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miltonbarbie · 1 year ago

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What does Stan's friend group love about you? (Sp x F!y/n) </3

Warning(s): Slight NSFW

Reader is Female, and in these scenario you and your dp (Desired person, for example: Kyle) are already in an established relationship.

</3

Stan🎧💙 :

Dude loves any form of affection you give him, whether it be quick kisses to long, warm hugs, he feels like he'll throw up any second.

He wishes he could call you pet names but he's gonna get sick in the stomach REAL fast.

he also makes playlists of songs that remind him of you and sends them to you + puts them visible on his Spotify account

he doesn't show any clingy-ness or PDA around his friends bc cartman's such an ass and he'll get teased for days, but in private all he wants to do is cuddle w/ you and watch a Christmas movie together

loves loves loves when you mindlessly copy his actions, he think its soso cute. Like for example if he does a secret handshake with one of his friends and catches you trying to make one with yours, he's gonna die of how adorable it is.

He likes to go skating with you, if you don't know how to skate he'll gladly teach you

Get's hard whenever he sees you in a skirt 🙏🙏

Whenever he texts you and you send him pictures of yourself being all cute n' shii, his eyes widen and he automatically saves them to his camera roll with a sly grin on his face.

bro thinks he's mf swiper with his devious ass

he gets realllll horny whenever you sit with your legs crossed on a desk/table, or when you twirl your hair and make eye contact while talking to him. my guy's gonna be walking around with a huge boner the whole day in pain until you relieve him.

Kyle 🎮💚:

He tries extremely hard not to get flustered whenever you hug him from behind

Especially when you compliment his hair and play with it/start flirting with him while you do it. ITS JUST SO ENLKBVJVBENKJJ FOR HIM HE GOES WILD

"Kyle baby, you look so cute with your hair out like that .." "I- h-hah .. T-thank you .." Then he legit MELTS INTO YOUR TOUCH HE'S SO DESPERATE

he wants to act all tough and whatnot 4 you but you make him so vulnerable

what makes him hard as a fucking rock is when he's sitting down on his chair and you bend over towards him with your titties on the desk, arms crossed. HANDS DOWN CATCHES HIM OFF GUARD SO QUICKLY HIS EYES DART STRAIGHT TOWARDS YOUR TITS 😔😔

He lovesss seeing you wear his hoodies, something about it is just.. makes him feel some sort of way..

he gets really excited whenever you ask him to tutor you, it means you two get to spend more time together

If someone insults you he's gonna get MADD ANGRY

Like his anger issues will not allow someone to disrespect you like that.

he's always at your beck and call, if you need him, he's there.

Send him a bikini pic and he's gonna have a seizure.

"SHIT Y/N IM WITH MY FRIENDS WHAT IF THEY SEE IT?!??1!?!?!/11/1/ FUCK WHY DO YOU DO THIS TO ME AMEOIDOAEINAMSLKN"

STUDY DATES ARE HIS FAVOURITE BUT ALSO GOING OUT TO CAFE'S >>>>>>>>>>

He gets really blushy and nervous whenever your showing him so much affection to towards him infront of his friends, but he secretly likes it, he just doesnt wanna seem like a baby.

Whenever you get better grades than him he either celebrates for days or cries in a corner for hours. There's no in between.

Kyle is honestly so overprotective like if he sees a guy staring at you hes gonna straight up smack their face with a stack of graded homework assignments.

He jealousssss 🤭 he HATESSS admitting it though hes so whiny abt it too.

"Y/nn, I'm not jealousss babeee shutt uppp-uh 😠😠" Like a frickin 10 year old, LMFAO WHY DO I ACTUALLY IMAGINE HIM SAYING THAT THOUGH

Kenny 🏠🧡:

Lovesss showing/giving PDA doesn't matter where you are or who you're with

Bro is soso touch-starved its insane

He holds you by the waist while he leans in for a kiss, he low-key smells like cigarettes and car gas but I'm kinda into it ngl 🤷‍♀️

Whenever he gets touchy, it's not always going to be sexual but this man has some pretty horny thoughts but you cant blame him

Hes so whiny and wants you to touch him REALLY BADLY.

"Y/nn please please please I love you so much please just this once oh my God please your so hot I'm gonna suffocate I love you just this once please please PLEASEEEEEE-" "Kenny omg calm down wtf-"

His weak spot is seeing you in clothes that bring out your figure, I mean, girls look better in a real tight sweater ifkwim 😋

The only time he will EVER be the submissive one during sex is when hes balling his eyes out about something that's happened at home, or when he's high on sumthin'

If he's going to see you, he sometimes brings karen with him because he loves the little relationship you two got going on, also his parents are always arguing so it'd be a huge relief for both Karen AND Kenny.

Send him ONE picture and he'll be begging on his knees for more

"MOMMY SORRY MOMMY SORRY- OH GOD SEND MORE- I NEED- creams aggressively YOUR A FUCKING GODDESS OH LORD HAVE MERCY GOAWDH DAYHUYHM 😍😍"

It's a big bonus if you come from a wealthy or rich family cause then you can spoil Kenny and his siblings rotten like how they deserve 😔💞

Please treat karen well she really looks up to you, your like her idol and shes def your #1 fan, she'll always be talking about you and how amazing and thoughtful and pretty you are ITS JUST SO AAAAAAA KAREN IS SO CUTEEE 😖

Kenny doesn't have much but he'll try to save up ENOUGH money to get you something nice like a headband or some nail polish 😚

He's trying.

He just wants you to be happy with him.

Please get married.

Cartman 🍗❤️:

Oh no.

When people started finding out that Cartman had feelings for the one and only, Y/n, they felt so sorry and started giving u random things and being oddly kind around you.

You were like: ???

If he sees a guy flirting or talking to you, he's gonna lower their self esteem to the MAX.

Like he'll be soso rude abt it too

"What kind of dumb fuck like you would get any girls? You got to be kidding me, your dumber than Kahl."

Once you started dating him, man everyone in the school was either shocked, no- not shocked, literally flat-out concerned for your well-being.

Cartman, REEAAAALLLYYYY .. ?

He always wants your attention, even when your busy doing something he'll be texting you at the most randomest times saying "I'm coming over", and shows up at your door in less than 2 minutes.

If you give him a hug or a kiss in public, he'll be acting all tough and start bragging to his friends. But once he's alone, he'll start giggling and twirling around like a fangirl (😨)

He has so many bad pictures of you on his camera roll but it takes all of your convincing skills to tell him: DONT. POST. THE PICTURES.

He doesn't wanna participate in any tiktok couple challenges bc he thinks their stupid. Buttt unless you offer Kyle to do it then he's def gonna cave in 🤭.

He's such a toddler too

He'll secretly want to be the little spoon often but if you offer him his face starts looking like a whole-ass sunburn with an offended look on his face

"AHEM? No we are NAWT doing that. You? Cuddling ME? No no no, its supposed to be the other way around, "Y/n" 🙄"

He'd diss your music taste and then you'll catch him twerking to your favorite song

He just like that y'know?

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softguarnere · 1 year ago

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HEY BABY GIRL!!!!

It's your girl, your sweet cheese, your good time gal (someone please shut me up omfg). Now...you know i am a Joe Toye lover, and if you've seen me recently...he is the only man on my mind. I was wondering if you might indulge me a little with a Joe Toye x reader where they're besties since young and both end up being paratroopers together but then something happens and he thinks he's lost her but she's actually fine and maybe like fluffy reunion...idk tbh i'd take anything you write and eat it up so do whatever. Love youuuuu xx

Seven

Joe Toye x reader

A/N: OMG BELLA I MISSED YOU!!!! 💖 WELCOME BACK BABE! And of course we have a fic with a T Swift reference for you hehehe (This is written for the fictional depictions from the show - no disrespect to the real life veterans!) Thanks so much for the request, and I hope you like this 💕 Warnings: mentions of war, death

You would kill him if you knew where he was right now. And yet, here he is. Trying to reassure and comfort your mother while sipping coffee from her finest set of teacups. The same teacups, he’s now realizing, that you used to serve him water in as children, calling it tea while the two of you played house, discussing the workplace as if you had any idea what went on there, while the adults around you struggled through the lack of those very places during the thirties. It could just be a coincidence, but after spending most of his life around her, Joe Toye would like to think that he knows your mother better than that.

“And you know how hardheaded she is,” your mother is ranting, cutting a fresh slice of poundcake and placing it on Joe’s plate. “She isn’t going to listen to me. Or anyone for that matter, now that her mind is made up.”

Oh, Joe knows exactly how hardheaded you are. In no small part thanks to the times that he accidentally clobbered that very head during neighborhood football games.

“(Y/N) feels good about this, Mrs. (Y/L/N),” Joe says, unsure of what he’s supposed to say during your mother’s hour of need. She’s right, after all – your mind has been made up, and it will not be changed.

“But do you?” Your mother fixes him with a hard gaze, raised brow and all.

You were with Joe when he went to enlist. He had watched your eyes sparkle when they fell onto the sign stating that women should inquire within about an exciting new opportunity that would allow them to serve their country like never before. And he had been by your side when you both left the building, both holding papers and smiling at the thought that you would be becoming paratroopers – together.

“Yes. (Y/N) is strong. She’ll be good in – “

“Joesph,” your mother interrupts. The façade finally falls as she collapses into the chair across the table from him, head in her hands. “She’s my baby! What if something – oh, God forbid! – happens to her? I couldn’t live with myself.”

Joe is by her side in an instant. When he announced that he was joining the Airborne, everyone had clapped him on the back and congratulated him. You have not had the same experience. While everyone keeps assuring Joe that he’ll do great things, the same people have been cautioning you to be careful. Some have even warned you that you should just give up now. And it’s all only served to strengthen your determination, with every underestimation making you more sure that this is what needs to be done.

All that is to say, Joe has no clue what to say to your mother. She needs to be comforted. But he’s out of his depth.

“I’ll watch out for her,” he finally manages.

Beneath the comforting hand that Joe has placed on her shoulder, your mother freezes. Watery eyes gaze up at him. “You – you will?”

“Of course.” The two of you have grown up together. You’ve always been friends. Why would he stop looking out for you now?

Your mother throws her arms around his neck, wrapping him up in a tight hug. “Oh, thank you!”

Joe is struggling to come up with something more to say when the sound of the front door opening and shutting saves him. Your footsteps echo through the front of the house as you call out in greeting.

“Ma! I’m home!” Stepping into the kitchen, you cross your arms, leaning onto the doorframe as you let out a loud sigh. “Wow, you would almost think that Joe is the child that you’re sending off to war instead of me.” You smile, and anyone could see how much you love your mother.

She wipes her teary eyes and pats Joe’s arm as he stands, returning to his seat. “I’m going to miss having someone around who doesn’t get into trouble all the time,” she teases as she cuts a slice of poundcake for you.

Something about the change of topic tells Joe that she would rather not have you find out about their conversation. His watching over you can be their little secret. And a job that he’ll readily accept.

After all, he tells himself as he watches you laugh at something your mother says. You would do the same for him.

The adrenaline from taking Brécourt Manor still hasn’t worn off yet. Joe is laughing at something that Guarnere said as they head back down the road. Something about this moment makes him feel invincible. This is why he chose to become a paratrooper, he realizes.

More men and women have congregated in the town since he’s been gone. Finally glancing at his watch reveals that he’s been gone most of the day. Wow, really? It didn’t feel like the assault took that long at all. At least it kept him busy, instead of sitting around here, waiting.

Joe scans the crowd, hoping to catch sight of you. When he doesn’t immediately spot you, he stops one of the other female paratroopers as she passes.

“Hey, Lilian. You seen (Y/N) around?”

Lilian pauses, her pretty green eyes widening slightly. “Oh. No.” She bites her lip, holding back something more.

“What is it?” Joe presses.

Her hesitation is not a good sign. Then she blurts out, “No one has seen her since the jump.”

“You mean – “

“She was supposed to be in my drop zone – but she wasn’t.”

The reality of it all sets in. (Y/N) didn’t reach the drop zone. Did she even make it out of the plane? God, he promised your mother that he would look out for you. Yet, here he is, with no clue where you might be.

He may have only just reached Europe, but he’s already failed his mission.

The dust is settling over Carentan when the incongruous cheer and subsequent peel of laughter hits Joe’s ears. Somewhere off in the distance, someone is celebrating. Meanwhile, he’s guarding Doc Roe as the medic moves along the streets, inspecting the bodies strewn over them to see if there’s anybody still alive that he can help.

“Thanks for doing this,” Roe says as he stands once more, moving on to another body.

“Hmm?” Joe snaps his attention back to the moment at hand. “Oh, no problem.”

Except there is a problem. He’s trying to catch a glimpse of every face as Doc Roe checks the bodies. He tries to make out names on dog tags, dreading that one of them might belong to you. He couldn’t stand it if he found you here, like this. What would he tell your mother? How would he ever erase that awful image from his mind? Of the little girl that he once played house with, lying motionless on these cold streets? It’s no better to imagine you going down in a plane doing a fiery corkscrew as it nosedives to the unforgiving soil of a foreign land. But at least he didn’t have to see that.

The terrible job done, he follows Roe back to the rest of the company. Despite everything that just happened, a few smiles can be expected, along with congratulatory words. But this is more than that.

A small group of men mill about, talking, smiling, as they watch a smaller group of the female paratroopers huddled together in a group, all talking loudly and looking excited. From the corner of his eye, he can see Doc Roe glance at him, but before the medic can ask what’s going on, the crowd parts and Joe freezes.

There, in the middle of it all, is you.

“(Y/N)?” It comes out louder than he means for it to, and his feet are already carrying him, double time, in your direction before he realizes what he’s doing.

You look up, your eyes widening. “Joe!” You launch yourself at him, throwing your arms around his neck and pulling him in close.

