear thousands of times over the last three years. You grabbed a clean shirt that was hanging in the closet before heading into the bathroom to fix your hair and makeup. 

“Ready for semis?” She called to you. 

“As ready as I’ll ever be.” You replied, putting your hair into a messy bun on top of your head. “You?” You asked as you applied a bit of makeup quickly. Julie came into view as she leaned against the doorframe to your bathroom, watching you. 

“Hoping it’ll go better than last time.” She joked. You chuckled, recalling she accidentally caused Germany to be given a penalty kick the last time. “Hope really saved my ass on that one.” She said. 

“You know that wasn’t really your fault. It’s football, those things happen.” You said, putting your eyeliner back in your bag. 

“Yeah, but if we had lost because of that penalty I would have never forgiven myself.” She said. You look away from the mirror, moving closer to your friend, putting your hands on her shoulders. 

“But you didn’t. You won and went on to win the World Cup. Just like we’re going to do this year.” You reassure her. She nods, wrapping her arms around your waist, giving you a hug. It was moments like this that made it really hard for you to not pull back and kiss her, but as you had told Kelley, Alex and Allie, you weren’t going to jeopardize your friendship with Julie just because of a crush. 

----

You sprinted onto the field as the final whistle blew, signifying your win over England and advancement to the World Cup finals. You made a beeline for Julie, jumping into her arms. The blonde laughed, catching you and hooking her hands under your thighs. “You did it!” You exclaimed excitedly, your arms around her neck. 

“You weren’t an insignificant part of that either.” She reminded you. You had started the game, but Jill had subbed you out for Abby at halftime. You were good enough to start but still were relatively new to the squad. So you had watched Julie play the rest of the game from the bench, Allie nudging you every so often when you got a bit too engrossed in watching her play. You snuggled your nose into her neck as she held you up, gripping your thighs a bit tighter. 

“We’re into the finals.” You said. If your mouth hadn’t been close to her ear, she probably wouldn’t have heard you, but she nodded. 

“We sure are. Ready to go party about it?” She asked. You drew yourself back, nodding as she put you down. The two of you went and shook hands with a couple of the English players, Ellen White and Lucy Bronze if you recalled correctly before heading back to the tunnel and into the locker room. You rolled down your socks, taking your shin guards off and tossing them into your sports bag as Julie pulled the pre-wrap headband off, her hair still sticky with sweat from playing the full game. She turned to her locker to change out of her uniform as Kelley slid into the seat next to you. 

“So, she doesn’t have a thing for you, huh?” Kelley whispered. You shoved her in an attempt to get her to shut up given Julie was only a few feet away from you. 

“No. Now go away O’Hara.” You hissed. She just waggled her eyebrows and went over to Allie, the two of them gossiping in the corner, you were sure about you and Julie. They glanced your way every so often but you ignored them. You pulled your cleats off, putting them with your shin guards in your sports bag and changed into your sweats. When you finished, Julie was nowhere to be seen. But you weren’t particularly concerned, you were sure you’d meet up at the hotel and go out for drinks after. 

“Hey (Y/N).” You looked up to see Alex jogging towards you. 

“Alex.” You greeted, standing up. 

“Jill wants to talk to you.” She said. You frowned, it wasn’t out of the ordinary for Jill to want to talk to individual players after a game, but you couldn’t think of anything that could warrant it. But you just shrugged, following Alex to a different part of the locker room. The two of you stopped outside what looked like an athletic closet of sorts, a bang coming from the other side of the door. You frowned, looking at Alex. But before you had an opportunity to ask what was going on, Alex opened the door and another pair of hands shoved you in. 

“What the fuck guys?” You ask as the door shut and clicked behind you. You tried to handle but found it locked. 

“We’re not letting you out until you woman up.” You heard Kelley say from the other side. You pounded on the door. 

“If you don’t let me out right now O’Hara, so help me.” You say but a hand grabbed your wrist to stop your fist from hitting the door again.

“I don’t think swearing at them is going to help.” A familiar voice said. You turned to see Julie locked in the same closet with you. 

“What is going on?” You asked, she just shrugged. 

“No idea. One moment Allie says Jill needs to talk to me, the next Kelley shoves me in this closet. And then she shoved you in here too.” You roll your eyes at your friend’s antics in trying to get you and Julie together. But you were going to be stubborn. You weren’t going to admit shit under duress like this. 

“I’m going to make it my personal mission to make the rest of your life hell O’Hara if you don’t let us out.” You yell. You just heard a scoff. 

“I’ll let you out right now after you admit it.” She replied. You growl. 

“You’re so dead Kelley!” You were about to pound a fist on the door again, but Julie stopped you. 

“What is she talking about?” She asks you. 

“Nothing. She’s being a shit friend.” You reply, brushing off the question. But Julie grabbed your arm, spinning you to face her. 

“Is there something going on?” She asked. You shake your head quickly. 

“Nothing.” You say, maybe a bit too fast because Julie looks at your skeptically. “It’s nothing.” You clarify, a little defeated, the fight drained out of you as her blue eyes stare at you. You always had a weakness for Julie, rarely ever being able to deny her anything. You avert your gaze, the back of your neck heating up a little. 

“Hey.” She said, lifting your chin to look at her. “You know you can tell me anything right?” You nod once but say nothing. She just sighs. “You’re my best friend, whatever it is, I promise it won’t change that.” She tries to reassure you, though the term best friend makes your heart clench a little. 

“It will though.” You say quietly in response. She gripped your shoulders tightly. 

“You’ll never know if it will unless you tell me.” She presses. You close your eyes, shaking your head, too terrified to actually voice the words out loud. There was a bang from the outside of the closet. 

“I don’t hear any confessing in there!” Kelley yelled. You groaned.

“Seriously, whatever it is, I can take it,” Julie said. 

“I like you, okay!” You explode, the stress coming both from Julie and Kelley too much for you to ignore anymore. Being trapped in a relatively small closet with your crush didn’t help either. “I’ve had feelings for you since we met, I’m just too chicken to admit it to you because I knew you didn’t like me like that and I didn’t want to mess up our friendship. Okay? Happy?” You said grumpily, arms folded in front of your chest, leaning up against the door. 

There was silence from both sides of the door. You suspected that Kelley didn’t think you’d actually admit it. And despite your crippling fear of your best friend’s reaction, your chest did feel a bit lighter after admitting your feelings. “You... “ You looked up, Julie’s hands still on your shoulders, seemingly trying to work out what you just said. You just shrug, not willing to say anything more that would make the situation worse. 

You felt Julie’s lips against yours before you really processed what was happening. You made a sputtering noise at the sudden invasion of personal space, and it took you a moment to fully comprehend what was happening. But once you did, you reciprocated, unfolding your arms and pulling Julie’s hips closer you to. Her hands left your shoulder, wrapping her arms around your neck. You pulled back after air became an issue, resting your head against the door breathlessly. “Wow.” You said. Julie grinned, pressing her forehead against yours at a little bit of a downward angle as she was a couple inches taller than you. 

“I told you I could handle it.” She said quietly. You snort. 

“How was I to know that?” You asked cheekily. She just rolled her eyes before kissing you again. “So, will you go on a date with me?’ You ask after you broke apart again. Julie’s eyes lit up a bit, nodding. 

“I’d love to.” She said. 

“I told you!” You hear from the other side of the door. 

“Fuck you, Kelley.” You yell back, but to be honest, you were quite pleased with the outcome and maybe you’d spare Kelley’s life after she let the two of you out of the closet. 

A/N: Okay, I enjoy this. Still not 100% on board with shipping real life people, but doing it with player x reader makes it a bit easier. And I still can’t help my thought of what if JJ was gay. She’d be too powerful for all of us so maybe it’s for the best. Might be a part 2, idk if anyone wants that. 

[fraink5-writes]

Blue Ceiling - Tablet III

Anyone else crying in the club about today’s Babylonia episode? Read this chapter to see good things happen to Kingu.

Of course, thanks a whole lot to my fantastic editor, @leio13

Summary: Expecting to become king of the merpeople as son of Tiamat, Kingu is suddenly forced to give up his tail and to go the surface to restore humanity’s disregarded respect for the Goddess of the Sea. However, he severely underestimates the Uruks’ willpower, especially that of their stubborn king, Gilgamesh.

This chapter can also be found on Ao3 here. Without further ado, please enjoy!

Kingu woke up to an unfamiliar ceiling. There was neither the privacy of Gorgon’s home nor the warmth of Shamhat’s. Once again, Kingu was without a home. The room was nearly empty save an overbearing silence.

Kingu’s legs cried out in pain as they did on the first day. They had brought him nothing but suffering. He wanted to cut them off. 

Even then, he could not be a merman again. He was stuck in a useless human body, but even the humans wouldn’t accept him. He had always been an outsider. Maybe he would live as a monster like Gorgon. Gorgon was strange company, but he found himself missing her in his isolation. They had been outcasts together, but now they were just alone.

At least, Kingu thought staring at the apathetic ceiling, he had Tiamat. He hazily recalled her sorrowful song; was she lonely like him? Certainly, she understood him better than anyone else, and that’s why she chose him. Tiamat trusted him with this mission, so he would carry it out for her. Whether he was a merman, a human, or neither, he was Tiamat’s son. That knowledge warmed his cold loneliness.

Kingu watched the shadow cast by the window as it moved across the floor until his meditation was interrupted by footsteps. A woman’s voice appeared in the doorway, “Oh good! He’s awake.”

Two people entered the room: the distraught brunette woman from the other day and Gilgamesh. Kingu closed his eyes and turned away; he had no business with Gilgamesh, but curiosity forced him to peak and see what they were up to.

The intruders had approached Kingu’s bed, and then the woman elbowed the king, an action certainly warranting the death penalty.

But Gilgamesh just grumbled to himself then spoke aloud, “Siduri requested that I apologize for yesterday.” The king seemed to struggle between his lack of desire to apologize and the appearance of his authority. 

“Ahem.” Siduri forced a cough. 

“Yesterday, I invited you to my home, but you were met with hostility instead of hospitality. That was unacceptable.” Gilgamesh’s curt “apology” was accompanied by rolled eyes.

Siduri sighed then turned her attention to Kingu. “I hope you are feeling better today.”

“No,” Kingu mumbled, not in the mood for playing at courtesy.

Gilgamesh opened his mouth, but he was preemptively silenced by a sharp glare from Siduri.

“We’re truly, deeply sorry for what happened yesterday,” Siduri continued, bowing her head. “And, we also are here to inform you that you’ll be living here from now on.”

“Huh?” Kingu snapped out of his fake sleep.

“We’re sorry it’s not much,” Siduri bowed her head again, “but Shamhat is busy with her work, and so it would be more convenient for you to live here. We hope you understand.”

Shamhat’s job… Shamhat had been so generous with Kingu; it never occurred to him that he was inconveniencing her. Shame floated up to his cheeks.

“If there’s anything you need, King Gilgamesh would be more than willing to provide. It’s the least he could do after what happened yesterday.”

If the glower on Gilgamesh’s face was any indicator, he was not ‘more than willing,’ but Siduri seemed to have some influence over him, so maybe it wasn’t out of the question. 

“Let’s see…” Kingu shot Gilgamesh a smug look while running through the possibilities. He wanted to ask for something outrageous.

“Oh yes, one last thing,” Siduri interrupted. “To make up for yesterday, King Gilgamesh has offered to show you around Uruk, since you are still new here.”

Somehow Siduri’s offer was more outrageous than anything Kingu had come up with himself, yet he definitely wasn’t interested. Unfortunately, it did not seem like declining was an option. 

“We will be back in a few days when you are feeling better.” Siduri spared Kingu, if only temporarily.

“Don’t make me wait too long, mongrel.” Gilgamesh muttered and left.

“Please rest well!” Siduri called before chasing Gilgamesh with a look of embarrassment.

***

After a few days, Kingu was capable of walking around his barren home although not without pain. But there was not much else to do besides wander in circles—“pacing,” as the humans would call it. So when an unfamiliar knock sounded against the door, he bounded to answer it. Finally free from his boredom. “Hel—… lo.” 

Gilgamesh stared silently at him.

“Where’s Siduri?” Kingu demanded.

“She’s busy—is that a proper way to greet a king?”

“You didn’t even say ‘hello,’” Kingu grumbled. “Anyway, what do you want?”

“I’m going to give you a tour of Uruk.”

He meant that? Kingu studied the king for any tells. Surely, this was a joke.

“Don’t be ungrateful, mongrel. Who do you think has been providing your food and medicine every day?”

Well, the one who had been checking up on him, bringing food and medicine, was “Sidu… ri?”

“IDIOT! She’s only been delivering them!”

Kingu paled. To think he had fallen so low as to depend on the arrogant, human king!

“What’s wrong? Has your brain finally stopped working entirely?” Gilgamesh wore a surprising grin. “Hurry up. I don’t have that much time to waste.”

Kingu took Gilgamesh’s cue and turned back into the house to match his presentation to the king’s standards, taking the opportunity to regain his scattered composure. 

“Oh? I didn’t think you could do it,” Gilgamesh remarked as Kingu stepped out the door.

“Do what?”

“Put together a look that’s worthy of standing by my side.”

The king continued on, but the rest was lost on Kingu, who was shocked by the double-edged compliment. His face flushed a deep red.

“Anyway, let us begin.” Gilgamesh paid Kingu’s embarrassment no heed as he started his tour. “This house is on the outskirts of town, so we will head inwards, towards the center, and then back out.”

Kingu had not once left his home, so everything was new to him. It did not matter what direction they went in.

“That,” Gilgamesh pointed down the road, “is one of Uruk’s greatest prides.”

A brick wall. But it didn’t suffice to call it simply a wall. The wall was thick enough for tiny people to patrol on top. It was tall enough to cast a shadow over the nearby buildings. And it was long enough to extend indefinitely past Kingu’s field of vision.

“It is the great wall which protects all of Uruk.”

“Protects?” The giant wall was an enigma to Kingu. There was no wall which surrounded Atargata, only the endless sea. To Kingu, the wall was just a cage.