Something rushes through Joe’s chest like a flash of lightning, too many feelings at once. There’s shock, relief, and something that he can’t quite name. Not caring about getting written up for fraternizing, Joe hugs you back, holding you close, lest you slip away from him again.

“Jesus Christ. I thought I lost you,” he says into your hair.

“I’m fine, as usual. Can’t believe you would doubt me like that.” Your voice is light, teasing, but your grip on him tightens. The usual confident swagger doesn’t leave your voice, but you admit in a quieter voice, “I, uh – I missed my drop zone. Had a hell of a time trying to find the rest of the company. But here I am!”

When the embrace ends, Joe still isn’t ready to let go. He leaves his hands on your shoulders, studying you. And you, for your part, hold onto his webbing. “I was just worried about you, is all.”

You nod. “I was worried about you, too. I – “

“Easy Company!” A booming voice interrupts. “We’re moving out!”

Quickly, while everyone is distracted, you raise yourself up on your tiptoes and press a kiss to his cheek. Heat rushes to Joe’s cheeks. He feels his eyes widen. You just smile at him, casual as can be.

“We’ve been friends since we were seven. You can’t get rid of me that easily, Joseph.” Then, you rejoin your friends, leaving him to replay the scene over and over in his mind.

He turns to watch you go, unable to move his feet from where they suddenly appear to be stuck to the ground. He’s held in place by the weight of his realization – the emotion that he couldn’t name was love, for you.

#joe toye #joe toye x reader #band of brothers #band of brothers fanfic #band of brothers x reader #band of brothers imagine #my writing #tumblr friends #brassknucklespeirs

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marquiswrites · 5 years ago

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Silk and Steel Ch 26

AO3 Link

Master List

Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)

Characters: James “Bucky” Barnes, Steve Rogers, Tony Stark, Peter Parker, Natasha Romanov, Sam Wilson, OFC/MC

Relationship: James “Bucky” Barnes/Reader

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 916

Warnings: some language, some depictions of violence

Author’s Notes: Notes at end of chapter

Summary: The team has finally managed to collect you, now all that's left is to get out, and get you to safety.So who, exactly, was in charge of the exit strategy?

Chapter 26: The Garage

Bucky hated himself for giving the order, watching Natasha render you unconscious with a spider bite once they had gotten you to where Steve was, the man surrounded by Hydra agents that had attempted to take him out.Natasha right there beside him, the pair just about back to back when the group finally reached their location.

“Alright, Nat?” Steve called over his shoulder, keeping his attention outward as she tended to you, your fight against the webbing that held you in place continuing until you seized with the touch of her weapon. Giving a lasting look of betrayal to Bucky, one that made his heart stop for a full second before he was resting a hand on Peter’s shoulder. Squeezing in a way that Bucky could only hope was reassuring. “Don’t worry boys, our ride is on it’s way.” The woman smirked, gaze flickering over each of the team, even as she ran a surprisingly gentle hand over your hair. As though trying to soothe the crease in your brow.

“Do I even want to know what that means?” Tony huffed, making Bucky bristle. He had history with Natasha, even if he couldn’t remember it, he knew he could trust her. Knew that she always had a way out, even on a mission with no extraction plan in place.

“What about the other one, thought this entire thing was about grabbing her brother, yeah?” Sam flicked his visor across the room. “I’ve got visual on two separate teams, and only one of them is headed for us. Another visual on the garage, we need to be making time if we want to get out of this in any kind of shape that isn’t bad.” “Our priority is getting Druid out. After that, we regroup and track the others.” Steve gave a nod, then pointed his fingers down the hallway he had cleared, indicating that they should be moving forward.

Bucky hated himself even worse for the fact that they had the kid carrying you, leaving himself with an assault rifle that he had filched from one of the downed bodies. Steve leading the way, shield poised as another layer of protection between you and any incoming. Tony keeping beside you and the kid, with the Falcon and Natasha taking the sweep position. They weren’t taking any risks.

Not again.

Not with you. Never with you.

The alarms were still blaring, irritating him all the more, setting him on edge. The flashing red lights causing him to see shadows where there weren’t any. Hell but he felt like a green recruit, thrown fresh faced onto the battlefields of France.

He wasn’t that man. He hadn’t been for a long time. Not since Hydra. Not since the fall.

But right now he didn’t exactly feel like he could manage the cold exterior of the Soldat. There was too much at stake.

Only responding with a sharp nod as Steve gave him the signal to sweep further ahead. “Redwing picks up that our incoming are falling at a pretty damn quick rate. Any ideas as to why that might be, Cap?” He could hear Natasha chuckle softly. “That would be our ride.” Her tone filled with wry amusement. Causing Bucky to look over his shoulder before he was jamming his thumb against the access panel. The steel door to the underground garage hissing open.

“Well, don’t just stand there looking like a damn fool, let’s get a move on while I’m still young.”

And there was Nick Fury, his black SUV already open and waiting, a second pulled up behind it with Maria Hill popping off a pistol at the remainder of the Hydra agents.

“Not exactly the time to stand staring, Sargent.” Came her huff. Rolling her eyes. “Couldn’t even give them a warning Natasha?” “You know me, always so forthcoming.” Natasha swept in behind the rest of the group. Patting Bucky’s shoulder as she went. His gaze shifted to her before looking to Peter, waiting for him to nod almost too eagerly, too nervously before his attention shifted back to the situation at hand.

“Tony, long time no see.”

“Fury, I had hoped to keep it that way for a little longer. You’ll forgive me if I sit with Miss Hill, yeah?” “Bucky, Nat, Spiderman, go with Druid. Tony, the other car with Fury and Miss Hill. Falcon-”

“I already know, Cap. I’ll be keeping a bird eye view.” Sam smirked. Jogging for the open access tunnel before flicking out his wings. Flying forward ahead of the other groups, while Steve grabbed a motorcycle, hotwiring it quickly before revving the engine.

“Alright team, priority is completing the extraction. We’re cutting our losses here, but this is a temporary situation. We can place the call to Shuri as soon as we reach the base. After that, we regroup, find a way to extract her brother.”

Bucky gave a nod, heading for the vehicle when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye.

Turning and freezing at the sight of another all too familiar face.

It didn’t matter if he had gotten older. The look he had given him was the same. The glare just as full of hatred, of anger. Of desperation.

With a sharp nod, Kostya slammed his fist through the access panel, sparks flying out around him as the steel door shutt between the two men. Cutting off all further access to this particular route out.

Placing himself between Hydra and his sister.

Author’s Notes: Oh my goodness has it been freaking crazy since the start of the new year.To everyone following this story, I want to thank you so much for your patience and for keeping with me. I know that it's taken me forever to get back to everything, and I keep saying that real life has been getting in the way, so I feel like I owe everyone some sort of explanation.

Unfortunately, at work, they started to put more limitations on access to websites. And work is where I got most of my writing done, as I am usually too pooped out by the end of the day. Add onto that, that our CSR's ended up absorbing the work of two other departments, we've basically been entirely swamped, leaving me no time, even if I had had the energy.

Then, as of February, I ended up moving, which is a big yay! But it came with a lot of little adjustments that I am finally now setting into, including getting a working and writing space all to myself for the first time in years.

With the Quarantine, I am now working from home, and my workload is exponentially lighter, however I am now homeschooling my smol person, and we have finally settled into a good routine with all this craziness.

Again, I just want to thank everyone so much, if you've managed to stick around. I can promise that I will absolutely see this story through to the end, because it will not let it's hooks out of me. And for those of you who follow my other stories, if you do, they are going to keep being worked on as well.

#Silk and Steel #Bucky x Reader #Bucky x You #James Buchanan Barnes #Steve Rogers #Tony Stark #Peter Parker #Natasha Romanov #Sam Wilson #Reader insert #Marvel Fanfic #Avengers Fanfic #Post Civil War #Enhanced Reader

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ma-lemons · 5 years ago

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Don’t Go (RoseGarden)

@blackhakumen requested: How about Ruby stopping Oscar from finding Salem himself?

note: thank you so much for requesting! I hope to do this justice!!!

______________________

It was 4 am. Oscar woke up, his body, stiff and aching. He had fallen asleep on the hardwood floor, surrounded by the many maps and books he’d been perusing through for the past few months. The lamps he had placed around his messy area were dimming, but the less light, the better. No one would even suspect a thing.

Initially, the farmhand was sharing a room with Qrow, but the drunkard was currently upset with him, so he turned to what he knew best: drinking. And he would return in the wee hours of the morning, only to collapse onto a sofa in front of him. This was a typical pattern in his typical day.

But today was the day he would leave all of what had become familiar to him these past few months behind. He’d leave behind team JNR. Weiss. Yang. Blake. Maria. Qrow. And Ruby, he’d leave her behind. His heart beat a little quickly at the thought of her name, and he fought to ignore Ozpin’s loud grumbles.

The wizard had given up trying to convince him weeks before, and had often resorted to utter silence. Oscar found that if he worked hard at it, he could banish Ozpin from his conscious temporarily. Ozpin would have no way to see or feel or understand what Oscar was doing. It gave him a sense of normalcy. Ozpin said it was always an option, but it always took a toll on the user, and didn’t help slow down the “soul-merging process”.

His eyes landed on the room, taking in the place he’d been calling home for two months. The smell, and the feel, everything about it. Eventually, his gaze landed on the map, where a large black “X” was written over the island where Salem had taken over. Its name was from an ancient language, but it roughly translated to Enion. He figured that had to be where Salem was, because no one had traveled there for years.

Oscar, take time to reconsider. I have no issue taking control by force.

“Ha,” Oscar laughed bitterly. “I’ve made up my mind. You say you don’t want me to go, when actually you do, don’t you? You want me to see where Salem is, so everyone thinks you have a plan.” The farmhand stood up, stretching his arms. “If you wanted to stop me, you truly would. So don’t stop me now.”

Oscar thought back to the dream he had. A silver-eyed girl, falling off into a ravine. A fast approaching horde of Grimm. And a warning: Either you come to her, or she comes to you. It didn’t take a genius to understand that the battle between Salem and the forces of good would ultimately worse if she were to reach the continent. Ozpin speculated that the witch was not strong enough to leave her domain, but if she were to, it’d require armies from each continent to even defeat just the Grimm. Oscar decided. If he were to find Salem’s location while the others were finding Maidens and retrieving Relics, they could ultimately have the upper hand. If he could go unnoticed, he could scout the territory, get to know prime entry and exit points. Everything they would need for battle.

And what if we got caught? Your friends need to know who their enemies are as they travel Remnant, Ozpin had reminded him.

We’re not getting caught. Once we find Salem, we return back to them.

Ah, yes. Find Salem, wherever she is, on foot. And then we return to your friends, wherever they may be at that time. On foot. That’ll be easy.

Oscar was nearly tired of Ozpin’s sarcasm. According to the books he found in the Atlesian libraries, Salem’s island was inhabited with all kinds of Grimm, even types he had never discovered. Apparently no sailor had ever gotten close to the place because it was protected by a magical force field that could only be taken down by other magic, or a sea-Grimm would destroy them. If he allowed Ozpin to take control, he figured he could find a way to dismantle the shield. Once it was down, he’d need to find Salem’s headquarters. Map out the place. Initially, the idea had scared him out of his new boots, but he realized that Salem was too weak to leave her island, and would probably send het henchmen or the Grimm to do all her dirty work. The sorceress would be too focused on getting the Relics to even notice a small boy trapezing across the land. Hopefully no one else would notice as well.

This plan, once again, is foolish. I hope you understand that.

“Yep,” he replied.

It was time. His knapsack bag, originally meant for hiking, was stuffed to the brim with cheese and bread, and maps and books. Ozpin’s cane was attached to his hip. He swallowed all his fears and doubts. It had taken him months to prepare himself for this day, mentally, and physically.

A scrawled note was clutched in his hand, five pieces of paper bunched together. A long thank you note. And apology. A portion for each of the people he had come to known. The third page was entirely for Ruby. Maybe a bit too obvious.

The sky was still pitch black, the stars dotted around like the freckles on his face. Now was a good time as any. All he needed was a boat to take him as far as it could, and he had a sailboat to use the rest of the way. He had purchased one through Jaune’s scroll, with his lien (he’d pay him back. Maybe. Somehow. Okay, maybe he wouldn’t) and had it sent to the docks.

He’d been preparing for this. He took a deep breath and dragged his bag up, hoisting it onto his back. It was heavy, but necessary. Walking out the door, Oscar took one last look at his old room, his temporary home, and quietly shut the door.

Ozpin was silent, and Oscar knew it was because Ozpin was tired of fighting a losing battle. Nervous as he may be, the fear and guilt that he thought would consume him was instead, quietly tucked into a small corner of his mind.

Setting his bag down for a moment, he took the messy pages of his notes and went to the room Ren and Jaune shared and slipped a piece of paper underneath. Nora’s part was in there too. Then, he carefully moved towards Nora, Blake, and Yang’s room and slipped in a note for the latter girls. Turning back around and going to the end of the other hall, he pushed a note for Maria, Qrow and Weiss underneath the old woman’s door. Maria and Weiss’ thank yous lasted half a page. Qrow’s on the back was much lengthier.

He turned back to where Ruby and Weiss slept. His hands were grasping the last paper, but he felt as if he’d already let it go. Let her go. But there was no time to waste, so he simply pushed the paper through the small crack and took a deep sigh. Moving forward.

The stairs was dimly lit, so he had to be sure he wasn’t making a misstep and falling to his room. He carefully crept down the stairs, trying to even his breathing.