“Yes, protects. From beasts and enemy peoples.”

So the humans weren’t united? This was another shock for Kingu. To think they would fight and kill each other… How savage. Kingu could not hide his displeasure from his face.

“What’s with that face? We haven’t had a war in years. So long as that wall exists, the people of Uruk can live in peace.”

Then the wall was anything but a cage; it really was a shelter.

“Anyway, we’re heading in the other direction. There’s no point in leaving the city so soon. Come on.” Gilgamesh called Kingu and led him towards the center of Uruk.

The city of Uruk was organized very simply. Its residents were sorted into districts by occupation, which surrounded the central districts. Most remarkably, the city was crisscrossed with artificial waterways. Kingu scoffed at the sight; the humans had left the sea only to bring it right to their doorsteps. The other merfolk would have been offended by the canals—“how dare the insolent humans try to control the blessings of Tiamat!”—but Kingu was a bit grateful. He missed the sea.

Kingu would have been content to study at the man-made flow of water throughout the entire tour, but circumstances wouldn’t allow it.

“Oh, is that King Gilgamesh?”

“Your majesty!”

“What an honor!”

As Gilgamesh passed through each district, he created a commotion each time. Laborers stopped working, housewives and children appeared in the doorways of their homes, and people from anywhere and everywhere poured into the streets to greet their king. Kingu expected Gilgamesh to swat them all away, but instead, he turned towards Kingu, grinning, and proclaimed, "Look at all the diligent, loyal citizens of Uruk!" He turned back to the crowd, occasionally calling out to one person or another by name (and not the expected "mongrel")  and asking about business. By the time they reached the central districts, Kingu, as much as he learned about Uruk, was even less certain of the king's character.

While surely big enough to qualify as districts, the central districts would be more aptly called monuments. One was an enormous, terraced pyramid built from clay. At the top of the sky-reaching steps sat a white, stone building. The other was a bigger mystery, for all Kingu could see were the stone walls. The white face of the wall was covered in imagery and statues, suggesting something even grander lay inside. Simple but tall, ostentatious but flat; the two structures balanced each other.

"Are those temples?" Kingu wondered aloud.

"Relics," Gilgamesh snapped. "Relics of when people cowered before mere fantasies.” He inspected them with irritation. “They serve no purpose in my Uruk. They would be more useful torn down and rebuilt as new districts for the working population."

If these temples were really built for Tiamat, it would only advance her rage to tear them down. Then, she would mercilessly re-establish her authority. "I wouldn't do that—"

"Would you shut up about that?” Gilgamesh turned his contemptuous gaze to Kingu. “It's annoying. What were you—a priest?—before you hit your head?"

Why did Kingu even bother? The man next to him epitomized human arrogance, the reason Kingu was sent to the surface in the first place. He doubted humanity could ever get saved. 

Kingu didn’t say anything; he didn’t want to entertain Gilgamesh’s hubris anymore. It was annoying enough that he predicted what Kingu was going to say. He’s aware of the voice of reason, but he willfully chooses to ignore it—how foolish. 

“Stop gawking and come with me. Let me show you something more impressive.” After demanding Kingu to follow him, Gilgamesh headed outwards once again. They marched in silence until they had reached the base of the wall. “We’re going up.”

Although there was no practical value to this part of the tour, so long as Gilgamesh was his guide, Kingu could make no objections, so he followed the king up the stairs. Instead of looking outward, Gilgamesh pointed Kingu to the city which they had spent all day walking through. The sun, still high in the sky, was now shining down from the west. The sprawl of brick buildings radiated under its light. From above, Kingu could make out hundreds of tiny gardens which had been hidden from the street. He identified each district by their unique characteristics. With Gilgamesh out of the way, the people had returned to their work, but there were plenty on the streets: vendors, errand-runners, playing children. Tiny, swift, and graceful, the busy Uruks reminded Kingu of the fish in Atargata. 

Gilgamesh beamed as he watched his city. Without sparing even a glance for Kingu, he declared with exaggerated gestures, as though giving a speech to the people down below, "Look at the great city of Uruk! Its protective walls, its sturdy buildings! Its prosperity and its peace! Did any goddess build that? No, it was the Uruks who built this marvelous city. Look at how the little people work, content and undeterred. They don't need any goddess. They are working towards the future. Don't you see? Trembling in fear of the Goddess is the past; the future is the path upon which humanity walks, and Uruk is at the forefront.”

So that was the nature of the golden king Gilgamesh—a man overflowing with pride. His pride exceeded himself, stretching even beyond the walls of Uruk to its fertile plains, and, from it, his authority as king was born. Kingu had mistaken his remarks for selfish hubris, but it was the pride of his people. 

Kingu stared in awe at the golden king besides him. His radiance seemed to eclipse the sun. 

Finally, Gilgamesh acknowledged Kingu. "To suggest otherwise is an insult to the hardworking citizens, past and present. Don't do it again."

Kingu could only nod.

***

Something about Uruk changed for the remaining duration of the tour; the wall seemed grander, the people working harder, the farms more bountiful. Gilgamesh and Kingu had left the walled city, explored the farmland which surrounded it, and were drifting along the river which gave Uruk its vitality: the Euphrates. The water’s surface was remarkably different than its depths. The small ripples glistened under the sun’s rays. On top of it all floated an image of Kingu’s face. His reflection wore a small grin, which was unfamiliar to even Kingu. How he had missed the water. He reached his hand, stroked the waves, then dipped his fingers into the cool current. His fingers seemed to bend—Kingu recoiled his hand. He was sure he held them straight in the water (which was confirmed when he pulled them out), so why did they appear to bend under the water?

Gilgamesh threw back his head with laughter. “What happened? Afraid of your own reflection?!”

“No-no way!” Unable to directly fight the accusation, Kingu turned away and stared back into the water. Gilgamesh couldn’t call him a coward like this. He plunged his fingers back into the water and watched them bend again. He was determined to figure out the mystery. He repeated this several times, but while the phenomenon continued, there was no suggestion as to why. 

“Now what? Are you fighting?”

“N-no! I’m just studying it.” Kingu did not look up from his “study;” instead, he just leaned closer to the water, trying to ignore Gilgamesh’s ridicule. From such a close distance, maybe he could see the river’s contents. 

Kingu hit the water with a splash before he could realize what had happened. His body had completely submerged, and for a moment, it was tranquil, surrounded by the sea’s nostalgic embrace.

Then Kingu opened his mouth, and the scorching water flooded in. It weighed in his lungs like a bunch of bricks, smothering them.

Why? Why?! Why?! He was a merman. He was the son of Tiamat.

No, he was just a human.

The water, cold and unforgiving, crushed him like a pest to be disposed of.

Kingu needed to be free. On land. He thrashed, again, again, again. 

Then a wave of darkness.

***

Something warm wrapped around Kingu’s wrist, jolting energy into him, and yanked him out of the water. "I didn't permit you to die yet." Kingu knew that voice. Golden hair. Red eyes. ...Gil…?

Before he could fully make sense of his surroundings, Kingu doubled over, retching out the water which sat in the bottomless well of his lungs. Each draw of water was more painful than the last. 

When the coughing fit finally subsided, he fully registered Gilgamesh sitting across from him, a slight scowl on his face.

"… Why did you save me?" Kingu croaked.

"You're too entertaining to let die yet," Gilgamesh responded offhandedly, then muttered. "...besides, now you can't say that you saved my life."

"Huh?” Kingu gaped. “Are you really that petty?!"

"A king can't be in a mongrel's debt."

"But you do admit that I saved you.” Kingu would not live this down. “You know, normal people say 'thank you.'"

"Are you really that petty?” Gilgamesh gibed. “And I haven't heard you say 'thank you' yet either."

Kingu was not going to say that—not until Gilgamesh owned up to his own gratitude. 

Gilgamesh just sighed. “You got a closer look at Euphrates than expected,” he snickered, “But it can’t be helped. We should head back now.”

Kingu nodded. He couldn’t wait to be free. But then a group of men on boats caught his eye. “Wait. Are those fishermen?”

“Oh, we didn’t see them before.” Gilgamesh remarked, uninterested.

“Can I try?”

“What?” Gilgamesh stared at Kingu. “Do you want to go for another ‘swim?’”

“No. I want to try.”

“Fine.” Gilgamesh waved his hands apathetically. “But if you fall in again, you better hope one of those men is going to rescue you.” Despite his griping, Gilgamesh talked to the nearby fisherman and procured a spear for Kingu. “Show me what you can do, mongrel.”

Although incensed, Kingu pretended to ignore Gilgamesh’s provokation. He dipped the spear into the water, and as he expected, it seemed to bend upon entering the water. Nothing he couldn’t work with. He watched a decently sized fish, a barbel, swim towards him, closer, closer, closer, and then, he skewered it. 

“Aha!” Pulling the spear from the water, he beamed (somewhat maliciously) at Gilgamesh. “Hungry?”

For a few seconds, the king’s chin hung agape, and that was enough to transform Kingu’s ordinary feat into a great triumph.

“You got lucky,” Gilgamesh mumbled.

But within minutes, Kingu had pulled another barbel from the river. Then another, and another, and another. 

“Alright, enough!” Gilgamesh groaned. “I get it.”

Content with the king’s surrender, Kingu sat back down. “Here, you can give it back.”

Gilgamesh rolled his eyes. “Keep it.”

“Huh?”

“From now on, you’re going to join them.”

Kingu’s face lit up. Then he smirked. “So, I’m good, right?” Gilgamesh would have no choice but to acknowledge Kingu’s talents.

“As long as you’re living in Uruk, you need to be a productive member of society.”

Gilgamesh’s disregard of Kingu’s showing off was more crushing than Kingu wanted it to be. Not wanting to linger on it, he hastily moved on. “Man, these look good. I could eat one right now.” 

And he would have if Gilgamesh hadn’t raised an eyebrow. “Right now?”

“Why?” Kingu was bewildered.

“You don’t want to smoke them at least?”

“Oh.” So that’s what the humans did. Kingu’s face went red with the realization. “Yes, of course, I do!” He bluffed. “It was just an exaggeration.”

“Well, if you don’t know how to cook them, ask someone.” Gilgamesh muttered. “You should also learn how to swim soon.” Without another word, he began rowing back towards the city. They continued in a peaceful silence all the way to Kingu’s door. 

“Mongrel,” Gilgamesh called out before leaving.

Oh, how Kingu wished he didn’t respond to that. But it was too late. “What?”

“You weren’t half bad today.”

Kingu’s heart stopped for several endless moments.

“If you want to learn how to use that spear, I will teach you.”

Kingu only half-processed the words, but they threw him into a greater panic. 

“Don’t just stand there like an idiot!” Gilgamesh barked. “Or I’ll take the offer back.”

“Yes! I would like to!” Kingu blurted out.

“Excellent. Then I will send for you when I have time.” With that, Gilgamesh left.

...What? Did Gilgamesh just praise Kingu? And did Kingu just agree to meet him again? Kingu was undeniably an idiot—an idiot for making plans with Gilgamesh of all people, and an even bigger one for getting so worked up in the first place. 

No, Kingu tried to reassure himself, he needed to be on the king’s good side to carry out his mission. But before he worried about Gilgamesh, he needed to shape up.

***

Kingu did not find the idea of raw fish to be so objectionable (he ate them all the time in Atargata), but, in an effort to blend in, he tried smoking them as Gilgamesh had suggested. They usually ended up charred. Fortunately for him, Shamhat paid Kingu a visit one evening, volunteering to cook dinner: a one-night reprieve. As expected, Shamhat’s cooking was leagues above Kingu’s. The savory flavor brought back memories of Kingu’s first few days in Uruk, staying in Shamhat’s home. 

“Um, Shamhat,” Kingu began, confidence disappearing by the millisecond. “Thanks for taking care of me.”

“Oh, you’re welcome!” Shamhat smiled. “It was my pleasure.”

“I’ve been an interruption to your job and routine, so… I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be!” Shamhat replied as though the words Kingu had struggled to say were a simple matter. “I can take days off sometimes, you know? Besides, I have something I should be apologizing about.”

“Huh? Why?”

“About the other day…” Shamhat maintained eye contact as she spoke. “While I really appreciate you standing up for me, you were put in danger because of me. I’m sorry to have—”

“Don’t apologize!” Why did she have to apologize for what that pompous egoist did? “Someone had to stand up to that narcissist!”

“I see.” Shamhat laughed. “If you feel that way, I’m glad. Thank you.”

“Besides, I’m better now. Nothing to worry about!”

“You know, I’m glad that you and King Gilgamesh are getting along now.”

Kingu blinked. “We are?”

“Yes, he said good things about you.”

“He did?”

“Let’s see.” Shamhat tilted her head. “That you can’t swim… that you have an absurd fear of fantasies… that you have a serious attitude problem…”

“Which of those are good things?”

“Well, he said them all smiling.” Shamhat conveyed no doubt in her theory. “I think he likes you.”

“Great.”

Shamhat would have certainly known more about Gilgamesh than Kingu, but perhaps, just this once, she was wrong.

“Besides, he invited you to see him again, didn’t he?”

“...Yeah…” Kingu didn’t want to think about that incident again. 

“See? I’m sure he’s fond of you! Oh, come on! Don’t be like that. It’s a rare honor to make acquaintances with the king like this.”

Shamhat had a point. Kingu should have appreciated that the circumstances were now in his favor, but, at the moment, his mind was caught up with other things. “About Tiamat,” Kingu posed the question hesitantly, “Do you believe in the goddess?”

“Tiamat?” Shamhat pondered over the question. “I guess she could exist. It’s possible that a goddess created us people and put us on land. But you see, even if she does exist, she hasn’t done anything for us in a long time. Our ancestors built this city, and we work hard to keep advancing under the guidance of our king. We built our fortunes ourselves. So, it’s hard for me to believe.”

Gilgamesh had said the same thing the other day. The Uruks had long been independent. It was no surprise then that they couldn’t remember anything Tiamat had done for them. More than that, the Uruks were proud. They believed in their capabilities as humans and that they could advance through those abilities and willpower alone. There was no room for a distant entity like Tiamat in their tale of success.

“You’re a believer, right?” Shamhat continued. “I don’t think it’s wrong to believe. But just, maybe don’t mention it in front of Gilgamesh.” She winked.

That was for certain. The king took pride to a whole new level. 

“But King Gilgamesh is right. There’s something weird about you.”

“What do you mean?” Kingu demanded.

“Well, you appeared suddenly without memories and without basic knowledge. You couldn’t even walk. But nevertheless, you have strangely specific beliefs, skills, and knowledge. Just who were you before?”

Kingu frowned. Maybe Shamhat would believe him. No, he couldn’t tell her.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you!” Shamhat rapidly changed tones. “Don’t worry about it, okay? There’s no use in fretting over what you can’t remember. What’s important is that you’re here now and what you do with that. You know, people don’t have a lot of time on this land, so we must make the most of it!”

Kingu had not given a single thought to the human lifespan, but it truly was short—lamentably so. Nevertheless, they were undeterred. The humans must have done more work in their lives than any of the complacent merpeople had done in the past two hundred years. They built Uruk, which must have taken generations to reach its current state (the founders were certainly dead). In fact, they were still working on it, even if they would die so soon. So that was the future they worked for, not only for themselves, but for their offspring too. It all seemed so foreign to Kingu, yet he felt deeply ashamed for not having realized it.

“Kingu?” Shamhat had inched forward to inspect Kingu’s hidden face.

“I’m sorry,” Kingu mumbled.

“Huh? No, no, I am the one who’s sorry. I really didn’t mean to make you upset.”

Kingu curbed his regret before looking up. “No, it’s fine. You’re right, Shamhat. It’s good to keep moving forward.”

[ncfan-1]

“death,” “life,” and “love” for the WIP meme please :D

Death:

Here, Elrond could have paced the day away, could have paced until Ithil turned the walls to milky white and Gil-galad’s fair face was shaped into a ghastly death mask by the harsh shadows that poured in through the seams in the floor and the walls. He could have done that, and short of needing him to leave to admit someone else, he thought that Gil-galad might have let him.

“’Rodnor, we do not execute our criminals. To send the man away would be as good as sending him to his death; it would be the same as executing him, except his death would be slower. We have no prisons in which to hold him. This is not a rich-enough community to make a payment of restitution to Celebrimbor a sensible measure. And forcing the man to serve Celebrimbor in his forge for any length of time would not be sensible, either, for if the man still harbors rage in his heart, it may be Celebrimbor’s cooling corpse we find the next time. I do not like leaving criminals to live their lives with no punishment for their crimes, but there is nothing I can do that would not make the problem worse. So leave it alone, and give Celebrimbor no grief when you go to him for your lessons.’”

Even to those who were ambivalent on the subject of Elrond, himself, the blood of Elu Thingol and Melian the Queen counted for something, and to lose the last carrier of that blood in Ennor who was yet counted among the Eldar, when the carrier of that blood was in the service of the High King of the Ñoldor, well… Elrond supposed that Gil-galad’s concerns were at least comprehensible. In this Second Age of Anor, it had been mutually and silently agreed upon that the Edhil were not going to go to war with each other over any sort of insult anymore, be it the perceived theft of a treasure or the death of a person deemed important to one faction or another. It had been agreed upon that now that the… instigators were gone, there could be nothing that could even be construed as a justification for kinslaying, on anyone’s parts (Though most people tended to look at the nearest Ñoldo when they made that particular remark).

I’m putting the rest of this under a cut, because it’s going to get long.

But here, here there was a forest, and there was sunlight like water dripping off of the branches of a long-dead tree, a tree whose death had been the cause of so much sorrow. Here, there was a tangle of blackberry bushes, and the tart juice of a blackberry Elrond had popped into his mouth stinging on his lips. Here, there was the two of them, and if there had been any Laegrim living in this forest, Elrond thought that even the shiest of them would have come out of their hiding places by now, if only to tell Elrond and Celebrimbor to get off of their property and stop eating their blackberries.

Running was something that had not sat well with all parties concerned. As he had sped towards manhood, Elros had liked it less and less. It was not that he longed for death, or so Elrond hoped—though sometimes, these days, certain past events taken into account, Elrond had to wonder—but he knew his brother, and knew that his brother had felt helpless, and that fighting would have made him feel a little less helpless, and thus, Elrond had a good idea of why Elros had always spoiled for a fight, even when the odds were hopelessly against them.

Life:

For all his life, Elrond had had a title that counted for very little. In the refugee camp in the Lisgardh, he and Elros had been the twin princes of the Iathrim, sons of Queen Elwing and Lord Eärendil. Or, if you were to talk to the Gondolindrim instead of the Iathrim, sons of Queen Elwing and Prince Eärendil. Or, depending on certain other people you could have spoken to, Princess Elwing and any title you cared to stick to Eärendil that did not ignore the fact that his mother was, even if absent, still living, and most people had by then decided that really, the fact that Idril was never considered her father’s heir had been a perhaps unwise decision on the parts of everyone who had decided that it would be so, and also of everyone who had then allowed Idril to go on not being her father’s heir.

On the shores of the Sea in Eriador, there were many who counted Elrond a prince as well, and had decided that this made him a person of some importance. In this Second Age of Anor, Elrond was considered far more important by the world at large than he had been in the First Age of Anor, and when he was trying to live his life and do his job, the fact that there were many people who considered him important? Well, it was quite frankly a complete and total hassle.

And getting out and swimming there, even at this time of year, was more likely than not to end with Elrond explaining to the Doomsman exactly why he had considered this venture a good idea. The Doomsman being the sort of judge that he was, he would probably have ruled that Elrond had ended his life through his own devices and assign him a harsher penalty as a result. Elrond wasn’t terribly interested in getting out of the Timeless Halls around the same time the Valar decided they were letting Fëanor out. Honestly, he wasn’t interested in spending time in the Timeless Halls at all. So, yes, he would concede—not happily, but he would concede—that he needed someone manning the ship he was to take to reach Tol Himling.

Celebrimbor, for his part, blinked blankly back, though given the barely-evident stiffening of his back, Elrond could guess that this was not the first time they were having such a conversation. Given that it was Celeborn, and given the way Celeborn seemed to regard Celebrimbor, Elrond supposed it would be safe money to assume that this was absolutely not the first time they were having this conversation. Nor the second. Possibly not even the third, depending on what time of day yesterday Celeborn had found out that Celebrimbor was going on this assignment. “Celeborn, I spent many years of my life within the bounds of that fortress. It holds no secrets for me.” Dropping his voice, he added gently, “I think I am among the most qualified here to make such an expedition. I will be in no danger there.”

You did not expect his choice. You did not expect him to go away to be a king of a distant land and leave you on the ragged edge of your lost lands, staring out at the water and knowing that drowned beneath the waves are lands where you once walked, lands where you were born. You did not expect him to leave you for his new land, did not expect him to leave you to stare out at the water and know that where your birthplace was, now there is only water, and there is no proof for your existence but a life that could be snuffed out at any moment. Perhaps you did not know him as well as all that.

Elrond did not dare contemplate what it was he wanted above all other things, but you know, his life would be much easier if people would stop defining him as the child who had been kidnapped by the raiders who had sacked the refugee camp in the Lisgardh. His life would be much easier if those who surrounded him in the court would allow him to forge a reputation for himself that did not begin and end with something that had happened to him as a child. His reputation was built around passivity, and that was the worst of it: so long as his reputation was centered around passivity, Elrond suspected that the inertia holding his reputation where it was would be… considerable.

Love:

Elrond had no great love of combat, but he had grown up in turbulent times (that were especially turbulent for him and for Elros), and he had no desire to be caught flat-footed if the need for combat came upon him, so he did spend a fair amount of time every day in the training grounds. But Celebrimbor kept different hours than him, and from what Elrond had gathered, Celebrimbor had even less love for combat than he did—the man forged weapons that served the mightiest warriors in the land very well, but he was considerably less likely to be found wielding those weapons himself. (And there were those who muttered that Celebrimbor ought not to be allowed to bear any weapons at all.)

[saint-patrice]

torey krug for @bigbruinsenergy !

life:made 😎 nah fr, thank you for this request my friend!! i was very excited to do one for torey, he’s quite the character and i love him A Lot

Note: a few people have said they like these posts, so i’m happy to take requests if there’s a particular player you’d like to see! see this page (i don’t think it works on mobile because tumblr is a burning shitpile, sorry) for details, and a list of ones i’ve done so far :) i have quite a few requests rn, but feel free to keep em coming!

he may be short, but he is powerful!! or in the words of the bruins’ twitter account, “torey krug: angry”. an unforgettable moment from this season, torey was really living every bruins fan’s dream of completely and aggressively flattening a blues player in this moment. and i salute him for it

here he is, in all his glory, laughing his ass off at the entire new jersey bench. he’s honestly such a little bastard and that’s precisely why i love him. he’s full of love for his teammates and nothing but spite for everyone else. it’s very sexy of him, really 

baby krug!!!! isn’t she just the cutest, she’s so tiny 😭 the baby pictures have been just about the only thing making offseason bearable thus far

it must be a cruel god we have for him to put a 5′9 man (or 3 of them...) on a team with someone an entire foot taller than him. but it makes for great content so honestly, who’s complaining. this has the precise energy of a young girl playing dress-up with her mom’s clothes. it’s undeniable

the effort he has to go to... oh my god. he truly is a short king

i know brad and torey are always at each other’s throats on twitter but this... this is straight up murder, holy shit. “we just use your tongue to resurface the ice” - even i felt that. is brad okay?? i mean these tweets are old but still, that’s gotta leave a lasting wound on a man’s psyche. let it be known that torey krug takes no prisoners

just a father, lovingly cradling his tiny son

look at this dapper man!! while i very much appreciate the ‘peaky bruins’ winter classic outfits, some of them look kinda odd (please see: zdeno chara, 19th century plague doctor). but i think kreauty’s is really nice!! a good all-grey look, with that red tie to brigten it up. and i think his shirt is pale blue rather than white?? i like it. he suits the cap too. looks like a man i’d buy a new fountain pen and perhaps a pocket watch from

(gif via @pavszacha​) pray tell, why do we have the prettiest team? and what colour are his eyes?? green? brown? grey? who knows, but i love them a lot

he’s wearing brad’s stuff.

i would like to draw your attention to the shirt torey is wearing. no, you are not hallucinating. yes, his shirt says “mcavoy: i’m lovin’ him”. i need to know where to purchase this because it’s the only thing i want to wear for the rest of my life. additionally, it is a proven fact that no one loves the boston bruins more than the boston bruins. for real

the reason he’s so angry is that he’s short, and therefore closer to hell. however, i have adopted “i’m punching him then” as a frequently used phrase in my daily life, i must admit. it’s pretty good

i would now like to interrupt your regularly scheduled programming for a small collection of gifs of mr torey krug winking:

(gifs via @bradmarchrad​, @noeldozer​, and @kureally​) regularly scheduled programming will now resume

what’s a kiss between two 5′9 hockey guys?

this entire thing is comedy gold tbh. nhl 2003 for playstation. (my turtles). graduated from DARE. chicken and rice. iconic. i did get emo looking at ‘pro hockey player’ though like,, he really did that. he’s out there living his dreams. i am proud. and i’m sure there’s plenty of time for architecture after he retires too

he also has meme potential!! this is excellent because it applies to so many of life’s situations. particularly applicable to just about everything sweeney has done so far this free agency, but we won’t get into that

based on his reaction, you’d assume that the refs have just called a bad penalty or something (although not that they ever would), but no. he has in fact just scored a goal. $100 to anyone who is able to figure out why he is so displeased with this fact

...don’t speak to me or my son ever again

oooh take a look at these marvelous boys! extremely beautiful. black shirts are underrated imo, still as ~classy and refined~ as a plain white shirt, but it spices things up a little. poll: is torey krug a stylish legend? yes or yes

backes is just trying to celebrate the goal when along comes torey, resident nuisance. why is he like This

he has somehow perfectly mastered the skill of looking 14 and 40 at the same time, and it weirds me out a bit. i’ll just say he’s Timeless and move on

going to see a football game with the boys 💪🏻💪🏻 i cannot help but note the mild irony of torey in a gronk jersey - i would like a photo of the two of them together. also, this was posted here with the caption “brave of torey to post a picture where he looks like that next to three guys who look like that” and like torey, my man, i’m so sorry but i have to agree. the hat gives him a very non-threatening gnomish vibe. i’m sorry but it’s the truth

i have never in my life seen someone look so pleased with a simple fistbump. but you do you, man - whatever makes you happy. it’s also very deliberately delivered. it leaves me slightly confused overall. come to think of it, i don’t think i’ve ever seen a normal, well-executed fistbump on the bench, bruins or otherwise. hockey players are strange creatures

more tiny baby krug!!! she is so little oh gosh. adorable

a visual representation of all of bruins tumblr marvelling at patrice. me too, torey. me too.

TOREY !!!!! yet another murder, someone restrain this man before he can do any more damage oh my god

oof what a photo, i love this. and yet again, torey krug: angry. but we wouldn’t want him any other way. i love u, scorey krug!

bonus!

(gif via @marchnds​) i know this isn’t of torey, but i would be completely remiss to not include this gif of brad losing his shit after saying that torey looks like danny devito

 thank you for the request, i hope you enjoy!! 💕

[thesportssoundoff]

Everybody is winning except us

Joey

October 7th

Of all of the ways this could've gone, I'm really surprised I didn't figure this would be the EXACT way it would go.

You can't predict Khabib going feet first into a melee outnumbered like 5 to 1, you can't predict Conor McGregor having a "Greedo shot first" moment by actually throwing the first punch (although in his defense, as he scales the cage, someone else is scaling it and I would've assumed anybody from Khabib's corner is going to be after me or my team at that point), you can't predict riots or a full on culture/nationalistic war.