In the living room, he spotted Qrow out of the corner of his eye. Not that he could tell, but his face didn’t look bloody today. That was a good sign. He didn’t have to fight anyone at the bar. Oscar pitied Qrow a lot sometimes. No one knew what he was going through, and drinking helped eased the pain. But he also knew that it wasn’t helping his relationship with his nieces.

Stop thinking about her. Stop thinking about leaving. You’ll see her again. You’ll see her again.

Guilt ripped through him, like a flash. He thought he’d be fine, he dreamt of the day he would slip out into the woods like a thief in the night. But here he was, thinking of how leaving the one person who made him feel truly like himself was possibly going to destroy him on the inside.

In the stories, the young hero had to embark on a journey, leaving all he knew behind, to save the world, and mature a bit from the quest. Oscar was becoming a man.

You would be an excellent writer. However, a horrible spy, as most people creeping around at night, do so quietly.

Oscar grumbled a curse to the spirit in him, and refocused his attention on the coffee table next to him. He placed the notes there, smiling sadly to himself. He pictured Jaune and Ren, snoring loudly that the roof shook, and would always argue that the other was “the loudest”. He pictured Nora and Yang have wild pillow fights that Blake somehow ended up being dragged into. He pictured Weiss needed a gallon of coffee to make up for the noise of the night before, and Maria making her delicious eggs for breakfast. Qrow would be a mess, but Ruby would still love him anyway because—

Ruby. Oh Gods. Ruby. Ruby would wake up in the morning, and arrive at his door, waiting for him to wake up. And she’s get tired and knock on the door until he got out. She’d always wait for him. Always.

The large bag was weighing down heavily on his young shoulders, and he figured now would be a good time to leave. He eased towards the front door. Before he would regret it, he slipped out the door, a faint “Goodbye” escaping his lips.

“Wait!” Someone was gripping his arm, holding him back. Oscar knew who it was, even before he turned around. His heart leapt into his throat, and he had to fight back the nausea he was suddenly feeling.

“Dear Ruby, I’m leaving,” she whispered, her voice breaking. Oh, no. She was crying. Sniffling. Oscar couldn’t beat to turn around, to see her face, how broken she must’ve felt. She... she really did care. Instead, he stood facing the cold wind, his resolve slowly crumbling away each second. If he faced her, he’d break down at the sight of her.

“I’m sorry to leave you behind, but it’s my responsibility as the host. I should be the one to find Salem, not any of you. I should be the one—“ Ruby stopped abruptly, gasping. Her little sniffles were becoming full on tears.

Oscar shrugged the backpack off his free arm, and slowly turned to Ruby. She wore her spotted pajamas, and he knew that she must be freezing from the bitter cold. He neared her and wrapped his arms around her. She cried into his shoulder, louder, and louder. It was a miracle no had woken up.

“W-why are you leaving? Why do you feel the need to leave?” she sobbed. Oscar sighed, and moved inside, shutting the door behind him. He wondered how he didn’t hear Ruby coming down the stairs, and he realized he must’ve been so self-absorbed that he didn’t hear a thing. He watched Ruby clench the note he wrote her in his hand, and his heart broke a little inside.

Ruby took a deep breath, and said, “Let’s talk in your room.” And without another word, she marched upstairs. Oscar hurried to follow her.

Inside his room, Ruby stood, her arms crossed. The letter was still in her left fist and even in the dim light, her eyes were still visibly puffy.

“Ruby...” Oscar started. He actually had no idea how to finish this. What would he say?

“What makes you think you can leave without us? Without me?” Ruby sniffled.

“Ruby, I’m sorry. But... this is Ozpin’s fight. Now any of yours. He shouldn’t have even gotten you involved. It’s only right that I look for Salem.”

“I don’t know if you’re stupid or you’re really stupid,” Ruby snapped. Oscar recoiled in her hange of attitude. If she was this upset, Oscar had really, really messed up.

“I—“

“No, don’t speak. You didn’t get a choice to come here. We did. We wanted to help save Remnant. I don’t know how you think you’re going to get to Salem in time and then get back to us. It doesn’t even add up! What would you do if a Grimm spots you? Or worse, Salem herself!”

“That’s why Oz is here,” the farm boy offered weakly. The more he tried to convince himself, the more he understood their doubts.

Ruby closed in on him. “You don’t get to go! You don’t need to go! We... we need you here, Oscar!”

Oscar wanted to apologize, but his pride overtook his guilt.

“Ruby... I’m expendable. Look, I know it seems impossible, but Oz is here with me. I... I had a dream... and you were falling and we were losing the war... I can’t sit around and—“

Ruby shrieked, and before Oscar could register anything, she had punched him in the chest. The wind was knocked out of him, as he landed in the floor.

The girl’s face reddened. “I—I’m sorry.” She offered a hand to him, but Oscar felt he deserved to stay on the ground.

“Oscar, you need to stop thinking about Ozpin and think about yourself. We need both of you here. Both of you. No matter what you tell yourself, we all care for you, and we want the best for you. That’s why we’re a team, a family. We never leave each other behind, and we don’t ever, let go.” Oscar saw Ruby’s eyes steel. “I lost Pyrrha and Penny and I’m not going to lose you too.”

“And don’t worry about that dream. I’m right here next to you. And I’m not leaving.” Oscar’s heart swelled from the sincerity in her tone.

The farmhand shot to his feet and wrapped Ruby in a hug. He poured all his feelings into it, and squeezed her so hard, so she could tell to. Her arms fell at her sides for a brief moment before she squeezed him back, tears running down her face again.

“I’m so, so sorry,” he whispered.

“You don’t need to apologize. You’ll always be enough for me. We’ll defeat Salem, together,” she murmured back.

They separated and Ruby wiped her tears. “So I’m guessing you figured out where Salem lives?”

“Yeah. An island called Enion.”

“You see? You made or mission a lot easier—without having to leave me. Uh, I mean us!”

Oscar couldn’t tell if she was flustered, or excited. But part of him felt relieved that someone came to stop him from this crazy journey. And he was even happier that it was Ruby.

And he was extremely happy that Ruby had pocketed the letter before saying goodnight to him.

He wondered if she’d focus on the salutation he wrote. Love, Oscar, instead of something else.

He hoped she would.

————————————-

I’m sorry this is like two months late! Life has been a bit wonky, but I got it done. I have no idea when RoseGarden week is and I want to participate, so maybe so.

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bligh-lynch · 6 years ago

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Hath A Familiar Spirit

July 15th, 1877, Main Street, Tempest, West Virginia Anyone who has ever lived in West Virginia, or even travelled through the state, can easily see what an ideal place it would be for ghosts. _________ Ruth Ann Musick, The Telltale Lilac Bush Moonshine is the drink of the mountaineer – it is not found in the respectable restaurants of Europe, it is a foul, noxious liquid, it is only for those brave enough to drink it and brave enough to live here…here, the mountains. Both – the mountains, the moonshine – bring tears to the eyes, one eventually, the other immediately…and yet both, without question, fortify the soul, thicken the blood.