You can always predict chaos in MMA. You can always predict the WORST CASE SCENARIO in this sport.

If you think of all the positive aspects from just the fight alone, you could be here for a while. Conor McGregor took two years off of MMA, came back to fight the scariest dude and had an actually not half bad performance given the stylistic match up, the rust factor and his natural shortcomings as a fighter (quick twitch high reflex muscle memory guy with poor cardio). If anything he could have/should have been applauded for taking the risk and we'd all be asking how a run back goes with an additional six-ish months of training. For Khabib, he once again answered another litany of questions and for the most part aced the toughest test of his career. For the UFC, they put on a tremendous fight card without a hitch, made massive money and set themselves up for another run of successful fights for both guys including a rematch. Everything could've been positive.

But this is MMA. The Worst Case Scenario more often than not will rear its ugly head at the most inopportune time. There's no point in step by stepping anybody through the brawl. What's done is done, what happened happened and everybody and anybody has their opinions on it. We all gain nothing from replaying it over and over. It's more about how we leave this entire fiasco with perceived egg on the faces of everyone involved.

I feel like we have to begin with Khabib Nurmagomedov because at the end of the day, he's the guy here who took this entire joke to the next level. You can't go and fight dudes at the cageside area. That's basic common sense stuff. The problem is that this isn't the first time Khabib has been involved in utter tripe before and maybe this is just who he is. To me, nobody has had their public perception hurt the way he has over the past few weeks from the homeless guy push ups to the presser comments to the open work out fiasco. If "gotten to" is a deal then Khabib epitomized it this entire weekend. Even his brief press conference was a trainwreck as he went from contrition for his behavior to wondering why it was a big deal and dare I even say, attempting the tried and true Whataboutisms that ultimately lead down a road to nowhere. It takes great skill to talk for a minute and reveal you still don't quite get why you're going to be a in a world of trouble.

Now if you believe in the receipt then Conor McGregor's been way overdue for one. This is an act that's spiraled out of control since his KO of Jose Aldo (and perhaps maybe even a bit before that happened) with an eventual "Oh Shit" coming at some point. You don't continually win in shit situations of your own making before something eventually backfires on you (unless you're Jon Jones) and Conor's last two years have exposed the very worst of the act. The Andre Fili/Artem Lobov situation, the Bellator incident, bar fights, speeding tickets of a dangerous sort, the ENTIRE Mayweather-McGregor fight lead up, the bus incident and the presser that was basically a collection of "Too far!" material in an already "Too far!" situation. Conor's gone for it on 4th down a lot recently and every situation he's either scored or gotten a penalty bail out from the bad decision. Eventually those do catch up with you and here we are now. Again, the erosion of SBG; it's image as a gym full of average dudes accomplishing great MMA shit evolving into the world's biggest collection of fake McGregor's has to be mentioned. What do you do when King Midas' left hand turns everything to gold but his right hand turns everything to shit?

Of course we can also bundle up everybody else into one neat and tidy paragraph here; the UFC for being a business first and not a common sense machine second. The bus attack was part of the story in my opinion and couldn't be neglected BUT somebody with a hint of common sense should've said "tone it down" to Conor and Khabib about religion, this that or the other thing. Instead they played it fast and loose, like they did/do with DC vs Jones, without realizing that Jones vs Cormier was a really personal rivalry about two people who for the most part kept it at two people. Hell taking it one step further, we can say that the UFC should've told Conor to tone it down in 2016 or 2017 or 2018. This is what happens when a fighter gains power and becomes TOO big to say to no to. You get this. Conor should've been told "No!" faaaar sooner than this. How about SBG and Khabib's cohorts who seemed to want to interject their asses into this as much as the two fighters themselves. We can also turn a sarcastic thumbs up to the majority of the MMA media; the ones who bloviated "Conor's back!" as he poured out his presser best but not once stopped to ask if maybe this whole religion/nationalism/family feud was going a bit too far. The same ones who refer to last night as a disgrace (which it was) without stopping once along the way to ask if we were heading into this situation by virtue of nobody wondering if this was spiraling. The ones who are SO reliant on MMA (and ergo the UFC and ergo Conor) to do well that they, like the UFC, allowed anything to go in the pursuit of the traffic. Lastly and perhaps most painfully? Us as fans. When the things that sell are always the worst, the bar is always raised. As consumers we have the ability to dictate what we receive and if what works is the dirt worst? Well that's on us, no? If we ascribe to the "We fight in a cage, nothing is bad for the sport" mantra then we wear this. We may not have asked for THIS specifically but that's neither here nor there because we've asked fore more of the bad shit. We ASKED for this.

And ya know the sick part? Everybody wins here really if you think about it. Assuming Khabib isn't suspended for life and incapable of getting back into the United States? He'll have a Conor McGregor rivalry for years to live off of. The same goes for Conor who has mastered the "losing the fights where you have an out" approach. Vs Nate? Well that was on two weeks notice at 170 lbs! Vs Floyd? First fight in boxing! This one? Two year layoff vs the world's greatest wrestler! Once Dana White gets over his personal shame and disappointment? The business man is going to make him realize that he'll have general wealth for every generation he's ever going to have with a Khabib vs Conor rematch. The folks decrying this as shameful will playfully bite their nails and play the "Who knows what's gonna happen!" gimmick at every presser, every face off and every single day leading up to the rematch. Those who shout about how "passionate" these fanbases are will continue to do so while also saying "they're not ALL like that!" when confronted with every social media clip of fans brawling and fighting outside the venue. Even Dillon Danis, a less self aware Robert Drysdale who fashions himself as a bootleg Conor McGregor, has basically made himself into a household name now. Everybody wins because so long as consumers want it? Business ALWAYS wins. That's the nature of the game. It's MMA at its dirt worst and there's perhaps no other place MMA shines then when it's at their dirt worst. Be it boxing or MMA, business booms at the dirt worst level. This is seemingly where the sport actually wakes up and decides to perform.

There are basically just two losers here really. The first is the lightweight division which sure looks like it's careening towards yet another stripped champion. And potentially yet another interim champion. And potentially  yet another year of question or determining just what the hell is going with the most loaded weight class in sports with fighters stuck on a broken elevator that's going neither up nor down. We have the most blessed division in the history of this weird sport and right now we have a champion who's about to be suspended, a former champ who is probably going to chase "money fights" now and the real champion who seems one poorly timed stunt away from ripping everything on the lower half of his body. The world's most talented division is about to get its dick buried in the dirt again for no reason other than the guys at the top of the helm can't control themselves. The other loser? Those of us who cling to the hope that one day this sport won't be like this. At the end of the day, we need to stop assuming MMA's going to one day grow up and just resign ourselves to the knowledge that it is what it is. For those of us who believe this thing is going to clean itself up? Probably not happening. The idea that one day in the not too distant future fights will be able to sell on the basis of being great fights and we won't need to squeeze every bit of juice out of it by resorting to the dirt worst (be it DC referring to Jon Jones as a junkie, anything Colby Covington does or the latent ethnocentrism used to sell this feud) should be dead now. As much as we all want MMA to treat itself like a sport, what the people want---and seemingly what EVERYONE involved in this sport wants---is this. We built this sport on it and now we gotta own it. All sports have brawls/fracases but they're not the drawing point to drawing people in. We WANT this. We OWN this.

If you don't believe me, wait until Covington vs Woodley to confirm it all over again. Prepare yourself for the worst case scenario.

[indieks]

One-Life Stand 💫 Jungkook [0.6]

🛏 Pairing : Jeon Jungkook x Reader

🛏 Genre : Fluff, Humor, Mild angst

🛏 Warnings : none for this part

🛏 Synopsis : Getting attracted to your long-time best friend, is something classical. Having a one-night stand with him though, is something alarming. While you get scared of your feelings and try to forget about it with the sake of your friendship as an excuse, Jeon Jungkook finally opens his eyes on his own and gets determined to turn this one-night thing into a real relationship.

0.1 || 0.2 || 0.3 || 0.4 || 0.5 || 0.6 || 0.7 || 0.8 || 0.9 || 1 [END]

🛏 A/N : I knooow it’s rather short compared to 0.5 but it gets more intense from now on... Let’s focus on Jungkook once again! I hope you enjoy as much as I have while writing it! (even if I died because of my own Jungkook character but...)

     Step 1 – Surprise her ✔

Jungkook was grinning as he approached your class room. He leaned against the row of lockers and put his hands inside the pockets of his deep red bomber before crossing his legs, a posture far from nonchalant but he felt the most confident when he was being cocky. You only shared a few lessons this semester, as you had chosen different majors, and Jungkook missed your company to do anything except from listening to what the teacher was saying. You, on the other hand, felt relieved of not having seen his face all day long – you even had avoided having lunch in his company to eat with your other friends.

You were being a true coward, you knew it. But his words were still lingering in your head and messing with your emotions, to the point you felt on the verge of breaking your defense and already fall into his arms. But you couldn't do that to yourself. You couldn't ruin months, no, years of struggle in just a finger snap. And soon, Jungkook would thank you and apologize when he'd realize how understanding you were being, how caring you were being by enduring his boldness when all it provoked was you wanting to cut ties for a while, the souvenir of his body against yours so fresh but burning your insides slowly, passionately, as passionate as your love for that asshole.

But Jungkook wasn't on the same wavelength as yours, and in no way he was intending to be. So when you exited the classroom and were about to go to your locker, you gasped when you saw your best friend right next to the door with his phone in his hands, probably playing games – you could tell from the serious frown he had on his face. You sighed and decided not to avoid him this time, even if your pounding heart was pleading you to do so.

"Hey coconut" you smiled, kicking him gently in the arm, making him lose control of his phone for a second, but the Golden Boy wouldn't let it fall on the ground, no ; his reflexes were always on fleek.

So was his hair parted perfectly in two, making you knock yourself internally for staring at it when before you didn't even care about his hairstyle.

"Yah yah yah Y/N! You made me lose! Aish!"

"Oh? Should I go then? Ok see you-"

"Don't you dare!" he exclaimed as he grabbed you by the shoulders, and you both started to walk in the campus without you knowing where he leaded you.

He was talking so much, about his morning's adventures – he had spilled his cereal bowl all over his white shirt right before going to class, what a pity –, about how he hated his math teacher for being this "psychorigid" and " a deadpan", about how his friend Taehyung had almost cried over a bad grade while he had been about to laugh right in his face because they had bet money on who would get the best one… You only listened, your shoulders feeling lighter and lighter second by second with his arm on it as it felt so comfortable and natural, and you were glad to see he was finally acting as if nothing had happened when he had been annoying you by texts.

You got out of the university and you followed without questioning, now deep into your conversation and laughs you couldn't hold back any longer as, after all, he was the #1 friend in your life and never could you give up on those cheerful moments. However, a small part of conscience was reminding you that lying to oneself was not made to last, as you soon got lost into your thoughts while you were looking at him. 

How beautiful his big eyes were ; how sexy you could find what his left cheek was doing when he smirked ; how cute you found his bunny teeth ; how attracting his lips were for yours every time he wet them ; how enchanting his laugh was in your ears, so much it was like a lullaby to you ; how his voice could mute every other sound chirping around the both of you so you focused on what he was saying and that only ; how his trendy yet simple clothes looked so well on his toned body you had loved to touch that night…

You were doomed.

Jungkook stopped before one of your favorite places in town : the arcade. You looked at him with stars in your eyes but also a lot of questions, and his proud smile revealed you he had been waiting for you to react just like that.

"Surpriiise! I know it's been a long time since we went there because last time you got ruined…" he started in a chuckle and you kicked him for reminding you of this painful memory. "But guess what? As I won the bet with Taehyung, I have plenty of money right now so we can spend it today!" he finally exclaimed, getting a bundle of bills from his jacket's pocket and you put your two hands over your mouth.

"Really? You're willing to lend me some money? I'll buy you meat later Jeon if you do this!"

"There's no need, I'm dying to play too, it's been so loooong! Let's spend this moneeeeey!" he shouted before smelling the precious printed paper and pretending to throw it on the street like some rich arrogant guy.

"How much did you exactly bet?" you laughed while looking at the huge amount he had in his hands.

"Enough to enjoy everything down there hoe" he smirked.

You jumped in happiness and pressed yourself into the land of your dreams, grabbing him naturally by the arm, and you didn't notice how hard he cringed when you did that.

        You returned to the dorms with a smile plastered on your faces, your arms full of goodies and snacks you had earned. Your voices were so loud in the streets that were now lightened by street lamps, as you were exchanging joyfully about how satisfied you felt after having returned to the arcade. Jungkook and you had always spent your pocket money in those kinds of games, ever since you met. You used to do stupid bets and the loser had to do a penalty, most of the time answering bad words or wrong solutions to the teacher's questions in class.

He had won a bet earlier, winning against you at a car's race – he hadn't been really fair-play by shaking your wheel from time to time, but never mind… –, and he had wished to tell you his penalty once you got back to the dorms. There you were in front of your door, the corridor empty and quiet as most of the people were studying after class at the library or already having dinner at the cafeteria, and you turned on your heels to finally look at him who was standing behind you, chewing enthusiastically on a red jelly.

"Did you enjoy today?" he finally asked before licking his fingers, making you frown.

"You're such a pig when you eat… Yes I have, thank you, but since when do I have to show my gratitude after we have spent some time together?" you questioned, crossing your arms.

He was a pig, but a beautiful one. His fair skin absorbed all the lights coming from the ceiling's lamps and you bit the inside of your cheek so that your facial expression wouldn’t betray you.

"Time for your penalty" he dodged and your brows furrowed. "I want you, to consider this outing as a date, that's all" he shrugged, landing his hand on your door frame, getting closer to you at the same time.