The last small glass of it went down Lynch's throat and he thrust the empty vessel down hard on the table where it met with a clank. Long days – long nights. Dark nights. The life of the chief in the telegraph office – that was him. Lynch – his name was Bligh Patrick but everyone save Martha his wife called him by the family name, Lynch – was far less of the mountaineer than his father had been, with his magnificent chest-length beard and booming brogue, who had somehow sired thin, gaunt Bligh Patrick and a sister who lived in Charleston he never spoke to anymore. At the thought of his father and his great beard, Lynch stroked his own bare chin – he was not his father, painfully: a neat shirt and trousers and suspenders, sitting at his desk in his tidy office, filling out his forms, tinkering with his contraption, linking his little hamlet nestled amidst the Greenbrier with the larger world. A company man who was given a salary, and going nowhere. He, Lynch, was of the new kind of animal for a new Nineteenth Century – a new America, more stable and more sure but duller, less friendly to a man like his father for whom adventure was not merely a state of being but an entire life, lived in rapture and ecstasy. The mine in their town – Tempest, but in his father's day it was called Dog's Creek afore that terrible storm blew through twenty years gone – ran rich with coal which was sent to Pittsburgh to smelt to make steel: in a way their little town was already connected to the world, for that steel was made into bridges, bridges which spanned rivers and tamed their powers to divide. The bosses in Pittsburgh, Keystone Company, big men Lynch had never met, only cared for yield, output, quantity – numbers, mathematics in the raw…every day at prescribed times Lynch and burly, blonde-haired Bernard Barnes would man the telegraph, and transmit the day's business, what would be put on the trains at Lewisburg and shipped up to the furnaces. Sometimes there were messages – not often – but there was a boy, a chubby little thing named Dorsey, who would deliver the telegraphs on foot. Lately, very lately, they had wanted to know if the miners were happy or unhappy and if the Workingmen's Party had gotten hold of any of them like they supposedly already had in Martinsburg – Lynch had abandoned politics after the surrender of the Rebels down South but he had heard repeatedly that Pinkterton and his creatures had gotten the ear of the bosses up in Pennsylvania: they were going to root out the troublemakers, hook or crook, and try as Lynch might he could not shrug it off, he knew that no good would come of it. What good came of anything, anyway? He had married for love a plump woman from Lewisburg, Martha, and had a son Allen who worked in the mine, like everyone in Tempest seemed to – a foreman, a step above the poor boys with the pickaxes but he was down there with them, face smudged a doleful minstrel-black. This was Lynch's life – day in – day out. A trap. His life was a trap that had been set since the day he departed his mother, Wilhelmina's womb – his wife Martha, good woman, knew his melancholy, his strange sadness that never left him and that he never explained to anyone, not to him or his gone sister or his son who was, thankfully, a lot like his grandfather, a boisterous take-charge firecracker. But sad he stayed – sad and haunted, a nagging of dreams that he could never be sure if they products of waking or sleeping. He sighed, he winced – he did not want to think of that right now – he moved the empty glass that stank of the moonshine in a circle on his desk, up late here at the office because the saloon was too noisy for the noises in his head…and he just didn't want to go home. The weather had been fine lately, too fine, a warning of something evil to come, the sunniness getting clouded over with talk, talk, always talk but thank God little else, from those fools in Martinsburg. Damned fools! All of them – so what if they had their wages cut? What of it? What would they actually do about it? Was not the Baltimore & Ohio vital to their town? Had not Mayor Shutt assured them the company was not as avaricious as they claim, that the cuts were necessary, that these were the dreadful necessities of American Business? Lynch shut his eyes – he sighed – he opened them again. They trailed to the window, the street outside, the one saloon in their town where a jangling piano and whoops of laughter, miners off shift suddenly burst onto the dirt street in tandem with two men, two, arguing with each other, but the argument had turned to confusion. And then – were they, O Irony, drunk as well? – agreement. That bastard! That bastard, Garrett! Garret – John, John Work Garrett – his parents must have had both precognition as well as a deeply facetious sense of wit to name their child something like that, for he, Garrett, that bastard Garrett, was president of the Baltimore & Ohio Railroad, and people, drunk men on the street and polite ladies in their parlors, up here in the new state of West Virginia, they all called him a bastard, bastard, that bastard Garrett. It was about B&O, it was always about B&O, it was a sore issue to the point that it had become the only issue, there was talk of little else anymore. Cut wages, soon cut throats, cut, cut, cut – soon there will be no pay at all, the men at the railway yard will have to work for free! Mountain politics – politics without action til the very last minute came. This is how it was a decade ago: Secession – union – treason! The Year of Our Lord 1861, America set ablaze – ah, the firebreathers in Richmond never had it in their minds that the poor yokels out west could form their own government! But then – then they did. He did. He helped – he was there. His name was on the paper that they sent to Richmond, that they sent to Washington – in flowing ink, Bligh Patrick Lynch, Tempest, County of Adkins. That stately old coot Lightfoot's name was on it too, at that time more of a corpse than a man, he was so old, and three months later he was a corpse completely – stole from the poor and stole from the rich, gone to Hell, that son of a bitch! His son Nicholas should have gone to Wheeling in his stead, but Little Nicky had disappeared out California-way, shooting Mexicans for a nickel and cheating Texians out of gold and robbing Chinamen of their life's savings. Now there was a bastard, born in wedlock though he'd been…Nicholas Stephen Lightfoot, fourth of the name, from the Devil he'd come, to the Devil he'd go. He always hated Lightfoot and he never knew why – something in him would abide him no tolerance, neither father nor son, even after all the decency and good taste was gone there was still, something, about that family, the Lightfoots, that Lynch hated. But with or without the Lightfoots, son and father, they did it – they, the Wheeling Convention, appealed to the Supreme Ruler of the Universe for the rectitude of our intentions and by that same God they got away with it, made their own state, split off from the bad decisions and bad governance of Richmond's moneyed vanity. He'd been one of the nine on the Third of December, 1861 – he remembered the day, even – to vote to name it Kanawha, but like a child who cannot throw away his toy the rest of them insisted on keeping it West Virginia, for their own useless nostalgia. He, Bligh Patrick Lynch, had helped found an American state – and here he was, working thankless for Western Union, a lackey of an enterprise for men he had never seen and would, he often thought, never see at all… …he took back his glass, took back the jar, poured it into the glass, sent away the jar. And into his mouth went more of the drink his father had made as hobby and profession and yet he, Lynch, was barely, barely eligible as a man to imbibe. Sometimes he felt he was barely a man at all. The liquid went down – horrid, nauseating, it made him gag – the miners drank this like damn water, but Lynch cringed every time. Even his son was made of stronger stuff than he. Drinking on the job – were he a conductor up in Martinsburg he'd put lives in danger, but no, here he sat, as usual, as nothing, at his desk. Had he wasted his life? Could he have been a better man? Not the raven-haired pasty-skinned bumbler that he was but someone, something else – a politician, first at Wheeling and then down to Charleston where his sister was…he could have stood up to that demon Lightfoot and demanded money to prop up an election for Congress, he could have gotten out of Tempest, to Washington – to… He stopped himself with a slow, deliberate headshake. No – no. He was mad, he was mad and he was sad – and it was a miracle that anything had gone his way at all, let alone the fanciful nonsense that the drink, foul as it was to his tongue, allowed his mind to make. Not that he needed anything to make fanciful nonsense – he could do it all by himself. He was known to be a man harassed by dreams, his whole existence awash with puzzles and questions that were swallowed in town gossip, where in its belly even basic facts about his life, his family's life, waxed monstrous and confusing. Always – always was he haunted by dreams, dreams he wanted to drink away, when the bourbon from Kentucky was too expensive and the moonshine around here not plentiful enough, when the notion that he was less of a man for doing what he was doing when his father was so much more a man than he was crept on him, late at night, the sky dark, Bible black, no stars. There were parts of Adkins County you didn't go late at night – that was commonsense, there were lonesome places all over these mountains, places where travelers and peddlers were wont to get robbed or worse, and that was usually what people not from here thought was meant by the admonition: there were parts of Adkins County you didn't go late at night. For this was a kingdom of haints, ghouls, goblins, ghosts – all manner of devilish hosts, went the banishing rhyme his father had taught him from an Ireland that had since vanished into faërie-mist. Everyone knew that, Hell the people in Wheeling knew that fifteen years ago and asked him, straightaway, was it true what they said, that all of that county is spook's country? Rather like Botetourt, so those rumors went, but – worse? And Lynch had cracked a joke about – something, he didn't remember, but the other men laughed and the subject was changed. He never answered their question – had he, it would have been a nervous, emphatic yes. And now his eyes went distant, past the saloon, to the great mass of shadow beyond it, above it – the mountain, the mountain where his mother Wilhelmina and his father Patrick were both buried. The pair of drunkards had departed down the street, melting into the dark – he knew their names, their families, and they knew his. And though they and the rest of the townsfolk must have hinted – must have whispered – they did, could not know, just how mad, just how sad, he truly was. For years and years growing up Lynch had seen them – nobody else did, nobody believed him, and he learned to stop talking about it altogether. Eyes. As a boy he had seen them, as a teenager with his father and his great swaying beard chopping wood and stalking deer he had seen then, and as a man, now, he would see them still: Two of them. A pair. Looking at him. Watching him. Then, still a boy, he had asked his father: can't he see them eyes? In the woods? Them were shiny – shiny eyes, look like lights, big bright blue lights lookin right at us, right yonder! And his father would seem like he wanted to answer but said nothing, he would shake his head gravely – no eyes, boy, ain't seen no lights, ain't seen no shine. Paltry excuse – a lie. He would see them, sometimes, he would see them when he was awake, those two glowing circles, that foxfire, that – what was it his friend had called it, the professor, from Morgantown? Phosphorescence – what a ghostly, ghoulish word, yet it fit, there was no better way to describe it: blink-blink, blink-blink, two points of glowing light, light that was thrown out from unseen eyes… …eyes that watched him. Blink-blink, blink-blink. His father was protecting him from something, something he never knew but his sister did, enough that it bothered her far, far more than it did Lynch to hear the town gossip about their family. And at least, he knew his father knew, what all that talk was about behind their backs. The whispers of the townsfolk about his mother who died looking as though she had never aged a day from the time she married his father – why, they said she weren't human…and the eyes proved it, right there, you could look at her, you could see. Blue eyes, eyes like ice, like water, ain't no man ever had them eyes afore, weren't no man's eyes, no sir – he got tired of hearing that as a boy, got tired, weary, then angry, of the claptrap, the nonsense, the insinuations. It was more, far more, than just being Irish – that alone being a sin in America as bad as being a Negro…it was something else, something that vexed Lynch all his life and that he feared he would never know. There were questions he asked his father that he got no answers from, he was told to ignore what them other boys said and know his Ma and Pa loved him. And there were questions – plenty of questions. Why did he and his mother have the same eyes? And why not his sister? Why did his mother speak so little English like some squaw, but looked like a Teutonic beauty? Why did the other children insist she weren't human – and that neither was he, her son? And why – why did his father seem so uncomfortable and furtive when he would bring up seeing things, seeing those eyes, hearing those howls some nights – why did his sister become so violently religious after their mother passed, and spent her husband's money to build a church over that lovely spring that they used to bathe and play in as children? …why did it seem like everyone wanted to keep him in the dark? In the dark. It got dark out here, Sweet Lord did it get dark. It was in the dark that he saw them – the eyes – in the dark he wanted to find himself, be swallowed up by shadow and live in the dark with his own eyes closed…but someone, somewhere, had shut his eyes for him, long ago, and he could not see the truth that everyone else seemed to know. Lynch was not overly clever but he certainly – by the estimate of others in addition to his own – was not a dim one, he knew a lie when it was told to him and he knew when something was being withheld. He knew that what he was seeing and hearing was not madness – he knew that something was at that spring where his sister built a church – he knew his father had a truth that he took to his grave. And what he saw, what he heard – eyes, howls – they were for him. They watched him – waited for him. He would see them leer from the woods walking home, in an alley where the shadows crawled too deeply, the space where light did not meet atween two buildings – he would see them, he would stop, and stare, and the lights would stare back. And then they would vanish. Some nights – some nights he dreamt about them: the eyes would appear, then disappear, no explanation, no preface, the placid narrative of a vision of hunting with Abraham Lincoln or flying over a vast city, some surreal phantasm of the night's mind, abruptly interrupted – blackness, eyes, blink-blink – and then a crashing howl, up from the fires of Hell itself…and then he would awake. Bolt upright. Sweating. His wife Martha, good woman, had not left him though she ought to have, as his sister had, for being this way, such that no amount of rest or reassurance could assuage him from the dread of being constantly watched. Now, back in reality out of his drunken introspection – suddenly he was nervous, he was aware of how quiet the saloon outside was getting, how still the night was, how dark it was, how he was alone, all alone, in this cozy office. He felt queer – he did not like feeling this queer, like he was not supposed to be here, like this wasn't his life, that Bligh or Lynch were not who he was, not his names…that he had another name, older – older… How very like suffocating. How very like drowning. A trap sprung for an animal, digging into his leg, piercing his scrawny flesh and keeping him pinned down, he would have to chew it off if he ever wanted to escape but he knew – in his bones, broken by this life, by his own insecurities that would kill him, he felt, mercifully, soon – that there was never an escape. Because not only did he see them – he dreamt about them. Once a year – maybe twice – he would hear faint howls, somewhere, somewhere off the mountainside, echoing to nobody but him, because nobody else ever heard them…but him. And he would dream. The eyes would appear, the two circles of light, an impenetrably pure glow of a kind of blue he would never, ever see anywhere else – it would be like the other dreams, with the shattering howl, but this time it would be different, this time it would be his own voice… Now he leaned back in his chair and his eyes, blue like his mother's, blue like Winter, that inhuman blue…they went distant, facing forward, the door to the office – he took in a small, shuddering breath as his mind's eye played out the images. He happened to catch a glance at his hand, at his fingers. He stopped to look at them, how fine and dexterous they were, how…sharp his nails seemed to be. Were they always like that? He would need to cut them when he got home. He was staring at his fingers, now – his nails were never this sharp, he was sure of it – no, no, they were always this sharp, just not like this…not ever before tonight. Had he drunk too much? Seeing things? No, this was – this was real, so real, closer to real than he had ever known real to be… He was deep in his own head – Lynch being Lynch, being quiet and strange and keeping to himself, why that was he was known for, were it not? And so – it startled him, he started badly, when Barnes burst open, a crash, a thunder, the door swung open and in he came, broad-shouldered Barnes, eyes enormous as though he had seen a haint hisself. He was breathless, he stunk – stunk of sweat, he had rode hard from whence he'd came, in a flicker Lynch's eyes darted to the outside where he saw the liquid-shadow shape of his horse. He almost shook but he summoned to his father's strength to steady himself – he rose to greet him: "Barnes!" he exclaimed. "Great God, man, why—" "Strike!" The man, Barnes, cried back at him. Lynch's mouth fell open. "What?!" "Strikin!" Barnes roared. "Strikin – blockadin the trains! Nuthin comin in or out!" He blinked several times at Barnes – he leaned forward, the woozy feeling of drunkenness a creep he was trying to fight, and with a hesitant breath, he asked: "What – what they want us ta do?" Barnes threw out his arm, accusing the telegraph, then swooping up to accuse Lynch too. "On the wire! Now! It'll spread, dammit all, it'll spread! Martinsburg first – Pittsburgh – Baltimore! Tell everyone, anyone who'd listen, they hafta know, they hafta know!" Lynch lifted his hand – it shook, he made a fist, trying to steady it, he could feel the fine points of his nails into his palm. "Y-ye—" "Dammit, man! I ain't got time for this!" His arm made the same motion the opposite way. "They done blocked the office up yonder, ain't nobody been able ta send nuthin! Now git on the wire! On it!" And with that he stormed out, cursing, a little typically: "That bastard – that bastard, Garret! He did this!" Lynch sighed – once – twice. This was his job, this was his duty, this is what he was paid to do – company man, salary man. He would send the telegram at once to his bosses in— He stopped. Barnes had left the door open in his haste to get back on his horse and gallop away, so Lynch could see the outside: it was all dark – a hole from which no light came in…or out. He did not see the eyes, he did not hear the howls. But the darkness outside – it called to him – for the first time in his life he was not scared or haunted or sad or mad about what had been hidden from him, what he did not understand, because now he understood it, in his bones, in his heart. He looked down at his hands. His nails were larger – definitely larger, sharper, longer. His nails were claws. Slowly – slowly – his head rose to the open door. Darkness – soundlessness and void, cold but not empty – skeletal, he felt, to his whole being. Who had he been all his life? Who? A nobody – he would die, obscure, forgotten, his body would rot inside the mountain that birthed him and his headstone would be eaten by the forest that covered it, like so many others before, like so many others to come, and it was all his own fault. He had given up so much for the steady job, his blood had betrayed him and passed over all the traits that made his father such a hero, such an impeccable man – down to his son. But not he. Not Lynch. He was barely a man at all. The phrase turned over – and over – in his head. He smiled – the smile turned into a grin. Now he paced forward – his gait was unsteady with the moonshine but every step, every inch, his nails, his claws, grew, longer, sharper, deadlier. He was indeed, he realized at last – an epiphany, an annihilating truth, that destroyed and remade him simultaneously, a curtain rent and a soul in flames – he was indeed, he was indeed… …barely a man at all. He was in the dark – he was in the dark. He – was – the dark. He swam in it and he drowned in it, and with those dying breaths he would surface, he would be a new, terrible, awesome creature, the creature he could not be as a man. All the rage and the inferiority and the inability to be a man – it was tearing him, Lynch, right apart, he would wear the lordly robes of the dusk and the dark and be king elsewhere, where here he had a been a pauper…he would wait, oh how he would wait, and he would have his revenge as his blood commanded. The resentment and the distaste for Old Lightfoot made sense now – perfect, dreadful sense. And he would have his revenge for everything – life, and death. He laughed – slowly and softly, then rising, shrill, a cackle, an unending jest. And the last Tempest, West Virginia, heard of Bligh Patrick Lynch that night, when he went missing into the mountains leaving his family behind, never ever to be seen again, was that same laugh – his shrieking cackle, that faded aching into one, long, final howl.

#bligh's ancestor #the black beast

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treatbuckywkisses · 3 years ago

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IM SO LATE READING THIS PART UGH 😭😭

“Let’s hear it for Barnes and Little Rogers!” ONGSKSGS I LOVE THEIR TITLES PLEASE THATS SO CUTE

“Come on, Oak,” he urged, “You only graduate high school once. Besides, I’m sure we can have it at my place and the moms can hang out next door. If anything happens or you don’t want to be there anymore you can just walk twenty feet and be home.” he wants her there shutup😭😭😭😭😭😭

Of course he was stoked about the party, and now he was absolutely shitfaced, never staying more than 10 feet away from the makeshift bar on one of the folding tables. of course john would be shitfaced a party that has nothing to do with him I hate him🙄

Your eyes narrowed as you crossed your arms. “I’m sorry, you’re saying I don’t let you love me because I don’t want to sneak into some dark room during a party while you can barely stand?” YEAH OAKY YOU TELL HIM BABY WOOOOOOOOO

How can I let go of someone when they might be the only person to ever want me? hey🥺 ouchie

Where you found John sitting on the toilet with his pants down, mouth locked onto the neck of Dot as she straddled him. BITCH ONGSKSGS SHUTTE FUCK UP NO STOP I GASPED SO LOUD W H A T OHMYGOD

I was painting my nails while reading and I literally quit when I got here because I could not fucking believe what I just read. I mean like I figured he'd cheat but with DOT am I stupid bc what I didn't see that happening help<3 no joke have only my left hand painted right now because of you LMAO

Bucky was storming over toward the car before you had a chance to hang up and pull into the driveway. YEAAAAHHHHHHHH i love this man <3

“I’ll be damned,” Brock sneered, shaking his head. “Bucky. I thought you looked familiar. Now it all makes sense. You seem to be everywhere.” what does this mean🥸 whyd he say that and why did he say it like that col what is this🥸

You wished that life had gone differently, that things with the boy next door hadn’t ended right when they started, that the two of you hadn’t abandoned whatever spark you found and gone down separate paths. That you hadn’t allowed your desperation to let you follow Brock, let him use you and break you and take you from everything you loved. WHAT HAPPENED ACTUALLY IDK IF I WANT TO KNOW BUT TELL ME ANYWAY

But this was where life had taken you. On your own, left with the messes that you had played a large part in creating. Bucky was the protective brother figure as he always had been, and Brock was the thorn in your side that you were determined to rip out no matter the cost. hm🥸

“Stop calling me baby,” you snapped, arm folding over your chest. “This isn’t about us, this is about you. You need me for money.” YEAH THATS MY GIRL WOOOOOOOO IM SO PROUD OF HER YOU TELL HIM BABY

“You think that he is gonna go for a girl like you? Get a grip, Y/n. Some loser in the suburbs who crashed and burned when she tried to make it big? Without your art, you’re nothing.” UM HEY?? I MEAN FELT THAT BUT HEY DONT TALK TI MY GIRL LIKE THAT !!!! 😠😠😠😠😠😠

His arm lifted in a gesture toward the house. “Mr. Wannabe Tough Guy Deadbeat?” GASP SO LOUD GASP QJAT DID HE JUST SAY NO BAD DOG NO Y9U TAOE THAT BACK RIGHTBNOW HE IS VERY PRECIOUS TO ME 🤬🤬🤬🤬🤬🤬🤬🤬🤬🤬🤬🤬

His eyes scanned your face, desperate to get a read on how you were feeling. “Are you okay?” 🥺🥺🥺 SHUTUP HE FUCKIN LOVES HER IM KSGSOSVSKSHS WOW UGH

He walked you to your front door, hand no longer holding yours but still close enough that you could grab it if you needed to. 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺 lemme hold his hand

“I know. It’s just, if I could do anything to keep you from being hurt, I would do it, Oak.” okay im literally tearing up what the fuck

“Do you want me to stay over? I can sleep on the couch if you’re nervous about him coming back.” HE <3 HE IS SO SOFT & PRECIOUS AND HE LOVES HER OHMYGOD

Bucky: Remember, I’m here if you need me. 🥺 cryin

Would he really be there? shutup no thoughts only love <3

Any sound - whether it was a loud gust of wind or a branch hitting your window - made you jumpy. baby🥺🥺 this is the worst

Her head cocked down once again - man she was good at giving that ‘I know everything’ look - eyes boring into you. sarah tell me everything you know pls

“Girl. He comes to the bar all the time, only when he knows you’re working, and when he’s not your phone is constantly buzzing because he’s texting you. And I don’t know if you even noticed but I was there at the firehouse yesterday. I could see the drop of drool ready to fall from your mouth and I saw the way his whole face freaking lit up when he saw you.” YEAAAAHHHHHHH THEYRE IN LOVE 🥰🥰🥰🥰

The shots of tequila you were pouring were looking more and more tempting. Maybe the group who ordered them wouldn’t notice if one was missing…“I know that’s what you said back then. And for a second, I agreed. But you were there. You know what happened.” WHAT HAPPENED IM GONNA SCREAM also she deserved to steal a shot <3 I'd let her

Flashes of the aftermath of that summer entered your brain. You curled up in a ball in your bed. Crying yourself to sleep every night that first year of college. Not eating. Looking in the mirror and hating what you saw more than ever before, thinking you were unlovable. It took so long to get over Bucky, to move on from the dream that suddenly became a total nightmare. NO WHAT IS THIS THEYRE SUPPOSED TO BE IN LOVE 😠😠😠😠 NO WHAT STOP SHUTYP NO HEY NO QHAT NO HELP

Bucky agreed to your request, but you could sense that he was still on edge. He texted you daily to make sure you were okay, and stopped by the bar whenever you were working to check in. At Sunday dinner, he rarely strayed more than a couple of feet away from your side. I AM LITERALLY GSLSISGSLSBSGSKHSJSG SCRWAMING !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Now, with your heart pounding and your face flushing, you realized that you were too close to going back to those days where you still felt a sense of hope that Bucky might have felt the same. THEYRE SO STUPID <3 (AFFECTIONATE)

It was…a lot. Overwhelming to say the least, but you couldn’t deny that a part of you loved it. It was so easy to deny your growing feelings to Sarah and to say you were certain that Bucky felt nothing for you. But then he would do things like this, be so caring and protective, give you these looks that put knots in your stomach, all of it making your brain too fuzzy for reason to take hold. when will it be my turn🥺

Still, you knew that you would have to tell him to cool it. You were getting dangerously close to a point of no return, and if your heart broke again, you didn’t think you’d be able to put the pieces back together no matter how hard you tried. 😐 the way i know that whatever the fuck happened will actually kill me problems <3 good for you col

Not glowing, ignited. A ball of fire, surrounded by flammable liquid spilled all over the wooden surface. HUH

And then the bar burst into flames. HUH WELL IS SHE FUCKING OKAY ???? HELLO ????? WHAT IS THIS COL

sorry HUH 🥸 WHAT HUH COL YOU- AND IT- AND THEY- WHAT YOU OKAY 🥸 NO WHAT

woah are we going to see firefighter baby in action 🥺🥺 WAIITTTTTT daddy to the rescue 🥳

In the Embers ~ 6

Pairing: Firefighter!Bucky x F!Plus Size!Adopted Rogers!Reader

WC: 4.9k

Summary: After returning home from a failed career as an artist in LA, you are reunited with the boy next door who has always owned a piece of your heart, and there's no running from each other this time.

Chapter Note: *hides behind Big Oaky*

Chapter Warnings: Brock being an asshole, John being an asshole, underage drinking, very very very brief mention of nsfw content.

Series Masterlist / Series Playlist

EIGHTEEN YEARS OLD (pt. 1)

“Let’s hear it for Barnes and Little Rogers!”

The entire crowd erupted with belligerent cheers as you and Bucky stood awkwardly in the basement of the Barnes household, Bucky turning to give you a small sheepish grin. You shrugged with your own smile as you knocked back whatever battery acid drink John had made you.

When Steve and Sam came up with the idea of doing a joint party for the two of you - your high school graduation party and a farewell to Bucky before he left for the army - you protested, never liking the idea of being the center of attention, even though you knew most of the attendees would be there for their favorite town bartender and former high school quarterback.

But Bucky nudged your side with his elbow, cutting off your rant about how you didn’t need a big party, just your friends and family.

You couldn’t argue with that logic. Besides, John had been begging for you to go to more parties ever since he came back from his first year of college, whining about how boring this summer was going to be compared to life at school. Long distance (which wasn’t really that far but John made it seem like it was almost impossible to see each other during the year) had been tough for the two of you, and you wanted to make sure he was happy to be home so that he wouldn’t leave and never come back.

Of course he was stoked about the party, and now he was absolutely shitfaced, never staying more than 10 feet away from the makeshift bar on one of the folding tables.

“Baby,” he cooed, wrapping his arms around you from behind, “Why don’t we go into one of the rooms and have some fun?” His words were slurring and you fought back a gag at his breath.

You had already consumed a couple of John’s dangerous drinks, but your fuzzy brain found the strength to pull away. “John, no. There’s so many people here. Can’t we just hang out and spend time with our friends?” You cocked your head over to Sarah.

He groaned, taking a giant swig of his drink and pulling his arms away. “You’re no fun,” he muttered, punching you in the gut with his biting words. “Why won’t you just let me love you, baby?”

He scoffed, shaking his head and stumbling away. “Whatever.”

Ignoring the pit in your stomach, you decided to head over to Sarah, wrapping an arm around your best friend’s waist and leaning your head on her shoulder.

“I love you,” you mumbled.

She giggled. “I love you, too. How you feelin, babe?”

Your laugh came out as more of a groan. “Boys are dumb.”

“A-freaking-MEN to that, girl. I still say you should give women a try. Not that they’re necessarily less dramatic. Wait, what did John do?”

You sighed. “Nothing. Had too much to drink, I guess. I just get nervous seeing him like this and thinking about how he acts at school when I’m not around.”

She hmphed, wrapping an arm around your shoulder. “I still think you should dump his ass. You don’t need to be worrying about him while at RISD. Hell no.”

You felt a knot forming in your stomach as you fought back your initial response.

How can I let go of someone when they might be the only person to ever want me?

Instead, you stood straight, kissing your best friend on the cheek. “Thanks for looking out, but I’m sure he’s fine. It’s John, and we’ve been together almost two years. Brown is right next to RISD so I’m sure we’ll see so much more of each other once we’re in the same city.”

Sarah tsked, giving you one last squeeze before you walked to the bar to refill your drink. This time, you made sure there was more orange juice than vodka. Just as you started pouring, some guy stumbled backwards and into you, causing orange juice to spill all over your shirt.

“Shit,” you muttered, shuffling through the crowd to get to the bathroom. At this point, your fuzzy brain had finally got the best of you and you hadn’t thought to knock on the door before opening it.

Where you found John sitting on the toilet with his pants down, mouth locked onto the neck of Dot as she straddled him.

NOW

Bucky was storming over toward the car before you had a chance to hang up and pull into the driveway.

Brock had noticed the big hulking man barrelling over in his direction and jumped out of the vehicle you basically paid for before Bucky could raise a fist to the glass window.

“Woah woah woah, what’s your problem buddy?”

“My problem?” Bucky didn’t stop until he stood towering over Brock, keeping your ex’s back pressed against the car. Brock’s eyes were wide with fear. “My problem is that you got out of your car instead of staying inside and driving as far away from here as fucking possible.”

“I’m sorry, but what business is it that I’m here? Is this your house?”

The moment you walked up to them, everything turned to chaos, the three of you trying to talk over one another.

“Brock-” you started.

“Y/n, baby, there you are-”

“What are you doing here-”

“Don’t you fucking dare talk to her-” Bucky shoved Brock against the car when he tried to take a step toward you.

“And who the hell are you to decide who gets to talk to her-”

“Bucky, please, it’s okay I got this-”

Brock went quiet, eyes narrowing at the mention of Bucky’s name as he stared at the giant man who had placed himself in between you and your ex, one hand slightly extended in your direction in a protective gesture.

Then, Brock started laughing, and Bucky took a step back closer to you.

“I’ll be damned,” Brock sneered, shaking his head. “Bucky. I thought you looked familiar. Now it all makes sense. You seem to be everywhere.”

“Brock,” you stepped forward past Bucky, “Just stop. What do you want?”

“Look, can we talk?” He looked past your shoulder, scowling. “Alone.”

You turned to Bucky, catching that his eyes were locked in a lethal gaze with Brock’s. “Bucky,” your words broke his spell and he looked at you, face softening, “You got the spare key right?” He nodded, jaw clenching. Your voice lowered so only he could hear you as you continued, “Please just go into the house and I’ll talk to Brock. It’ll be fine. He’s not going to hurt me. Anything weird happens, I’ll run inside and get you.”

Bucky’s teeth bit down on the inside of his cheek as he debated whether to fight against your wishes or follow along with them. You knew doing the latter would go against everything he stood for, to not protect you if he thought you were in danger. He had been doing that your whole life. Well, most of it.

Still, he trusted you, and that was what finally made him choose the latter. He gave Brock one last death glare, then turned his focus back to you. A large, calloused hand rested on the sleeve of your jacket with a gentle squeeze, and then he was walking toward the front door of your house.

You wished more than anything that Brock weren’t her; that you could follow Bucky into your home and spend the rest of the night watching a movie or forcing him to show you how to make his delicious apple pie while drinking some of the leftover scotch Nat and Steve brought to last Sunday dinner.

“Alright,” you said as you turned back to your ex, “Now can you please tell me what you’re doing here?”

With his threat finally gone, Brock’s face switched from annoyance to his best pouty face, the one he used whenever he wanted to soften you up. He ran his fingers through his short black hair before placing both of them into his pockets, his head cocked to the side, and he gave you his most (what used to be) charming side smile.

“Baby, I miss you. I made a huge mistake with that girl. I don’t know what came over me. Must have been all the stress I was under with work, and I felt like you didn’t want me anymore. I love you so much baby, and I want to spend the rest of my life telling you that.”

Nausea flooded into your stomach, all blood leaving your face at the unexpected proclamation. You shook your head. “What…where is this coming from-”

“You know how I get when I’m stressed out. I get all manic and crazy, do the worst shit imaginable because I can’t think straight! I promise I’ll try to be better. I’m working on getting back on my shit and being the best guy for my babygirl.”

The nickname, which used to give you butterflies, now made you cringe. “Brock, you can’t just come here and expect me to pack up my life and leave because you want me to. I’m not a kid anymore. I’m here, and I have a life and a job here. It might not be the glitz and glam of LA but at least I’m happy for the first time in years.”

Saying it out loud for the first time, knowing that what you said was completely and utterly true, caused you to breathe out a small laugh at the revelation.

Meanwhile, Brock just scoffed. “What, living with your mom in this dump of a town? In this house? Baby, if we sold a few more of your paintings we could buy ourselves a mansion five times the size of this! Sales haven’t been great with the stuff you left me, but we can try again and get ourselves in better shape in no time. Just gotta get your creative brain back into shape and all of our problems will be solved!”

Ah, and there it was.

“You’re not here for me, are you Brock?”

His head shifted side to side in confusion. “What does that mean? Of course I’m here for you bab-”

“Stop calling me baby,” you snapped, arm folding over your chest. “This isn’t about us, this is about you. You need me for money.”

“What the hell? How could you say that-”

“So what, you’re mad because you can’t sell any of the art you stole from me-”

“I never stole it if it was legally mine-”

“-and now you’re stuck and need me to get to work so I can keep your cash flow coming.” Your chuckle was filled with bitterness. “You really never did care about me, did you? You only cared about what I could do for you. That ends. Now. I’m finally at a point in my life for the first time in so long that I feel fucking loved and supported, and there is no way in hell I’m giving that up for you.”

Brock stared at you, jaw locked in anger, the rest of his body shuffling around in manic movements. “Is this about that guy?”

You frowned. “What guy?”

His arm lifted in a gesture toward the house. “Mr. Wannabe Tough Guy Deadbeat?”