You gulped and knots formed into your stomach. So that had been his plan. He wasn’t intending to let it go-

"I know what you're thinking, that I didn't listen to you and that I'm making things change and that it's going to ruin everything, but it is not!" he protested, leaving you breathless as you wondered if he could read your thoughts somehow. "I know you had a great time, I had too. Because everything was as usual, it was perfect, and that's how I want things to be too. I just want one more thing…" he trailed his last words as he bent down to obviously steal another kiss from you, but you were quick and in no time his face was meeting with the door and not yours.

Jungkook laughed before your childish and scaredy-cat attitude and he straightened himself. He tilted his head on the side and turned around to go back to the lifts, his heart hammering his chest and lust frustrating him of having failed to kiss you. Oh damn, how bad he loved you and your hard-to-get act. It triggered him even more…

   To be continued...

 A/N : What could be the other steps Jungkook and Yugyeom are talking about? Yes I’m trying again to stress you all with my lame suspense hahaha

And thank you for all the notes on the last part and for reading up till now, I’m so happy you can’t imagine, I hope you’ll like where I’m taking this as well...!

Anyway, part 0.7 tomorrow!

[andrewuttaro]

New Look Sabres: GM 42 - EDM - Thirsty Thursday

3-2 OT Win

When I was an undergraduate in college there was this special night of the week called Thirsty Thursday. A lot of my classmates created their schedules, so they had no classes on Fridays creating a prolonged weekend for all the activities Animal House taught you college students do. Thirsty Thursday was the beginning of that debauchery. Specifically the mid to late evening as the party people dressed to the nines emerged from their dorms, already tipsy, and climbed into Ubers, Lyfts and Cabs to go to the skankiest clubs and try to cross the border into Canada. Niagara Falls is pretty lit on the other side in case you weren’t aware. The Buffalo Sabres had themselves a bit of a Thirsty Thursday yesterday. This time however I’m excited for the consequences. I drew attention to GM Jason Botterill’s planned 5:30 radio appearance before the game against Edmonton so that when it was called off it seemed cowardly. Not that my lone tweet riled up an angry mob like the gif I used implied, but the timing seemed… well very bad. Dalton Smith was put on waivers the day before after an embarrassing affair on New Year’s Eve against Tampa and it all seemed for nothing: as if our GM had no clue what he was doing and now he was hiding from facing the fans. In reality perfect setups like that never happen. When WGR550 was told Botterill couldn’t make his regular radio hit the negativity around the team right now would naturally make you think of that dodging the press theory. Us wild and crazy optimists hoped against hope he was busy working on… dare I say… a trade!? The whispers came in as game time approached and Thirsty Thursday kicked off with a three-way (Normally something reserved for the end of the night if you know I mean). At about 6:40 pm the team announced a 2020 fourth round pick had been acquired from the Montreal Canadiens for Marco Scandella. The next part unfolded when the team announced at about 6:50 pm that the same 2020 fourth that was yielded from the Scandella trade was going to the Calgary Flames for RW Michael Frolik. No salary retained or conditions, it was essentially Marco Scandella for Michael Frolik.

Set aside all your newfound appreciations for Scandella, even his revitalization was to inflate his trade value. Not to be harsh but he won’t be missed; especially when Jeremy White’s Super-Secret Sabres Source (SSSS) then tells him they’re not done, and they want to bring Lawrence Pilut up from Rochester. This humble blogger says good and good. Scandella for Frolik constitutes a wash in terms of salary if not a little bit more taken on by Buffalo. However, if it gets Pilut back up to Buffalo and or Colin Miller out of buying tickets out of town then it’s a win in my book. In spite of how few trades we saw in the last five months of 2019 it does make a lot of sense that this is the prelude to bigger trades. One can only hope. I hope this analysis of it is outdated by the time I post it. Although we all thought the Jokiharju trade was the prelude to a bigger trade that never came so it could go both ways I suppose. All this figuring out distracted me from the actual game unfolding. I looked up and suddenly the Sabres were down 2-0 to the Oilers at home and certainly a blood bath was to ensue if another egg was laid in downtown Buffalo. Then as soon as I had that thought Thirsty Thursday ticked up again, but this time with some good clean action: Marcus Johansson disposed an Oiler along the wall in the offensive zone and went around behind the net. Johansson got it to Curtis Lazar who tapped it in past Mike Smith in net. It was now 2-1 and Jason Botterill had that much more cover to come out and face the press in the first intermission like we hadn’t gotten three hours earlier while trades were unfolding.

Jason Botterill spoke for about seven minutes saying a lot of things you might expect: Michael Frolik will bring even strength scoring, he’s won a Stanley Cup, has playoff experience and what not. Perhaps the most important things Botterill said is the special teams have to be better. He said that Frolik could help on the penalty kill and could be a bit of a rover on the wing. Botterill spoke to greater roster competition as something of a rationale for seeing as many players publicly want out. Assuming this isn’t the only move to be made its just refreshing to hear that the GM does understand what’s going on. The Dalton Smith Fiasco will probably be pushed under the rug 1984 style and that’s probably the only way to handle it at this point but pushing forward the point that there is in fact a plan here will allow some optimism, however scant, back into the fanbase. Once again, assuming there are more moves coming this move helps. The move itself is more or less whatever. If you get what Frolik was in years past then maybe he’s not just another piece to be traded at the deadline. Getting Frolik was one of those rumors from months ago and evidently the conditions on this Thirty Thursday were just right to make it happen. Conditions were not just right in the second period and apart from a slash on Jack Eichel and the Sabres taking over the lead in shots on goal, nothing really happened. Then it creeps into your head, like I hear it does for the party people at some point in the early morning hours on Thirsty Thursday, that all this momentary excitement could just melt away with nothing truly rewarding coming from it unless… unless you kiss that hot little number down the bar. It was unlikely another trade would happen as the clock ticked past 9pm last night but the clap-back Sabres awoke again. As an early offensive push unfolded in the third period for the home team they began cycling the puck around in the Oilers’ zone. Zach Bogosian took a shot that Sam Reinhart redirected in for the 2-2 equalizer and… well what do you know: Reinhart’s 100th NHL goal. For a moment try not to think about the impending second coming of the Reinhart contract drama and just savor what Samson does and who Samson is. But just like most things with this team, darkness follows close behind and Victor Olofsson was escorted out of the game after a weird fall all on his own just after he got the secondary assist on the equalizer. No new word on that today either mind you, just Scott Wilson getting called up because you can’t let us get too high, right?

The third period went on and the Sabres threw everything and the kitchen sink Zemgus Girgensons at Mike Smith. Nothing went through and we found ourselves in overtime. To Ralph Krueger’s credit most of the Sabres overtime periods have been tight possession affairs like they should be, even when they’re losing efforts. The same happened last night until an absolutely bonkers ten seconds about a minute into the extra frame. Jack Eichel went end to end, like from behind the Linus Ullmark net all the way to Mike Smith’s mouthguard on the other end. Along the way he drew a penalty when Oscar Klefbom hooked him on his final approach. That was good for a penalty shot but before the play was even over Jack almost scored on the rebound. This Thirsty Thursday was about to see it’s last act. That hot little number down the bar I mentioned earlier, that was Jack mother fucking Eichel, and we kissed his greatness to cap off the night. He took the puck, skated in and snapped it far side past Mike Smith, 3-2 Sabres in Overtime! And so the inebriated masses stumbled out of their rides in the wee hours of the morning; still concerned about their future but sated for just a time until the next party comes. Hopefully more parties to come then sadness they hope.

Like, Comment and Share this blog now because some of you will not like what I say next. The game on Saturday was moved to 1pm in the afternoon because the Buffalo Sabres organization shares an owner with the Buffalo Bills and is therefore allowed to be self-aware. You probably already knew that. To those of you whom pointed to that move as a sign of the Pegulas caring more about the Bills I’d just ask you to take a deep breath, maybe play your favorite video game and relax. There is good evidence that theory is true, but the Buffalo Bills also happen to be in the playoffs for only the second time in twenty years. Forgive the whole City around you if they want to focus on that team when they come on at 4:35 tomorrow! I know its 90s night… or afternoon now tomorrow, but please, let good things be good. Enjoy yourself a little bit. The Florida Panthers will be a challenge and then they’ll be off for four days, hopefully while Botterill is making more trades and Michael Frolik is getting his Visa figured out so he can actually come and play. Then its six games leading into the bye week of varying difficulty but mostly difficult. I would guess even if the Sabres miraculously won eight straight going into that break they still might only crack the top three in the Atlantic Division given the spaces between games. Nonetheless the tide of this dissent into another lost season we’ve been experiencing since before Christmas can be reversed this month. It will likely take more work on the part of the GM even though the deadline is still several weeks away. Yesterday’s Thirsty Thursday events were not enough for me to fully get back in the conductor’s chair of the hype train but whether it be for hoped for trades or just the first Buffalo Bills Playoff win since I was in diapers I can enthusiastically say right now: Let’s Go Buffalo!

Thanks for Reading.

P.S. According to NHL PR that OT Penalty shot goal by Jack Eichel made him the first player in Buffalo Sabres history to do such a thing. That is some kind of surprising stat.

[salwaalkhalifa]

Staggerlee wonders by James Baldwin

1

I always wonder

what they think the niggers are doing

while they, the pink and alabaster pragmatists, 

are containing 

Russia  

and defining and re-defining and re-aligning 

China, 

nobly restraining themselves, meanwhile,

from blowing up that earth

which they have already 

blasphemed into dung: 

the gentle, wide-eyed, cheerful

ladies, and their men,

nostalgic for the noble cause of Vietnam,

nostalgic for noble causes,

aching, nobly, to wade through the blood of savages—

ah—!

Uncas shall never leave the reservation, 

except to purchase whisky at the State Liquor Store.

The Panama Canal shall remain forever locked: 

there is a way around every treaty.

We will turn the tides of the restless

Caribbean, 

the sun will rise, and set

on our hotel balconies as we see fit.

The natives will have nothing to complain about,

indeed, they will begin to be grateful,

will be better off than ever before. 

They will learn to defer gratification

and save up for things, like we do. 

 Oh, yes. They will.

We have only to make an offer

they cannot refuse.

 This flag has been planted on the moon:

it will be interesting to see 

what steps the moon will take to be revenged 

for this quite breathtaking presumption.

This people

masturbate in winding sheets. 

They have hacked their children to pieces. 

They have never honoured a single treaty 

made with anyone, anywhere.

The walls of their cities

are as foul as their children.

No wonder their children come at them with knives.

Mad Charlie man's son was one of their children, 

had got his shit together

by the time he left kindergarten,

and, as for Patty, heiress of all the ages,

she had the greatest vacation

of any heiress, anywhere:

 Golly-gee, whillikens, Mom, real guns!

and they come with a real big, black funky stud, too: 

oh, Ma! he's making eyes at me!

 Oh, noble Duke Wayne, 

be careful in them happy hunting grounds.

They say the only good Indian 

is a dead Indian,

by what I say is, 

you can't be too careful, you hear?

Oh, towering Ronnie Reagan,

wise and resigned lover of redwoods, 

deeply beloved, winning man-child of the yearning Republic

from diaper to football field to Warner Brothers sound-stages,

be thou our grinning, gently phallic, Big Boy of all the ages! 

 Salt peanuts, salt peanuts,

for dear hearts and gentle people, 

and cheerful, shining, simple Uncle Sam!

 Nigger, read this and run!

Now, if you can't read, 

run anyhow!

 From Manifest Destiny

(Cortez, and all his men

silent upon a peak in Darien)

to A Decent Interval,

and the chopper rises above Saigon,

abandoning the noble cause

and the people we have made ignoble

and whom we leave there, now, to die, 

one moves, With All Deliberate Speed,

to the South China Sea, and beyond, 

where millions of new niggers

await glad tidings!

 No, said the Great Man's Lady,

I'm against abortion,

I always feel that's killing somebody.

Well, what about capital punishment?

I think the death penalty helps.

 That's right.

Up to our ass in niggers

on Death Row.

 Oh, Susanna,

don't you cry for me!

  2

 Well, I guess what the niggers 

is supposed to be doing

is putting themselves in the path 

of that old sweet chariot

and have it swing down and carry us home.

 That would help, as they say,

and they got ways

of sort of nudging the chariot.

They still got influence

with Wind and Water,

though they in for some surprises

with Cloud and Fire.

 My days are not their days.

My ways are not their ways.

I would not think of them,

one way or the other,

did not they so grotesquely

block the view

between me and my brother.

 And, so, I always wonder:

can blindness be desired?

Then, what must the blinded eyes have seen

to wish to see no more!

 For, I have seen, 

in the eyes regarding me, 

or regarding my brother, 

have seen, deep in the farthest valley

of the eye, have seen

a flame leap up, then flicker and go out,

have seen a veil come down,

leaving myself, and the other,

alone in that cave

which every soul remembers, and

out of which, desperately afraid, 

I turn, turn, stagger, stumble out, 

into the healing air,

fall flat on the healing ground, 

singing praises, counselling

my heart, my soul, to praise.

 What is it that this people

cannot forget?

 Surely, they cannot be deluded

as to imagine that their crimes

are original?

 There is nothing in the least original

about the fiery tongs to the eyeballs,

the sex torn from the socket,

the infant ripped from the womb, 

the brains dashed out against rock,

nothing original about Judas,

or Peter, or you or me: nothing:

we are liars and cowards all,

or nearly all, or nearly all the time:

for we also ride the lightning,

answer the thunder, penetrate whirlwinds,

curl up on the floor of the sun,

and pick our teeth with thunderbolts.

 Then, perhaps they imagine

that their crimes are not crimes? 

 Perhaps.

Perhaps that is why they cannot repent, 

why there is no possibility of repentance.

Manifest Destiny is a hymn to madness, 

feeding on itself, ending

(when it ends) in madness: 

the action is blindness and pain,

pain bringing a torpor so deep 

that every act is willed,

is desperately forced,

is willed to be a blow: 

the hand becomes a fist,

the prick becomes a club, 

the womb a dangerous swamp,

the hope, and fear, of love

is acid in the marrow of the bone. 

No, their fire is not quenched, 

nor can be: the oil feeding the flames

being the unadmitted terror of the wrath of God. 