Your fists clenched. “Bucky is anything but a deadbeat,” you seethed. “He’s a better man than you could ever hope to be.”

His brows raised, and he let out a long whistle. “Damn, you got it bad for this guy, don’t you?”

Embarrassment coursed through your body and you dropped your gaze to the ground. Brock chuckled.

“You think that he is gonna go for a girl like you? Get a grip, Y/n. Some loser in the suburbs who crashed and burned when she tried to make it big? Without your art, you’re nothing.”

Tears stung your eyes at the words that had been soft whispers in the back of your mind ever since you moved home. Hell, even long before then. It was easy to shove those voices down and ignore them, but hearing them out loud, even from a low life like Brock, it felt like it was the final validation they needed to totally consume you, and you were brought back to feeling like that scared, vulnerable girl in her 20s, fresh out of college and desperate to be wanted by someone.

No. You weren’t going to let the voices win this time. You weren’t that girl.

Not anymore.

“Go away Brock.” Your voice was quiet, a bit wavering, but strong. “I’m not leaving with you, so just go.”

He let out a long, annoyed breath, rolling his eyes and shaking his head as he silently walked back to the Tesla you paid for, leaving you standing in the middle of your front yard, empty and numb.

“Whatever,” he muttered, “You’ll be begging for me to take you back soon enough.”

Instead of going inside, where Bucky was probably waiting anxiously, you walked to Big Oaky, sitting down in your favorite spot and leaning your back against the trunk. It was a cool November evening, and your denim jacket wasn’t thick enough to keep you warm, but you found the sting of the chill comforting as you stared up at the stars.

“Oak.”

You looked down at Bucky, now standing over you, responding to his concerned expression with a half-hearted smile.

“Hey, Buck.”

His eyes scanned your face, desperate to get a read on how you were feeling. “Are you okay?”

You rolled your eyes and gave him a small shrug. “Been better, I guess. Sorry you had to see that.”

He shook his head, jaw working. “Don’t be sorry. That piece of shit had no right coming here.” He pointed to the spot next to you and you nodded, giving him permission to sit by your side. You pressed your arm against his warm flannel. “What did he want?”

“Oh you know,” you said, picking at the loose frays on the sleeve of your jacket, “Just wanted me to move back to LA and make more art for him so he didn’t run out of money.”

Bucky stilled by your side. “I’ll fucking kill him.”

“No you will not,” you gently shoved him with the right side of your body. “I can’t let you go to jail and deprive myself of your sweet rolls.” Bucky raised his brow at you and you felt heat rise to your face, and not one that you welcomed to fight the cold. “I did not mean it like that.”

He let out a grumbly laugh. “Alright then, I won’t kill him. I’ll just kick his ass.”

“You have to stop trying to kick the ass of everyone who hurts me, Bucky.”

He looked over to meet your eye, and though the light had faded from the sky, the blue of his irises shone brightly enough to pierce yours.

“I know. It’s just, if I could do anything to keep you from being hurt, I would do it, Oak.”

“Not worth it.”

A younger, more closed-off voice belonging to the man at your side smothered any butterflies you might have felt from his statement, leaving you speechless, too conflicted to respond.

Instead, you turned your gaze back to the stars, and Bucky did the same. The two of you sat there in silence for a few minutes, until the cold betrayed you and caused you to let out a small shiver.

Bucky groaned out a small laugh, moving to stand up. “Sorry Oak, but I can’t have you freezing to death.” He extended his left hand and you grabbed it as you stood. This time, unlike your reunion a few weeks ago, you made sure not to trip on any roots, and you remained planted on your own two feet.

He walked you to your front door, hand no longer holding yours but still close enough that you could grab it if you needed to.

“Do you want me to stay over? I can sleep on the couch if you’re nervous about him coming back.”

You shook your head. “That’s okay, Buck. I don’t think he’ll be back.”

“Okay, but remember I’m next door. If anything happens, if you need me, just give me a call and I’ll be here.”

As if I could ever forget that you’re right next door.

You smiled. “Thanks, Buck. For everything. I know the night turned to shit, but I had a really great day. I didn’t realize I had ‘slide down a fire pole’ on my bucket list, but now I will happily cross it off.”

He chuckled. “You were awesome today. We should really think about getting you on the team.”

“Hey, maybe if the bartending thing doesn’t work out…”

The two of you laughed softly until it dissipated into silence, your eyes locking on each other.

Bucky bobbed his head down. “Goodnight, Oak.”

“Goodnight, Bucky.”

He turned to make his way toward his house as soon as you were inside. Two minutes later, your phone buzzed.

Bucky: Remember, I’m here if you need me.

You sighed, shaking your head as your brain debated whether to smile or frown at the message.

Would he really be there?

The first night after seeing Brock, you had hardly gotten any sleep.

It was easy to act tough and confident in front of Bucky, but as soon as you were by yourself in an empty house you grew more anxious. Could you really be sure that your manic ex wasn’t going to show up in the middle of the night?

Any sound - whether it was a loud gust of wind or a branch hitting your window - made you jumpy.

Still, night passed into day, and nothing had happened.

Bucky texted you first thing the next morning to make sure you were okay, which you assured him you were. You spent the morning doing more depressing apartment hunting before getting to work. Though you had been saving almost every penny you earned, it still wasn’t enough to be able to afford even the shitty studio apartments in town.

Today’s shift was with Sarah, who spent the majority of the time conveying how Carol couldn’t stop singing your praises for doing such a great job with Wanda at the Fall Festival.

“I never knew you were so good with kids! I mean, obviously Cass and AJ love you, but all of the kiddos who stopped by said you were so much fun to hang out with. If you’re around next year, you should definitely do it again.”

You smiled, jostling the shaker around to mix a martini for a customer. “You know, I just might. Seeing that my art career is probably over and I’ll most likely be working for you forever just so I can save up to finally move out of my mom’s home. You’ll never be able to get rid of me.”

She cocked her head down and gave you a look. “Y/n, babe, come on. You and I both know that this isn’t all there is for you. Don’t get me wrong, I think you working here has been really good for you, and not just because you get to see me all the time.” You both laughed. “But that doesn’t mean that you’re stuck here. If you love this job, you can have it forever. If you’re itching for something else, though, don’t hold yourself back from it.”

You clenched your jaw to keep yourself from crying, pulling out a glass and pouring the mixture from the shaker in, stopping it just before it reached the rim. “It’s just, art was my thing. It was what I used to do to help myself feel better and escape from all my problems, but then somewhere along the way it got distorted to make it feel like the only way I could be worthy of anything was through my art. I didn’t deserve anyone’s respect or attention if I didn’t have something to give to them. Without my art, I was nothing.” You winced as you repeated Brock’s words from last night. “And living like that for so many years, it’s a hard mentality to let go of.”

You grabbed an olive with a skewer and placed it in the glass, handing it over to the woman who ordered it. When you returned, Sarah’s mouth was set in a thin line.

“I’m gonna kill that Brock guy.”

The sudden laugh that came from you made Sarah’s brows furrow in confusion.

“Sorry. It’s just, you’re not the first person to say that to me in the last 24 hours.”

She frowned. “Who else said it?”

Your smile dropped, and you turned your focus on collecting dishes as you muttered, “Bucky.”

“Who?” Sarah asked loudly.

“Bucky,” you responded with the same volume, then felt a rush of heat rise to your face in embarrassment, scrubbing a non-existent stain on the glass in your hands.

From the corner of your eye, you saw Sarah cross her arms.

“Bucky threatened to kill Brock?”

“Well, not to his face. He had already left at that point-”

“Hold up,” you looked at Sarah as she shook her face in surprise and confusion, “When the hell was Brock here?”

You grimaced, picking up another ‘dirty’ glass, then proceeded to tell her about last night.

By the time you were done, your anxious cleaning had made the whole area within five feet of you spotless.

Sarah pursed her lips, her nose flared with rage. “That’s it, I’m calling Bucky and the two of us are hauling ass to LA and killing this man.”

“Save me a seat!” Dum Dum called from the end of the bar. You turned your head to glare at him.

“No, no one is killing him. I don’t want to make this a bigger deal. Brock is gone, I’m fine, nobody needs to worry about it.”

Sarah sighed, nodding in acceptance and resting a hand on your arm. “Regardless, I’m glad you’re okay, and I’m glad Bucky was there.”

You smiled. “Me, too.”

Her hand squeezed your arm. “He’s been around a lot, I’ve noticed.”

Your eyes widened, more heat rising in your cheeks. You tried to laugh it off. “He’s my neighbor, Sarah. And Steve’s best friend. He’s family.”

Her head cocked down once again - man she was good at giving that ‘I know everything’ look - eyes boring into you.

You shook your head. “Sarah, it’s nothing-”

“It’s not nothing, Y/n! It’s just what I said in high school. The pining between you two is once again absolutely ridiculous and undeniable.”

“Things change, though! You were both kids. Maybe this time it’s different-”

The bottle of tequila slammed on the bar, almost hard enough to break the bottle. “Stop.” Your voice was harsher than you intended but you couldn’t seem to will yourself to settle down. “I love you, but you have to stop. I can’t let myself think like that. I can’t….I can’t go through that again.”

Now, with your heart pounding and your face flushing, you realized that you were too close to going back to those days where you still felt a sense of hope that Bucky might have felt the same.

He didn’t. Sure, he loved you. But it wasn’t the same way you loved him.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, looking at Sarah. “I shouldn’t have freaked.”

Your best friend gave you a small smile, then wrapped her arms around you for a side hug. “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed.”

You rested your head on her shoulder. “Love you.”

She leaned her cheek on the crown of your head. “Love you.”

The next week was thankfully a lot less emotionally taxing and things went back to normal. You went on with work, did a little bit of painting here and there, took care of the house, and spent Sunday dinner with Steve, Nat and Bucky. Your mom wouldn’t be home for a few more days, and everyone was feeling too lazy to cook anything, so you settled with ordering pizza.

You had asked Bucky not to say anything to Steve and Nat about Brock, not wanting to turn the situation into a bigger deal seeing that Brock had gotten the message and left you alone. All you wanted was to forget about it and move on.

Hopefully when you found a place to yourself, when you weren’t always so close to him, things would get easier.

Hopefully.

You were working at the bar, wiping things down and getting ready to close in a few minutes.

Dum Dum grabbed his jacket, dropping his payment on the bar. “Have a good night, Y/n.”

You looked over your shoulder and smiled, lifting your chin up in goodbye. “You too, Dum Dum! We on for our gin rummy tournament tomorrow?”

He grinned. “I’ll bring my best set of cards.”

You called out as he opened the door to the exit, “And I’ll keep them for myself when I win!”

His chuckle echoed in the empty space, and you watched him walk to his car through the windows while walking to the door and locking it.

As soon as the time on your phone hit 1am, you began your nighttime routine of putting on your favorite broody music, moving to the closet and grabbing the broom, sweeping and swaying along with the music, living your best protagonist life.

CRASH

You whipped your head to one of the windows, and the softball-sized hole in it.

Then you whipped your head to the bar, where a glowing red object had smashed into the bottles of liquor.

Not glowing, ignited. A ball of fire, surrounded by flammable liquid spilled all over the wooden surface.

And then the bar burst into flames.

Next Part

End banner by the amazing @simmerandcry

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kaywritesthings · 7 years ago

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What is dead may never die.

The ship wasnt the worst part of it all. It was the thoughts he was left with. His sister having a grand old time with the other pirates, and Theon lookng blankely at the sea. Reciting his name over and over again. "Theon grey joy. Theon Greyjoy." He would remind himself and looked down at his bare arms for a moment, taking in the everything was real. His skin was real. The freedom was real, and most important he was alive. He got up to walk around, his sister going downstairs. She had been looking at that woman for some time. It bothered theon a bit that she preferred the company of women, and the old him would mock her for it, but those days were gone. He headed around the cabins looking around for something to do, something to maybe drink, even though that did nothing to help him. He poked in a room to see one of the snake girls getting undressed. "My apologies " He said since he was caught . His face beet red. old him would have made some cocky introduction and shutt he door, leaned back against it and thanked her for being ready for him. "Sorry." He said once more before slowly walking away. "

Tyene entered for the first time 3 minutes ago

Tyene: Tyene had been on many ships before, and would be on many ships again, but this time she felt restless. Maybe it was the fact that they'd sailed all the way to Dragonstone just to head right back home. Or maybe she was truly sensing something bad on the air. Whatever it was, her mother didn't seem concerned about it. When she saw her a few moments ago, she was getting close to that pirate queen, and Tyene had respectfully slipped away. But she stayed close, stealing into someone else's cabin while they weren't using it. Whoever used this room had many fine soaps and lotions and Tyene amused herself with using them, slipping her rubbing the lotion over her shoulder ans sniffing it, laughing softly. She didn't get to feel like a girl much- with all the fighting and dirtiness of the sand constantly blowing against her skin. And now the force of the salt air. But it was nice to steal away and pretend. She looked up when the door opened, just as she'd slipped her top off and laughed a little when she recognized the pirate queen's strange, silent brother. "Are you sorry to see me?" she said, going over to the door and letting her breasts swing free, amusement in her eyes. "Most are grateful. I'm not sorry to show. You really are a strange boy, aren't you?"

Theon: "You could say that." He said, it was useless to pretend to want sex. It would be in his mind and travel down to a ghost feeling. "Aye." He said awkwardly looking down at his feet, like he was suppose to. Bolton always said he wasnt worthy enough to look into his eyes. He didnt really want to anyway, and the times bolton did make him look, he saw deep pits of evil that he coudlnt describe. Bolton may be dead now, but he still haunted him from time to time. He had no idea how he looked right now, like a drown rat probably. "there is cherry pie in the wooden box just there." He pointed that way. "I dont like cherry anything, so you may have it, alright bye." He said and turned to make a run for it.

Tyene: Tyene wanted nothing more than to be her mother's daughter, and her mother had the eye of every man and woman as far as Tyene could tell. So not having this man fall into her lap when she was so exposed felt like a slight. She pursed her lips and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him into the room and shutting the door. "Why are you so eager to get away?" she said, her lips pouting a little. "You must have heard of the bastard women of Dorne? What we can do to a man," she breathed, trying to get him to meet her eyes and sliding her fingers down his chest. "Do you not think I'm beautiful?" she murmured. "I'm better than any cherry you could find."

Theon: "Aye my lady. I do find you appealing to look at." He said. He could sense she wanted something from him. Didn't she just help kill a prince and her uncle? Would she try to kill him as well, what about his sister. She could fend for herself in most cases. "I like peach pie the best." He said awkwardly. Cherrys was the only thing Bolton would let him eat, cherrys and raw meat and sometime sif he felt nice, stale bread. "But reek, you eat better than my dogs and I love them most. You get to eat once a day.. dont you realize how much I love you?' All games. There was a reason he didnt trust much. "I should go check on her. my sister."

Tyene: Tyene frowned a little at that, and pressed him harder against the door with her body, looking at him critically. "I bet you've had plenty of women in your day," she mused, touching his cheek. "Cleaned up, you'd be something to look at." She looked at him consideringly. "Your sister is having a good time with my mother," Tyene said and then smirked. "We could have a good time too," she added, and fluttered her eyelashes. Maybe he was used to more demure girls. Tyene had a hard time playing demure. Why not be open about what you wanted? She let her hands trail lower and pressed her thigh between his legs, frowning when she didn't feel anytyhing press back. Not even a soft cock either. Tyene stepped back, her whole face pinched.

Theon: He pulled her hand off before she could touch him too much and figure it out. "I don't think so, I cant." He said and whimpered. He had nothing to offer her. Even if he watned to,he wasnt sure he could. He didnt feel attractive, not even cleaned up. "I am sorry." He said, he pulled away from her and presed his back to the door. He reached for the door knob. "But, your beauty is rare. Many men would want what you want on this ship, just not me. "He said and removed himself from the room again. He felt something wrong and needed to tell his sister

Tyene: Tyene narrowed her eyes. She didn't take rejection well, even if she wasn' truly that invested and she just wanted to pass the time. "Oh, don't be noble about it," she said and rolled her eyes. "Nobility is boring," she said and flopped down on the bed, reaching for her top and starting to lace it back together. "I'm sure any number of your pirate friends would murder each other for the chance to be with me," she said, knowing it was true. She looked in the mirror on the vanity, and pursed her lips together. She paused and looked over to Theon when he mentioned she had a rare beuty and gave him a small smile. "That's right I do," she said and smiled wider. "Oh I think I understand now. You're more for the men, aren't you?" she said and then laughed to herself as he left, she shook her head and made her way out to the decks, and immediately sensed something bad on the horizon, and moments later, enemy ships were spotted.

Theon: Theon pinched his lip together at the mention of being into men. Never! He didn want to argue, if that helped her, it helped her. He knew he had notihng to offer her in the way of what a man could give her with real man parts. He made his way down to the deck to see his sister being molested by the snake sisters mother.He felt bad, always forgetting her name. He didnt knwo why they wanted him to watch. Was everyone trying to make him watch sex in some weird torture. He didnt get to soak in that thought before the ship was being attacked. He ran up stairs to see the commotions, he saw the snake girls fighting off enemies, it was his damn uncle. How on earth did he catch up?

Tyene: As soon as the ship was boarded Tyene raced back to where she'd last seen her mother. If there was anyone that needed protecting, it was her. There was no one she cared more about in the world than her mother, and found herself fighting off men that were bigger and stronger than her, and holding her own pretty well. There were bumps and bruises along the way, and she could feel blood trickling down her arms, and chest, and legs, her own and others. It was too small of a place to use a spear, which she was better at, but she managed to hold her own, and wished her poisons were nearby and not further below decks. Tyene held everyone off for as long as she could, but soon the forces were overwhelming and she felt the defeat sink in as she and her mother were taken prisoner.

Theon: Theon made the worst decision. He didnt use his brain as much as his instincts to run. He did. He felt betrayl from himself when he hit the ice cold water. They could have killed her by now. There was cheering all over, but not from his side. He floated a while, thinking and feeling doom. What a ass he was. A cowardly ass. He should have let himself stay as reek where he belong. "Theon. I am theon." He said to himself, reminding him to give him strength. His sistet must hate him now.. (Fast forward, feel fee to add anything from then and the jail thing to wher ei go?) Theon felt a sense of power. Jon helped him get it by forgiving him. He needed that. He felt stronger. He could save his sister. What was he standing around for anyway? He saw how much of a coward his uncle was. He was all talk until he wasnt. He would save his sister and all those he could. He was reborn. He was first headed towards kings landing, a place he could die, but he figured his sister was there. He would save her and show her he did care and that she was worthy of being saved.

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thrashermaxey · 6 years ago

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What’s the best starting lineup you could make from a single GM’s trade history?

With less than a week to go until the 2019 trade deadline, all eyes are on NHL general managers. Within minutes of Monday’s 3:00 p.m. ET deadline, everyone will be coming up with their lists of winners and losers. Some GMs will be found wanting, while others will be declared the champions of the day.

But we like to think a little bigger around here. So instead of wondering about who’ll be the best NHL GM of the 2019 deadline, let’s aim higher by trying to determine the best big-game hunter in history. Which GM holds the all-time crown when it comes to going and swinging big deals?

A few months ago, I tried to tackle a similar sort of question from a slightly different angle by following a chain of lopsided trades. I thought it was pretty much perfect methodology, but a few readers didn’t seem to agree with where it ended up. OK, fair enough. So let’s try something else.

Today, we’re going to see which NHL GM from the modern era lets us put together the best six-man starting lineup made up entirely of players that they traded for. We’re looking for a goalie, two defensemen and three forwards, all of them acquired by the same GM in various trades.

We can mix and match between teams for those GMs who’ve held multiple jobs. But we’re looking for trades and trades only – drafting, free agency and other kind of transactions won’t help you here. We’re not really looking for the “best” GM here, and we don’t even really care if they won or lost the deal. One way or another, we’re looking to crown the guy who landed the biggest names.

A couple of key ground rules:

– The GM only gets credit for what the player did with the team that acquired them. Trading for a Hall of Famer at the very end of his career doesn’t get your credit for his entire body of work. But you do get credit for whatever they did with the team, even if you weren’t around to see all of it.

– We’re only counting players who were acquired directly, not picks that were eventually used on star players.

That last rule is important for a couple of reasons. First, it prevents GMs from getting credit for players they lucked into thanks to their scouting department nailing some fourth-round pick. But more importantly, we need this rule to make this any sort of a contest instead of a coronation of Sam Pollock. If we’re counting picks, Pollock gets to start his team with names like Guy Lafleur, Larry Robinson, Steve Shutt and Bob Gainey, and the whole thing is over before it starts. Sam’s too good, so we need a rule to hold him back.

But it’s a tribute to Pollock that while we’re intentionally stacking the deck against him, he still comes through with a solid roster. Let’s make him our starting point.

(GM trading records are via NHLtradetracker.com.)

Team Sam Pollock

Goalie: Ken Dryden

Defensemen: Don Awrey, Jimmy Roberts

Forwards: Frank Mahovlich, Pete Mahovlich, Dick Duff

Team Pollock can’t use Lafleur, Robinson or the other draft pick heists, but still comes out looking pretty good. They start with a Hall of Famer in Dryden, whose rights Pollock stole from the Bruins in one of his very first trades back in 1964. They also get the Mahovlich brothers, plus six years of Duff’s Hall of Fame career. The defense is weak and that’s even after we’re cheating a bit with Roberts, who played more on the wing than the blueline in Montreal, but we kind of have to – even though he made a ton of trades, most of Pollock’s deals were for picks or cash, not established players.

So all in all, Team Pollock is pretty good. But will it hold up as the best? Let’s usher in a new challenger.

Team Harry Sinden

Goalie: Gilles Gilbert

Defensemen: Brad Park, Mike O’Connell

Forwards: Cam Neely, Rick Middleton, Adam Oates

Sinden’s team is just OK in goal – as you’ll see, that ends up being a bit of a theme for a few of his colleagues too. But the rest of his roster is pretty darn good. And he’s got some depth to draw on, as we’ve left off names like Jean Ratelle. The only real weak point is that second defenseman slot, which would look a lot better if our draft pick rule wasn’t keeping Ray Bourque off the team. But having future Sinden protégé Mike O’Connell on the squad makes a certain kind of sense, so let’s go with that.

Sinden’s Bruins didn’t beat Pollock’s Habs all that much when it mattered back in the 1970s, but I think he has the edge here. But he’ll need to get past some other strong contenders.

Team Bill Torrey

Goalie: Chico Resch

Defensemen: Jean Potvin, Uwe Krupp

Forwards: Butch Goring, Pierre Turgeon, Bob Bourne

As with Sinden, goalie isn’t a strong suit, although it’s not bad; Resch basically wins by default, since Billy Smith was an expansion pick and not a trade. Torrey also suffers a bit on the blueline, partly because he was pretty good at drafting them and didn’t need to trade for them as often as other guys. Jean Potvin might not be the best Potvin brother the Islanders ever had, but he put in a solid 400 games for them, and Krupp was decent too. Torrey’s best position is up front, where he could also lay claim to guys like Ray Ferraro and Stumpy Thomas.

Sinden, Torrey and Pollock represent the classic franchise-defining GMs of the 1970s. There’s one more we need to get to, although this one is sometimes better remembered for the work he did in another market.

>> Read the full post at The Athletic

(Want to read this post on The Athletic for free? Sign up for a free seven-day trial.)

from All About Sports http://www.downgoesbrown.com/2019/02/whats-best-starting-lineup-you-could.html

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amtushinfosolutionspage · 6 years ago

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DGB Grab Bag: Ovi Face, June Hockey History, and Stop Lying about Start Times

Three Stars of Comedy

The third star: Connor McDavid makes his Cup final pick – Wait, is this an option? I really should have been doing this all year long.

The second star: Matt Niskanen’s big night – You know what, I believe him. There isn’t much else to do in Las Vegas.

The first star: Alexander Ovechkin’s face – I enjoy watching Ovechkin watch playoff games.

And that was just one of several reaction shots from this week. In fact, the only thing he apparently doesn’t react to is getting hit directly in the face with a puck:

Be It Resolved

The Golden Knights hosted the first two games of the Stanley Cup Final this week, and as you’d expect, they went all-out on the spectacle. Wednesday’s second game featured an opening ceremony that including a knight, some archers, laser drummers, and a concert by Imagine Dragons, and if you’re disappointed that you missed it then you’re in luck because I’m pretty sure it’s still going on.

We’ve covered the question of the Knights’ pregame festivities before, but let me reiterate my stance here: I’m fully on board. I’m all in. Let Montreal and Detroit and whoever else deliver solemn ceremonies that honor the game’s sacred traditions. We put a hockey team in freaking Las Vegas. Let them get weird.

But maybe, just maybe, they could remember to work in the actual game too.

This is a recurring issue with NHL games, where the start times have drifted off over the years to the point where you just expect everything to be 20 minutes late. It’s not a Vegas problem; they’re just making it worse. Or maybe better, since if you have to wait around you may as well be entertained. I’d rather watch a knight fight an airplane than listen to the broadcast team go over line matchups for the third time, and I’m betting you would too.

But I’d also rather watch some hockey, at least eventually. If that makes me the fun police, then OK. That’s kind of a weird stance for a hockey fan—”Oh, this guy actually wants to watch an NHL game, he must hate fun”—but fill your boots. I don’t doubt that this is all great if you’re one of the thousands of people in the building. But there are also millions of us at home who are patiently waiting for puck drop while this rock band works through their fourth iteration of Generic Arena Sports Anthem, so maybe get to it already.

To be clear, I’m not saying the Knights should rein in their pregame fun when the series returns to town next week. Hell, I want them to take it even further. It’s the Stanley Cup Final, so go all out. Have Wayne Newton do a set. Have David Copperfield fly around the arena. Have one of those weird puppet guys that nobody has ever heard of but have like nine giant billboards all along the strip do whatever it is they do. Find that 50-foot tall Michael Jackson robot that was supposed to be wandering the desert and let it loose. Send out Mantecore to eat Tom Wilson. You’re Vegas. There are no limits.

Just, you know, maybe figure out a reasonable start time for the game and then work backwards. Start the ceremony right now if you need to. This may end up being a once-in-a-lifetime experience, so enjoy all of it. Just don’t forget the hockey part.

Obscure Former Player of the Week

There’s a chance that this will be the last Grab Bag of the playoffs, and that by next Friday the Final will be over and we’ll have crowned a champion. If so, somebody will have scored the Stanley Cup-winning goal, joining a list of players that includes Gordie Howe, Rocket Richard, Bobby Orr and Mike Bossy (twice each), and Wayne Gretzky.

That list also includes a handful of obscure players, including this week’s pick: Wayne Merrick.

Merrick was a big center who tore up the OHL for the Ottawa 67s in the early 70s. That led to the Blues making him the ninth overall pick in the 1972 draft, which was kind of terrible apart from Bill Barber and Steve Shutt. Merrick wasn’t quite as good as those two guys, but at least he made the NHL, which is more than we can say about that year’s tenth overall pick, Al Blanchard.

Merrick debuted with the Blues that season, scored ten goals, and became a regular contributor until he was traded to the Golden Seals early in the 1975-76 season. He finished that season with a career-best 32 goals, although his numbers fell off after the Seals moved to Cleveland. So did pretty much everyone else’s, come to think of it.