 Yes. But let us put it in another, 

less theological way: 

though theology has absolutely nothing to do 

with what I am trying to say.

But the moment God is mentioned

theology is summoned

to buttress or demolish belief:

an exercise which renders belief irrelevant

and adds to the despair of Fifth Avenue 

on any afternoon, 

the people moving, homeless, through the city,

praying to find sanctuary before the sky 

and the towers come tumbling down, 

before the earth opens, as it does in Superman.

They know that no one will appear

to turn back time, 

they know it, just as they know

that the earth has opened before 

and will open again, just as they know

that their empire is falling, is doomed,

nothing can hold it up, nothing.

We are not talking about belief. 

  3

 I wonder how they think

the niggers made, make it, 

how come the niggers are still here. 

But, then, again, I don't think they dare

to think of that: no: 

I'm fairly certain they don't think of that at all.

 Lord, 

I with the alabaster lady of the house, 

with Beulah.

Beulah about sixty, built in four-square, 

biceps like Mohammed Ali,

she at the stove, fixing biscuits, 

scrambling eggs and bacon, fixing coffee, 

pouring juice, and the lady of the house,

she say, she don't know how

she'd get along without Beulah

and Beulah just silently grunts,

I reckon you don't,

and keeps on keeping on

and the lady of the house say

She's just like one of the family,

and Beulah turns, gives me a look, 

sucks her teeth and rolls her eyes

in the direction of the lady's back, and

keeps on keeping on. 

 While they are containing 

Russia

and entering onto the quicksand of 

China

and patronizing

Africa, 

and calculating

the Caribbean plunder, and

the South China Sea booty, 

the niggers are aware that no one has discussed 

anything at all with the niggers. 

 Well. Niggers don't own nothing,

got no flag, even our names 

are hand-me-downs

and you don't change that 

by calling yourself X:

sometimes that just makes it worse, 

like obliterating the path that leads back

to whence you came, and 

to where you can begin. 

And, anyway, none of this changes the reality, 

which is, for example, that I do not want my son 

to die in Guantanamo, 

or anywhere else, for that matter, 

serving the Stars and Stripes. 

(I've seen some stars.

I got some stripes.) 

 Neither (incidentally)

has anyone discussed the Bomb with the niggers:

the incoherent feeling is, the less

the nigger knows about the Bomb, the better: 

the lady of the house

smiles nervously in your direction

as though she had just been overheard

discussing family, or sexual secrets, 

and changes the subject to Education, 

or Full Employment, or the Welfare rolls, 

the smile saying, Don't be dismayed.

We know how you feel. You can trust us.

 Yeah. I would like to believe you.

But we are not talking about belief.

  4

 The sons of greed, the heirs of plunder,

are approaching the end of their journey: 

it is amazing that they approach without wonder, 

as though they have, themselves, become

that scorched and blasphemed earth, 

the stricken buffalo, the slaughtered tribes, 

the endless, virgin, bloodsoaked plain,

the famine, the silence, the children's eyes, 

murder masquerading as salvation, seducing

every democratic eye,

the mouths of truth and anguish choked with cotton, 

rape delirious with the fragrance of magnolia,

the hacking of the fruit of their loins to pieces, 

hey! the tar-baby sons and nephews, the high-yaller

     nieces,

and Tom's black prick hacked off

to rustle in crinoline, 

to hang, heaviest of heirlooms,

between the pink and alabaster breasts

of the Great Man's Lady,

or worked into the sash at the waist

of the high-yaller Creole bitch, or niece,

a chunk of shining brown-black satin,

staring, staring, like the single eye of God:

 creation yearns to re-create a time

when we were able to recognize a crime. 

 Alas, 

my stricken kinsmen, 

the party is over: 

there have never been any white people, 

anywhere: the trick was accomplished with mirrors—

look: where is your image now? 

where your inheritance, 

on what rock stands this pride?

 Oh, 

I counsel you, 

leave History alone.

She is exhausted, 

sitting, staring into her dressing-room mirror,

and wondering what rabbit, now, 

to pull out of what hat, 

and seriously considering retirement, 

even though she knows her public

dare not let her go.

 She must change. 

Yes. History must change. 

A slow, syncopated

relentless music begins

suggesting her re-entry,

transformed, virginal as she was,

in the Beginning, untouched, 

as the Word was spoken, 

before the rape which debased her

to be the whore of multitudes, or, 

as one might say, before she became the Star, 

whose name, above our title, 

carries the Show, making History the patsy,

responsible for every flubbed line, 

every missed cue, responsible for the life

and death, of all bright illusions

and dark delusions,

Lord, History is weary

of her unspeakable liaison with Time, 

for Time and History

have never seen eye to eye: 

Time laughs at History

and time and time and time again

Time traps History in a lie.

 But we always, somehow, managed

to roar History back onstage

to take another bow,

to justify, to sanctify

the journey until now. 

 Time warned us to ask for our money back, 

and disagreed with History

as concerns colours white and black.

Not only do we come from further back,

but the light of the Sun

marries all colours as one. 

 Kinsmen, 

I have seen you betray your Saviour

(it is you who call Him Saviour) 

so many times, and

I have spoken to Him about you, 

behind your back. 

Quite a lot has been going on 

behind your back, and, 

if your phone has not yet been disconnected, 

it will soon begin to ring: 

informing you, for example, that a whole generation, 

in Africa, is about to die, 

and a new generation is about to rise,

and will not need your bribes, 

or your persuasions, any more: 

not your morality. No plundered gold—

Ah! Kinsmen, if I could make you see

the crime is not what you have done to me!

It is you who are blind, 

you, bowed down with chains, 

you, whose children mock you, and seek another 

master,

you, who cannot look man or woman or child in the 

eye,

whose sleep is blank with terror, 

for whom love died long ago,

somewhere between the airport and the safe-deposit

box,

the buying and selling of rising or falling stocks, 

you, who miss Zanzibar and Madagascar and Kilimanjaro

and lions and tigers and elephants and zebras 

and flying fish and crocodiles and alligators and

leopards

and crashing waterfalls and endless rivers, 

flowers fresher than Eden, silence sweeter than the 

grace of God,

passion at every turning, throbbing in the bush, 

thicker, oh, than honey in the hive, 

dripping

dripping

opening, welcoming, aching from toe to bottom

to spine, 

sweet heaven on the line

to last forever, yes, 

but, now, 

rejoicing ends, man, a price remains to pay, 

your innocence costs too much

and we can't carry you on our books

or our backs, any longer: baby,

find another Eden, another apple tree,

somewhere, if you can, 

and find some other natives, somewhere else,

to listen to you bellow

till you come, just like a man, 

but we don't need you,

are sick of being a fantasy to feed you, 

and of being the principal accomplice to your

crime: 

for, it is your crime, now, the cross to which you

cling, 

your Alpha and Omega for everything. 

 Well (others have told you)

your clown's grown weary, the puppet master

is bored speechless with this monotonous disaster, 

and is long gone, does not belong to you, 

any more than my woman, or my child, 

ever belonged to you. 

 During this long travail

our ancestors spoke to us, and we listened, 

and we tried to make you hear life in our song

but now it matters not at all to me 

whether you know what I am talking about—or not:

I know why we are not blinded

by your brightness, are able to see you, 

who cannot see us. I know 

why we are still here. 

 Godspeed. 

The niggers are calculating, 

from day to day, life everlasting, 

and wish you well: 

but decline to imitate the Son of the Morning, 

and rule in Hell. 

[sportparade]

The Pursuit of Perfection and the Pursuit of Glory

A Panegyric for Rose Lavelle’s Style and the USWNT at the 2019 FIFA World Cup

At 77 minutes into the final, up by two goals, Jill Ellis subs in Carli Lloyd to close out the match. She might have given younger phenoms Lindsey Horan or Mallory Pugh the opportunity to experience the final, but the hard-nosed manager put her trust in experienced veterans. Over the next twenty minutes US players would dribble the ball into the corner, and to pass time further they wound possession back through their defense. It was not a playful moment but a classic checkmate. Take no risks, stick to the strategy, ensure the win at all costs. Perfection.

When the final whistle sounded the players on the field met their teammates, standing on the sideline in arm-by-arm formation. Their exuberance poured in on itself in hugs that became a huddle that pulsed and exploded back out with expressions of joy—the perfect expression of a team cohered upon a collective goal of victory. Not until they climbed atop the podium did Fox Sports’ cameras catch glimpses of the individual stars performing for the camera. Co-captains Megan Rapinoe and Alex Morgan took ritual turns on stage representing the team and the nation. But by now the backs of their jerseys all bore the same name and number: Champions 19. The announcers explained the significance of this national victory: it established a dynasty in women’s soccer, repeating as championships four years earlier, runners up the cup before, and now a world-leading four-time champion. The USWNT has a “dynasty” said German commentator Ariane Hingst, or was it Briton Eni Aluko (they spoke in voiceover from an unseen studio). Alexi Lalas and JP Dellacamera spun a narrative of a team challenged by a 2016 Olympics disappointment and the constant pressure to prevail amid an improving overall field that they led and stimulated. American players Aly Wagner and Heather O’Reilly (I think it was) spoke admiringly of this group of women for accomplishing this unprecedented feat together. The story was Team USA, on an Olympian stage, that deserved every American’s, every woman’s, and every sportsmen’s esteem.

This celebration had been elaborately prepared. The front of the Champions 19 jerseys had each player’s individual number, and four stars commemorating the United States’ four cup victories. Nike paid for the privilege of the first commercial, which they used to debut a dramatic tribute to this champion team, instantly remembered in black & white photos framed by a graphic designer expert in adobe suite. The trophy presentation had a steadycam follow Rapinoe and Morgan and Lavelle down the line of dignitaries, shaking hands with Euro-looking presidents but breaking decorum to hug the American delegates like teammates. The commentators waxed poetically with practiced bits of encomium. The preparation of the stakeholders and their objective matched the execution of the team who claimed their championship. This was not unexpected, but it was not taken for granted. Meeting expectation reinforced the team and the sport’s professional quality and power. The perfectionist playing style couples perfectly with the corporate ambition to grow the sport for its potential for both commercial revenue and female empowerment. If Rose Lavelle had not scored a virtuoso second goal, one might be hard pressed to deny the specter of an organization that conspired to ensure the success of its precious investment. You know it is nonsense, but everything would have turned up too perfectly.

Lavelle’s goal was the most unexpected and most glorious moment of the tournament for the United States. In her youth she had watched the 2015 victory in a pizza parlor, and now she was the central cog among a squad composed mostly of stars from the previous team who had had Lavelle’s prodigious moments back then. Against England she nutmegged a defender and lasered a shot on goal that would have been the play of the tournament had it squeaked into net. Instead she saved another moment of greatness for the final.

Gifted the ball mid-pitch, Lavelle sprung downfield in a style I can think of no better way to describe than as a poignant prance. Bouncing steps with powerful spring propelled her through the defense too fast to tackle, lest she counter with a tap into open space. But their backs to the line the defense had to press and she pivoted to her gunpowdered left foot and fired a line drive into goal, untouched. Her prancing attack compares to Muhammad Ali’s combination punches or Michael Jordan off the dribble—playful improvisation under extreme duress that soars confidently above conservative defenders. Quickness made their grace powerful, electrifying the scene when they perform. Ali and Jordan are usually likened to jazz musicians as an expression of quintessentially black American culture. Lavelle could not be more fair, playing college ball at nordic Wisconsin, but she and her teammates dance to hip hop (Crime Mob, after the semifinal) like all Americans now. We can choose to place her in that tradition or leave her to be herself. Watch it again.

Lavelle’s stylish goal glorified the national team with her daring and individual brilliance. Surely the Fifa committee took notice and awarded her the bronze trophy for the third best player, after dutifully awarding golden ball and goldent boot to Rapinoe, and silver boot to her co-captain Morgan. Becky Sauerbrunn’s masterful defense also warranted acclaim. I felt sick that Tobin Heath and Crystal Dunn had good opportunities thwarted, and that other young players had not been put on the pitch to claim their part of the victory. Lindsey Horan especially is recognized by most as a preeminent midfield attacker in the world. Footy time? Ellis left her on the bench in favor of strategic purpose in two knock-out matches, including the entire final. It felt cruel to insert the veteran Lloyd instead, but Ellis’ results make her judgment infallibly correct. When Ellis exited the reception line it was Lavelle who leapt forward to greet her with an embrace in center frame at center field. Lavelle had been the chosen one, and she had redeemed coach and team with an everlasting moment of greatness.

Some criticize national team futbol for stifling the spontaneity of individual play that flourishes in the professional leagues. The national team goals overshadow risky creative displays, and the parity of talent that trains together irregularly makes standout performance less likely. That makes Lavelle’s action all the more glorious. Rapinoe’s penalty kick under extreme pressure of expectation and scouting by the opponent was the most impressive display of individual nerve, the most courageous moment of the tournament. Lavelle’s was the most joyful, the most brilliant, and the most hopeful for the future. The apparent dullness of national team football is actually more dramatic for those who appreciate the social significance and partake in the feelings of solidarity. Both the team and its stars bask in the acclaim of a World Cup, with a historical resonance whose breadth can never be matched in a professional match.

I will criticize Fox Sports’ commentators for not honoring individuals enough. JP Dellacamera describes the action by compulsively naming each player as they touch the ball: “Sauerbrunn. To Mewis up the left side. Rapinoe. Back to Ertz.” et cetera. His phone recording-ready delivery paints a robotic instrumental picture despite the individual attention. He could relax and describe the movement more aloofly, and spend less time characterizing the players. But his analyst sidekick Aly Wagner describes the game like she’s in it, competing without any sense of humor or levity, arm chair coaching the team to victory. The experts in the booth with Rob Stone spoke in the same professional critical tone deliberating everything, emotionless except for Lalas who channelled his pride into ham-fisted panegyrics. They had prepared their talking points and takes before the show, and would not deviate to soak in the moment afterward. Thankfully they muted themselves for the celebration of Rapinoe’s and Lavelle’s goals, when the emotion of the individual players captivated me.

If Fox Sports had done individual profile segments like the NBC Olympic model, they were nowhere present during the final and afterward. What about star back Kelly O’Hara who succumbed to concussion symptoms, and her replacement Ali Krieger? What about Becky Sauerbrunn who earned a bleeding gash for her head-to-head challenge, and re-entered the game with a warrior-esque black bandage over her pink headband? And Crystal Dunn reinventing herself in a new position to lift the whole team and redeem Ellis’ most unconventional move, where was her story? What about Ellis on the sideline, the other players cheering or dying to sub in, and their individual stories? The broadcast was therefore both underprepared and overprepared, unable to cope with the unexpected action in a creative way. Their half-prepared postgame surely reflects a relatively limited investment in women’s soccer, relying too much on ex-player analysis and generic anchors both somewhat out of touch with the spirit of the women’s soccer fan (well the men much more so). Only Karina LeBlanc struck all the right notes in her post-post game streaming show, that salvaged the glory of the moments lived by these individuals. It was supremely competent coverage, with extraordinary picture and sound, but their practiced words never became poetry.

What made the image of goal celebrations so exciting was the shorter focal length of the lenses. Telephoto images of players during the national anthem flattened each face against a background blurred to abstraction. This pop style framed the stars Rapinoe and Morgan like comic book heroes. The central camera following the game also abstracted the players from its near aerial height, peering upon their movement like gazing over a pinball machine. But the cameras on the sideline captured the goal celebrations at wider angles, in the presence of the players who addressed the camera with poses, and immersed us viewers in their world. Here they are in the flesh, moving through the same space we do on a soccer field, with expertise and total satisfaction. The realism of these moments jumped past the discourse of strategy and scripted ceremonies to a live moment of glory. Their excellence as athletes and as women was there to see in a way that my essay wants to remember but cannot grasp. For that we need poetry; or, to await the 2020 Olympics and 2023 World Cup to live the spontaneous game broadcast on whatever device takes us to the field (the campus in Latin), where champions come to life.

—Grant Wiedenfeld, July 7, 2019

[everywon-woo]

SOMETIMES PLANES CRASH - chapter 3

A/N: SO this is the last chapter of this story, but i'm gonna make this a series with different POVs and ships so there will be a lot more crappy fanfiction! I'm currently writing a patater sequel to this and i have so many ideas for other sequels and sidefics, i'll probably have writing material for a long time! Anyway, thank you so much for reading this story, feedback and ideas are always welcome! 

Chapter 2

Masterpost

Chapter 3

During the next few weeks, Jack did a few interviews – mainly because Georgia forced him to – in which he talked about being a queer athlete. They all went surprisingly well. He knew that George had only chosen news outlets that had reacted positively to him being outed, but he still hadn’t expected them to be nice. They all respected his wish to stay clear of the topic of relationships, most of them even acknowledged his sexuality, and one of the men seemed genuinely interested in what he had to say about Samwell.

“You know, my teammates didn’t know I was bisexual until very recently. Even my best friend didn’t know until very recently. But I have never felt more accepted for who I really was, despite the fact that my team didn’t actually know who I really was. Of course Samwell has a reputation of being a great school for LGBTQ+ youth – I’m not gonna pretend this wasn’t part of the reason why I chose to go there in the first place – but before I went there, I couldn’t have dreamed of how much they helped me to grow, as a hockey player and as a person. They showed me that I didn’t have to do everything alone. I didn’t have to win games on my own. I didn’t have to keep my sexuality to myself out of fear of losing their respect and friendship. They had my back on and off the ice, without ever asking me anything I wasn’t prepared to give.

Many people criticize my decision to go to college, but I can assure you that I wouldn’t be the player I am today if I hadn’t made that decision.”

This might have been the longest string of words to ever come out of Jack Zimmermann’s mouth. He had practiced what he wanted to say over and over again, and now it was over, he was pretty satisfied with it.

The interviewer smiled before following up with a question: “Excuse me if this question is intrusive or inappropriate, but you said you didn’t come out to your teammates, despite the fact that they were very supportive. Why was this, if I may ask?”

The man seemed genuinely scared that he had crossed a line, so Jack smiled to reassure him.

“Well, despite knowing that my team had my back, information leaking about me being anything but straight was still a horrifying thought. The NHL isn’t the most LGBTQ+ friendly place – which is a very important topic, but I think that’ll have to be for another time – and I assumed I would have to choose between my sexuality and my career. I trusted my team, but it was simply safer to not take the risk,” Jack explained.

The interviewer nodded. “I understand, and I’m truly sorry you felt like you had to choose between yourself and your career, but I’m sure your courage will make sure many young athletes in the future will not share this fear. And I think you don’t have to worry about your career anymore, after the hockey you played in the past few months!” He laughed.

“Yeah. I just hope this can make a difference.”

“I’m sure it will, Jack. Thank you, and good luck playing the Bruins tomorrow!”  

“Thank you,” Jack laughed, and he realized that he had actually quit enjoyed this interview.

  After the story died down a bit, life almost went back to normal. Jack went back to his normal training schedule, Bitty went back to his normal college life. Now, though, Jack could take Bitty on a date during the weekends. Bitty could sit in the WAG section, which the Falcs had renamed the partners section, when he came to see one of Jack’s games. The day after the first game Bitty saw since they came out, Jack went to practice with two baskets of baked goods for Thirdy’s wife, because “She was so nice, Jack. I need to bake her some pies to thank her.”

 Originally, Jack hadn’t wanted Bitty to come to his games. The whole ‘coming out’ thing had gone pretty well, but Jack wasn’t stupid enough to think the whole NHL would just suddenly cease to be homophobic. He didn’t want Bitty to be there if things got ugly.

However, Bitty argued that he would would watch the games anyway, whether it was from the stands or from his couch, and if things got ugly, he didn’t want to be helpless at home. Jack couldn’t deny that he was right.

Apparently Jack wasn’t the only one that expected things to escalate on the ice, because before the first game his coach told him: “Okay, kid. This might not be an easy game. Things might get nasty. We’ll all have your back, but don’t let it affect you. Don’t fight. Don’t take unnecessary penalties. Don’t even talk back. Don’t give them the satisfaction of getting to you.”

Jack nodded and stepped on the ice. The only thing he could do now was play hockey, something he happened to be good at.

After the first period it was clear that the Blackhawks were playing dirty. Jack had been hit more in the last twenty minutes than in the rest of his season altogether. As a result, though, the hawks had taken a few penalties, which lead to a goal and an assist on Marty’s goal for Jack. Overall Jack was pretty happy with his first period, despite clearly being targeted. Now all he had to do was trying to survive and sustaining their 2-0 lead.

The latter was surprisingly easy, as the hawks seemed more determined to prevent the former from happening than to score goals.

He had expected it. He truly had. That didn’t mean it was any easier to have all the air get knocked out of his lungs by being slammed into the boards and hearing Johansson, the hawks’ defenseman, say “that’s what you get, fag” while skating away.

Jack was about to drop his gloves when he remembered what his coach had told him before the game. Don’t fight. Don’t give him the satisfaction of drawing a penalty.

However, before Jack could skate away, Tater’s fist hit the d-man’s jaw.

“You dare to call Zimmboni that one more time, I make sure you don’t step foot on ice ever again, you rat,” Tater threatened. Jack’s mind didn’t have the time to process what was happening before all the Falcs who were on the ice were on Johansson.

  The first few games after that were just as rough, but after a few weeks, the news had spread that the fastest way to get Alexei Mashkov’s fist on your face was to insult Jack Zimmermann. After that, Jack only got some glares and the occasional hit. Nothing he couldn’t handle.

Until the second game against the Aces. Jack hadn’t been looking forward to it anyway, as playing against Kent still made him more nervous than a normal game would. He didn’t expect the Aces to be homophobic, though, as he assumed Kent wouldn’t allow such behaviour in his team, whether or not he was out to his team.

Jack was mostly right. Seeing Kent was still not easy, but everyone just played the game. Everyone but Tim White, Kent’s linemate. It started with the regular stuff, the glares and some hits that weren’t necessary. But when the Falcs went into the third period leading 4-1 – with a goal and two assists for Jack – things started to escalate. White’s hits started getting rougher and more frequent. The glares turned into whispered slurs where no one but Jack could hear them. Jack didn’t want to give White the satisfaction of drawing a penalty, though. He was not going to fight tonight.

Merely minutes before the final horn, all his good intentions went up in smoke when he got slammed into the boards and onto the ice by White, who managed to make something explode inside Jack by smirking and laughed condescendingly: “Even if I had known you were gay, I wouldn’t have expected ‘tiny blond trophy twinks’ to be the great Jack Zimmermann’s type.

Yet, before Jack could get to his feet to punch the smirk of White’s face, Kent Parson’s fist connected with his own linemate’s jaw. Even though Jack didn’t really know Kent anymore, he could see the white-hot anger in his eyes as White tumbled to the ice. Everyone seemed to be taken aback by Kent’s violent behaviour against his own teammate, so the officials were not quick enough to intervene before Kent, who was at least 5 inches smaller than White, took his linemate bye the front of the jersey and said, almost hissed: “One. Jack is bisexual, not gay.” White didn’t try to fight his way out, as he knew hitting Kent Parson might be the fastest way to lose his job. He just let himself undergo the wrath of his captain. “Two. I think you might want to keep up with what our scouts are doing, because if you did, you’d known that the Aces would love to replace your sorry ass with that ‘tiny blond trophy twink’ as soon as he gets out of college.” Jack’s mouth fell open. “And three.” The officials seemed completely lost as to what to do, and they didn’t even try to stop Kent when he punched White again, hard, before almost growling: “If I ever hear you talk that way about me again, I will personally make sure you never step foot on the ice again.”

Jack didn’t know how White still had the audacity to open his mouth, but he said almost nonchalantly: “Chill, Cap. I wasn’t even talking about you, I was just chirping Zimmermann about his ty-” Realization dawned on him. “Oh.”

Jack decided that White had a death wish, because he then proceeded to throw his head back and laugh. “Holy shit, Jack Zimmermann and Kent Parson are both fags, and they fuck-”

This time it was Tater who shut him up by putting a fist to his mouth, and soon, the officials had to drag the whole Falconers roster and even some Aces away from White before they actually killed him.

Meanwhile, Jack and Kent were just standing a few feet away from the fight, frozen, staring at each other. Then, Kent seemed to realize what he had done and Jack saw a flash of panic in his eyes before he visibly tried to suppress it because he didn’t want to let Jack see beneath his carefully constructed layer of arrogance and chill.

In that moment, Jack felt all the bad memories slip away. He didn’t forgive himself. He didn’t forgive Kent. He didn’t know if they could ever be friends again. But there and then, none of that mattered. Jack knew Kent needed him.

“Kenny.”

Kent’s control slowly slipped away, and tears filled his eyes.

“Jack,” he choked, and then Jack’s arms wrapped around him and pulled him against his chest.

They didn’t say anything. Communication had never been their forte anyway. They just stood there, on center ice, holding each other as if the past six years had never happened. They both knew they couldn’t just go back to the way they were, but for now, Jack could give Kent the support he so desperately needed.

They didn’t realize the fight had been broken up, and every single pair of eyes in the arena was watching them, Jack Zimmermann and Kent Parson, hockey legends, old friends, rivals, embracing each other on center ice. They didn’t know what had just happened between these teams. They didn’t realize yet that Kent Parson had just come out. The only thing they saw was a heart-warming reunion, and maybe Jack and Kent wanted to believe that for a few moments too.

“Thank you,” Jack sighed against Kent’s shoulder. This made Kent pull away to look Jack in the eyes and smile that Kent Parson-smile. Not the fake media smile, the real deal.

“You’re welcome.”

And that’s how Kent Parson found himself sitting on his couch, scrolling through his Tumblr feed, which consisted of an infinite amount of different gifs of The Hug™, while eating a Danish pastry out of the basket that had arrived that morning, accompanied by a card saying:

 This doesn’t mean I suddenly like you, but what you did out there on the ice was incredibly brave. Thank you.

-ERB

[mrmichaelchadler]

The Best Films of the 2019 Sundance Film Festival

Another Sundance Film Festival is in the books, leading critics around the world to look into their crystal ball and predict how this year’s line-up will be received when these films come down from the Utah mountains. The general consensus seems to be that this was a down year for Sundance. Everyone loved the increased representation behind the camera in the program, but critics felt a lack of stand-out films. Of course, there were some excellent films but don’t expect a Call Me By Your Name, Brooklyn, or Manchester by the Sea from this crop. However, our team of intrepid, sleep-deprived critics did see a number of works that you should put on your watchlist now. You don’t want to miss these twelve:

“Animals”

How odd that female friendship—real female friendship that is; not the kind about backstabbing or rivalry—is still a scarcity in cinema. For attempting to fill that gaping hole alone, Sophie Hyde’s “Animals” (an adaptation of Emma Jane Unsworth’s novel with the same title) deserves all the praise it can get. But thankfully, “Animals” doesn’t stop there and pushes things even further than “Frances Ha”. Refreshingly frank and unautocratic about sex, drugs and the uniquely female desire to be free of judgment, “Animals” dares to love the pair of imperfect friends that lead the way into their messy and undeniably fun world of consequence-free hard-partying where men can be disposable and things will just work out. Shout out to the exceptional duo Holliday Grainger and Alia Shawkat, as well as the costume designer Renate Henschke, who rightfully runs away with some autership claim on the film. (TL)

“Clemency”

I am still a bit shocked that “Clemency” won the highly coveted U.S. Dramatic Competition award, given that it’s a character study about a prison warden and the death penalty, but I hope that further expands the chances of it being seen by a large audience outside of Park City. The script by Chinonye Chukwu is a true marvel, using a select amount of characters, a gentle tone and reoccurring themes to highlight the major elements that populate the world around the death penalty. This leads to incredible, pained performances from its actors, especially Alfre Woodard as the warden and Aldis Hodge as a death row inmate desperately waiting on a life-changing call from a governor. “Clemency” declares an incredible ambition—you can see so many ways this could have fallen apart—but it displays the work of a master dramatist, who remains in control of every filmmaking element of her challenging story. (NA)

“The Farewell”

It may not have won the U.S. Dramatic Competition award with the jury members, but the critical darling from that program was clearly Lulu Wang’s poignant and personal story of a young lady (Awkafina) dealing with the imminent death of her grandmother, who doesn’t know she’s dying. It premiered early in this year’s Sundance, and critics all weekend were comparing it to masterful filmmakers like Ang Lee, Edward Yang, and even Yasuhiro Ozu in the way it blends cultural specificity with universal emotions. It was also this year’s “ugly cry” of the Sundance film festival, but it earns that title by never once feeling manipulative or melodramatic. It’s a true empathy machine of a movie, a film that tells a very specific story that’s not your own but allows you to see yourself within it. (BT)

“Jawline”

Step into a world of teen live broadcast stars for a different look at fandom and online culture as director Liza Mandelup follows Austyn Tester, an aspiring social media star, as he dreams of using his fame to escape his small town. Mandelup captures the rapid rise and crash of what it’s like to be plucked out of obscurity, put on tour in front of hundreds of screaming girls and the isolation that sets in when the show’s over. But Mandelup doesn’t just stop with Austyn’s story. She also interviews numerous young girls who adore these young social media heartthrobs and gets some insight of a manager staking his claim in this new digital gold rush and provide some insight into this new incarnation of Beatlemania-like fan culture. (MC)

“Knock Down the House”

With a renewed activist spirit, numerous women and people from underrepresented communities took to the polls in record numbers for the 2018 midterm elections. One of the shining stars of the new wave of elected officials is Alexandria Ocasio Cortez of New York, and she’s one of four women profiled in Rachel Lears’ inspirational documentary, “Knock Down the House.” The film documents the grassroots campaigns behind Ocasio Cortez, Cori Bush, Paula Jean Swearingen and Amy Vivela, giving an all-too-rare look at the scrappier side of American politics as they challenge the established powers in their states. It’s a film that’s deeply personal and moving, pieced together over the course of less than a year leading up to the frenzy of the 2018 election season. (MC)

“The Last Black Man in San Francisco”

A lyrical elegy on a city’s vanishing character, “The Last Black Man in San Francisco” raises urgent questions around racism, gentrification and humankind’s deteriorating values through its offbeat rhythms and vivid cinematography as warm as the friendship at its heart. But to merely praise Joe Talbot’s artful film for its timeliness would do it disservice. With his directorial debut (co-written by Rob Richert and co-lead/Talbot’s childhood friend Jimmie Fails), Talbot has made an ageless film as dignified and dependable as its central character Jimmie; one that is proudly in touch with its roots and history and spiritually undefeated by the ceaseless injustices that aim for what one holds dear. This is bound to go down as one of the all-time-great San Francisco films. (TL)

“Late Night”

While this movie has earned some comparisons to “The Devil Wears Prada,” I believe that “Late Night” is in a category of its own. Mindy Kaling plays Molly, an aspiring comedy writer who’s earnest to a fault. Although she works for another woman (a marvelous Emma Thompson), Molly’s writers’ room is made up entirely of white men who see her feminist jokes and her diversity as a threat. It’s one of the few comedies I’ve seen that so smartly tackles what it’s like to be called the “diversity hire” around the office. Kaling, who also wrote the script, and director Nisha Ganatra find humor in these awkward workplace situations by playing on generational differences and the experiences of working in male-dominated world of late-night comedy shows. (MC)

“Luce”

The conversation starter of Sundance was Julius Onah’s brilliant dissection of privilege and expectation at a prestigious high school. The incredible Kelvin Harrison Jr. plays the title character, a star student whose life is turned upside down after a teacher suspects he may not be exactly what he seems. Harrison leads one of Sundance’s best ensembles, including one of Octavia Spencer’s best performances. Ultimately, this is a film designed to get people talking about its themes, and I can’t wait to be able to talk about it more when it comes out, courtesy of Neon. (BT)

“Midnight Family”

One of the best documentaries that played Sundance this year concerned Mexico City’s economy of freelance ambulances, following around a family in their vehicle as they race from one life or death scenario to the next, in order to make their payday. Director/editor/cinematographer Luke Lorentzen appropriately was given a special award this year for his cinematography—his on-the-fly framing is impeccable—but the editing is also incredible, capturing the ebb and flow of a few nights in the Ochoa’s business. “Midnight Family” is the kind of documentary that feels fully realized as the camera is rolling, making the movie all the more thrilling and heartbreaking with its cinema verité presentation. (NA)

“The Report”

I’m kind of a sucker for ensemble-driven government procedurals like “All the President’s Men” and this is the best film in that subgenre in years. Amazon has picked it up for a likely awards season run, and it’s easy to see how this could become the biggest hit out of Sundance 2019. Adam Driver gives one of his best performances as Daniel Jones, the Senate staffer assigned with determining exactly what happened with the EIT program – you know, the one that said it was OK to torture if it stopped a terrorist attack. What’s so great about Scott Z. Burns’ film is how tightly wound the whole film is, cinematically representing its protagonist’s increasing outrage at what he discovers. Even in just the ten days since I saw this, I keep reading stories of questionable governmental activity and hearing Maura Tierney’s CIA character in my head, shouting, “It’s only legal if it works!” People are going to be outraged, enlightened, and angered by this movie. I can’t wait for it to drop into the national conversation. (BT)

“The Souvenir”

It’s time for British auteur Joanna Hogg to be better-known stateside—with films like “Exhibition” and “Archipelago”, she has been cinematically untangling domestic knots for quite sometime now. With the gorgeously shot, delicate period piece “The Souvenir”, her best film yet, she brings a fictionalized version of her own story onto the screen, giving it the signature Hogg treatment: precisely composed, patient and poetic. Her Julie (soulfully played by Tilda Swinton’s daughter Honor Swinton-Byrne), whose artistic awakening gets hampered by a dysfunctional, increasingly toxic relationship, is heartbreaker of a character. You will weep by her side, thinking of that one person who broke you, but also enabled you to rise again with strength and a renewed sense of self. (TL)

“Wounds”

Babak Anvari fashioned himself as a classic horror director with his 2016 film “Under the Shadow,” which mixed a nightmarish force with a political story of Iran under attack. But he’s become a mad scientist with his sophomore effort “Wounds,” a Lovecraftian thrill-machine designed to jostle and challenge horror nuts. Anvari uses a story that might sound familiar of jump scares but focuses it around the moral misadventures of a cranky bartender played by Armie Hammer. “Wounds” is a great showcase for his comedic side, especially as his dopey character essentially finds himself in the middle of plot straight out of “The Ring,” as if he were a shit-out-of-luck innocent bystander looking through a dorm room window when a bunch of Millennials fired up that fateful VHS. A parody of jump scare lunacy that stands on its own, Anvari creates infectious fun out of the deliciously nasty and surprising events that come his way. The last shot is pure lunacy, but in the emotional and playful sense of “Wounds,” it makes perfect sense. (NA)

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[the-very-gendered-queen]

My first DND setting; Kahmvallah

Realm name: Iriadna.

Continent Name: Kahmvallah.

Nations within Kahmvallah:

Kimar: A massive country with a largely elven and human populace. The country’s lands are harsh. Canyons and deserts make up much of the west of the nation. People construct their villages mainly along great freshwater rivers and lakes, and try to survive the oppressively hot summers. The people of Kimar dress lightly, wearing loose robes that cover them from the sun. most of their clothing is white, and water is incredibly precious to them. Mages, especially those who can create water and ice, are treated as heroes. The wealthy Kimar citizens don light silk robes, enchanted with frost crystals and sun protection to showcase their wealth. Most people from western Kimar, be they human, elven or gnomish, have darker skin, ranging from olive to near black. Eastern Kimar is more hospitable to life, but is less heavily populated. Citizens of eastern Kimar are often wealthier, the more fertile land producing more product. The further east you go, the more the nation shifts from desert to jungle. The capital city of Kimar, Kimara-telfa, is situated on the eastern coast. The large city is nearly unassailable, with the sheer cliffs protecting it from the sea and the thick jungle protecting it from land invasion. While east Kimar is nearly as hot as west Kimar, its citizens often dress to deal with the brutal humidity of the jungle, rather than to protect themselves from the sun. relatively recently, Kimar has undergone massive political upheaval, as King Gallus passed away with no heirs, allowing the elf-supremacist King Rustal to take the throne. Under Rustal’s rule, taxation on non-elven people has increased and a death penalty for failing to pay tax was reinstated for the first time in 900 years. The five primarily non-elven cities, Kimara-cinta, Kimara-liti, Kimara-samir, Kimara-galre, and Kimara-quami, have fallen into financial ruin under the burden of taxation, and many citizens have fled further west, into the even harsher desert of Lanstilla in hopes of escaping the gallows. The three elven-majority cities, Kimara-telfa, Kimara-vilsim, and Kimara-vempte, are financially flourishing.

Lanstilla: founded along the eastern coast of Kahmvallah, Lanstilla is even more inhospitable than western Kimar. The land is populated sparsely, with a populace of kobolds and blue Dragonborn, as well as half-dragons and a small few humans and elves who dare to live out there. The land is dotted with the ruins of ancient Kimari Architecture. The people of Lanstilla are hardy, living in small oasis communities and subsisting mostly off of wheat crops and hunted wildlife. Lanstillan communities, much like the western Kimari, put great value in mages, especially those who can conjure water. Lanstilla is politically a strange country. Even before Kimar instated its elven supremacy policies, the inhabitants of Lanstilla refused to trade for anything. The draconic people of Kimar wear very little, in order to allow their scales to absorb the sun’s heat. The non-draconids however, often wear similar dress to that worn in Kimar. Order is kept in the nation by a supremely powerful blue dragon, Famorki. Famorki, known to the world as ‘The Sapphire beneath the Sand’ is the undisputed queen of Lanstilla, but she herself is incredibly reclusive. Her lair is supposedly miles underground and allegedly holds a fortune more vast than even Kimar’s treasury. Neither of these rumors are confirmed, however, as Famorki has not left her lair in a thousand years, nor has anyone dared to find it.

Sarvahlim: a nation in the southwest of Kahmvallah, built into a volcanic range. Its populace consists of golden Dragonborn and Kobolds, as well as half dragons and dwarfs. Sarvahlim is a prosperous nation. The people of Sarvahlim feed themselves with crops grown in volcanic ash, and with meat and milk produced by a large livestock pool of goats and cows, reared at the foot of the mountain. While Sarvahlim is recognised as Dragon territory, It is also very heavily influenced by dwarven culture. Dwarven architectural design can be observed in the houses that dot the mountainsides, and powerful dwarven magic is used to keep the volcanoes from erupting, allowing life to be sustained on the mountains. Sarvahlim is ruled over by Celesta, an ancient golden dragon. Given the title of ‘the shining sun atop the mountain’, Celesta is said to be powerful, wise and beautiful beyond compare. Her lair is within an old dwarven ruin that had once been taken by a red dragon, who had enslaved the dwarves 2000 years ago. By slaying the red dragon, Celesta was hailed as a hero by the dwarves and was given the opportunity to live among the dwarves as their protector. As centuries passed, the dwarves expanded their realms into the rest of the mountain range and celesta propagated a brood of Dragonborn. Eventually Sarvahlim was ceded entirely to the dragons as a show of good will, and became their nation.

Blavisum is located to the Northwest of Kahmvallah. It was populated mostly by Bronze Dragonborn. Blavisum is geographically very unique. Its settlements are constructed mostly inside air pockets in underground caves. The nature of their settlements meant buildings did not need to be contstructed, although private alcoves were set up using curtains of waterproofed fabric that would not rot from exposure to moisture. Blavisi people wore no clothing, with the ocean and their caves to protect them from the elements. They lacked much contact with the outside world, with the exception of their capital, Aseikir. The only mapped city of Blavisum, it is built into a sprawling coastal cave network and is considered one of the great cities. Aseikir was a port valued greatly by Kahmvallah thanks to its proximity to other continents and the safety it presented as a port, as the sea of Blavisum was guarded by Keadius, the Ancient bronze dragon who ruled over Blavisum and guarded it against creatures of the depths. Blavisum has fallen, now. Keadius was slain by Triloventus, a mythically powerful Kraken. Since that event, the Blavisi people have been broken. Many were captured by monsters of the deep, and either devoured by Trilloventus or enslaved. The survivors have fled inland, preferring to face the harsh wastes of Kimar and Lanstilla than fall prey to the monsters that infest their nation.

The Dwarvern Peaks: a large mountain range along the south of Kahmvallah. As the name implies, it is mostly inhabited by dwarves, although Gold Dragonborn, gnomes, halflings and humans make up a large portion of the populace. Between the ninety mountains along the range, they are split up into seven territories; Temril, Galrim, Ilren, Habar, Limfel, Anrum, and Shulva. The peaks have a hostile relationship with Kimar and multiple skirmishes have broken out over the years since King Rustal came to power, however, war has not broken out yet, as neither nation’s army can successfully mobilise through the other’s territory. Borders are very firmly enforced between the peaks and Kimar, however, and elves are distrusted within the mountains. Life in the peaks is similar to how it is in most dwarvern settlements. The dwarves within the peaks do however prefer lighter armour to handle Kahmvallah’s heat, espeacially those stationed at the external outposts at the foot of the peaks. Much like Kimar, the diets of the people of the peaks shift from east to west. In the east, much of the Jungle in the east of Kimar has spread to the mountains, and the diet of the inhabitants is predominantly based on the animals that roam the jungle. The mountains to the west, however, are barren, getting little rain and no plant growth. As such, the inhabitants rear cave animals to provide meat for them. The inhabitants who require vegetation in their diet use lightcrystals and reclaimed groundwater in order to grow their crops inside the mountains.