Merrick lucked out in 1978 when he was traded to the Islanders in a deal for J.P. Parise (Zach’s father). That Islanders team was about to become a dynasty, winning four straight Cups from 1980 through 1983, and while Merrick was hardly a star, he played a key role while centering the “Banana Line” with Bob Nystrom and John Tonelli. He’d end up playing 95 playoff games with the team, scoring 18 goals. One of those was the Cup winner in 1981, as Merrick’s goal held up in a 5-1 win over the North Stars in the Game 5 clincher.

Merrick played for the Islanders until 1984, then retired. He finished his career with 191 goals in 774 games to go along with those four Cup rings.

Debating the Issues

This week’s debate: The NHL is 101 years old. But is it fun to learn about the league’s history?

In favor: Oh for sure. Over the course of its history, the NHL has provided us with all sorts of fascinating twists and turns, both on and off the ice. I can’t think of anything more interesting than learning all about the key moments that shaped the league we have today.

Opposed: All of that is undoubtedly true, my friend. But history can be so dull and boring. Nobody wants to comb through some dry textbook just to learn about something they enjoy.

In favor: Ah, but history doesn’t have to be dry. What if you could retrace a century of key events, but in a light-hearted and easy-to-enjoy format that placed the focus on the fun and the funny?

Opposed: That sounds great! But does such a thing exist?

In favor: Wouldn’t it be great if it did?

Opposed: Hey wait, is this feeling kind of … off? This isn’t the usual tone for this section. The whole thing seems kind of forced.

In favor: Imagine sitting down with a history of the NHL that was written for the average fan, one who wants to read all about the great moments and the bizarre ones, and everything in between.

Opposed: Like, nobody talks this way. We sound ridiculous right now.

In favor: I know I’d pay top dollar for just such a book!

Opposed: Wait, is this all just some stupid plug?

In favor: But who? Who could write such a book?

Opposed: This is pathetic.

In favor: Well, there’s good news!

Opposed: Let me guess…

In favor: The Down Goes Brown History of the NHL was announced this week, and is available now for pre-order in both Canada and the USA. Hockey fans will delight in this whimsical retelling of the league’s history, with an emphasis on the weird and wonderful. From The Rocket to Mr. Rogers, The Down Goes Brown History of the NHL tells the full story of the world’s most beautiful sport, as presented by the world’s most ridiculous league.

Opposed: Did you honestly just say “whimsical”? Literally no real person has ever used that word.

In favor: In this fun, irreverent, and fact-filled history, Sean McIndoe relates the flip side to the National Hockey League’s storied past.

Opposed: You literally just cut-and-pasted that off the book cover.

In favor: Look man, I spent a year writing this thing. I barely saw my family, I almost went blind squinting at old newspaper clippings, and they’ve sent me “one last round of edits” like six times in the last month. And after all of that, the whole thing still isn’t completely finished because the stupid Golden Knights came along and wrecked one of the last chapters. So help me out here.

Opposed: Sigh. Fine. You do what you have to do.

In favor: Thanks.

Opposed: But can we go back to complaining about instant replay review soon?

In favor: Next week after the Cup-winning goal gets waved off, I promise.

The final verdict: Well gosh, looks like we’ll all be getting our Christmas shopping done early this year!

Classic YouTube Clip Breakdown

Today is the first day of June, and there was a time when that meant that the hockey season would have been long over with. Not any more, of course—the playoffs have stretched into June for years now. So today, let’s welcome the new month by going back to the first NHL game ever played in June.

It’s June 1, 1992 and we’re in Chicago for Game 4 of the Stanley Cup Final. The Penguins are up 3-0 in the series and looking for the sweep and for their second straight Cup win. As a side note, they’re also looking for the 11th straight win in a single postseason, which would tie the record previously held by [checks notes] the 1992 Blackhawks. Huh. Maybe 1992 wasn’t the best year for parity. I’m sure nobody enjoyed it.

Our clip begins with a vaguely weird aside about how the legendary Chicago Stadium will soon be torn down and replaced with a modern arena. The Stadium really was an amazing place to watch hockey, but the weird part is that it wasn’t actually replaced for two more years, so the somber tone here feels a little premature.

Speaking of the end of the Chicago Stadium, it was the Maple Leafs who shut it down, and they did it with a 1-0 win. Eat that, Hawks fans. I’m sure nothing has happened in the ensuring quarter-century that you can throw back in my face.

The scoring starts less than two minutes in when Jaromir Jagr rips a shot that makes Eddie Belfour do an adorable pirouette. Wow, one goal, I wonder if Mike Keenan will pull him, we all joke to ourselves. Yeah, hold that thought.

The Blackhawks tie it up a few minutes later, as Dirk Graham cuts across the zone and beats Tom Barrasso. I know that whenever we do these old 80s or early 90s games, we always beat the whole “goaltending was terrible back then” observation into the ground, but go back and rewatch this goal. Graham basically moves from the inside edge of one faceoff circle to the other—like maybe ten feet total—and Barrasso is reduced to having to do a sideways bunny hop to stay with him, then falls down as soon as he makes the first save. And remember, Barrasso was a borderline Hall-of-Famer. This is just how goalies moved back then. In hindsight, it’s amazing every game didn’t end up being 13-12.

On a related note, the previous game of this final was a 1-0 Penguins win. I’m not sure anything about early 90s hockey made any sense other than Mario Lemieux was good and if you fought Wendel Clark your face would explode. Other than that, you were on your own.

The Penguins come right back a few seconds later with a Kevin Stevens goal. “Ah, look out Loretta.” Did I mention that our play-by-play guy here is Mike Lange? You probably figured that part out on your own.

The Stevens goal spells the end for Belfour, which gives us the opportunity to remember that their backup was goofy European weirdo Dominik Hasek, who at this point is 28 and not very good. Two years later he’ll win the first of six Vezinas. Seriously, my “early 90s hockey made no sense” theory might be on to something.

Lange is telling us a story about Hasek being drafted in 1983 “when it wasn’t real fashionable to draft people,” at which point the Blackhawks score to make it 2-2. I know the goal interrupts Lange just as he was going to make a point about drafting Europeans, but I prefer to imagine he had completed his thought and that it was just unfashionable to draft anyone at all in 1983. (For one team, that was actually true.)

The Penguins regain the lead as Lemieux and Hasek perform a short play entitled “What the Nagano shootout should have looked like.” But Graham comes right back with his hat trick goal, and we’re tied again. At this point we have one of those fun old-hockey-highlights moments where you realize it’s still the first period and remember how much fun this sport is when everyone’s defensive strategy was “Screw defense, I’d rather score.”

Rick Tocchet somehow overcomes the ferocious backchecking of a young Jeremy Roenick to make it 4-3 early in the second. But Roenick makes amends with a fluky goal late in the period, and we head to the third tied again.

It’s always fun during a high-scoring highlights package when the guy putting the clips together is like “Oh yeah, I should probably work in one save.” In this case it’s Lemieux getting a breakaway, only to be robbed by a sprawling Hasek. Maybe scratch that thought about if Mario had been in Nagano. Not because of this save, just because I realized Marc Crawford probably would have had Eric Desjardins shoot instead.

Larry Murphy gives the Pens their fifth lead of the game, and this time they manage to pad it when Ron Francis “beats goaltender Hasek like a rented mule.” The good: Mike Lange. The bad: Every play-by-play guy from the next 25 years who convinced himself his catchphrases were as funny as Mike Lange’s.

Roenick makes it 6-5 off a feed from Stu Grimson with nine minutes left. Why yes, The Grim Reaper was still getting a regular shift with nine minutes left and his team trailing in a Cup Final elimination game. And it paid off. The early 90s. Sense made? None.

But that’s all the Hawks would get, as we cut ahead to the dying seconds. Lange does that wonderful play-by-play thing where he starts in with his “we win” call but then realizes he’s a few second early and has to backtrack. But he makes up for it with his all-time classic “Lord Stanley, Lord Stanley, bring me the brandy” call.

Wait, is it me or did he actually say “get me the brandy”? I’m pretty sure he did. This is like finding out that Sherlock Holmes never said “Elementary, my dear Watson” in any of the books. I swear, if it turns out Lange never asked us to sneak up and mutilate him with a hacksaw I’m going to question everything from my childhood.

And that’s it for our clip. The Penguins win the Cup, and the season ends just hours into June. And in case you were wondering why the season stretched on so long in 1992, it’s because there was a ten-day player strike just before the playoffs. A work stoppage, hockey being played in June, and a Blackhawks/Penguins matchup? Man, no wonder Gary Bettman couldn’t wait to get on board a few months later.

Have a question, suggestion, old YouTube clip, or anything else you’d like to see included in this column? Email Sean at [email protected].

DGB Grab Bag: Ovi Face, June Hockey History, and Stop Lying about Start Times syndicated from https://australiahoverboards.wordpress.com

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flauntpage · 6 years ago

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DGB Grab Bag: Ovi Face, June Hockey History, and Stop Lying about Start Times

Three Stars of Comedy

The third star: Connor McDavid makes his Cup final pick – Wait, is this an option? I really should have been doing this all year long.

The second star: Matt Niskanen's big night – You know what, I believe him. There isn't much else to do in Las Vegas.

The first star: Alexander Ovechkin's face – I enjoy watching Ovechkin watch playoff games.

And that was just one of several reaction shots from this week. In fact, the only thing he apparently doesn't react to is getting hit directly in the face with a puck:

Be It Resolved

The Golden Knights hosted the first two games of the Stanley Cup Final this week, and as you'd expect, they went all-out on the spectacle. Wednesday's second game featured an opening ceremony that including a knight, some archers, laser drummers, and a concert by Imagine Dragons, and if you're disappointed that you missed it then you're in luck because I'm pretty sure it's still going on.

We've covered the question of the Knights' pregame festivities before, but let me reiterate my stance here: I'm fully on board. I'm all in. Let Montreal and Detroit and whoever else deliver solemn ceremonies that honor the game's sacred traditions. We put a hockey team in freaking Las Vegas. Let them get weird.

But maybe, just maybe, they could remember to work in the actual game too.

This is a recurring issue with NHL games, where the start times have drifted off over the years to the point where you just expect everything to be 20 minutes late. It's not a Vegas problem; they're just making it worse. Or maybe better, since if you have to wait around you may as well be entertained. I'd rather watch a knight fight an airplane than listen to the broadcast team go over line matchups for the third time, and I'm betting you would too.

But I'd also rather watch some hockey, at least eventually. If that makes me the fun police, then OK. That's kind of a weird stance for a hockey fan—"Oh, this guy actually wants to watch an NHL game, he must hate fun"—but fill your boots. I don't doubt that this is all great if you're one of the thousands of people in the building. But there are also millions of us at home who are patiently waiting for puck drop while this rock band works through their fourth iteration of Generic Arena Sports Anthem, so maybe get to it already.

To be clear, I'm not saying the Knights should rein in their pregame fun when the series returns to town next week. Hell, I want them to take it even further. It's the Stanley Cup Final, so go all out. Have Wayne Newton do a set. Have David Copperfield fly around the arena. Have one of those weird puppet guys that nobody has ever heard of but have like nine giant billboards all along the strip do whatever it is they do. Find that 50-foot tall Michael Jackson robot that was supposed to be wandering the desert and let it loose. Send out Mantecore to eat Tom Wilson. You're Vegas. There are no limits.

Obscure Former Player of the Week

There's a chance that this will be the last Grab Bag of the playoffs, and that by next Friday the Final will be over and we'll have crowned a champion. If so, somebody will have scored the Stanley Cup-winning goal, joining a list of players that includes Gordie Howe, Rocket Richard, Bobby Orr and Mike Bossy (twice each), and Wayne Gretzky.

That list also includes a handful of obscure players, including this week's pick: Wayne Merrick.

Merrick was a big center who tore up the OHL for the Ottawa 67s in the early 70s. That led to the Blues making him the ninth overall pick in the 1972 draft, which was kind of terrible apart from Bill Barber and Steve Shutt. Merrick wasn't quite as good as those two guys, but at least he made the NHL, which is more than we can say about that year's tenth overall pick, Al Blanchard.

Merrick lucked out in 1978 when he was traded to the Islanders in a deal for J.P. Parise (Zach's father). That Islanders team was about to become a dynasty, winning four straight Cups from 1980 through 1983, and while Merrick was hardly a star, he played a key role while centering the "Banana Line" with Bob Nystrom and John Tonelli. He'd end up playing 95 playoff games with the team, scoring 18 goals. One of those was the Cup winner in 1981, as Merrick's goal held up in a 5-1 win over the North Stars in the Game 5 clincher.

Merrick played for the Islanders until 1984, then retired. He finished his career with 191 goals in 774 games to go along with those four Cup rings.

Debating the Issues

This week’s debate: The NHL is 101 years old. But is it fun to learn about the league's history?

In favor: Oh for sure. Over the course of its history, the NHL has provided us with all sorts of fascinating twists and turns, both on and off the ice. I can't think of anything more interesting than learning all about the key moments that shaped the league we have today.

Opposed: All of that is undoubtedly true, my friend. But history can be so dull and boring. Nobody wants to comb through some dry textbook just to learn about something they enjoy.

In favor: Ah, but history doesn't have to be dry. What if you could retrace a century of key events, but in a light-hearted and easy-to-enjoy format that placed the focus on the fun and the funny?

Opposed: That sounds great! But does such a thing exist?

In favor: Wouldn't it be great if it did?

Opposed: Hey wait, is this feeling kind of … off? This isn't the usual tone for this section. The whole thing seems kind of forced.

In favor: Imagine sitting down with a history of the NHL that was written for the average fan, one who wants to read all about the great moments and the bizarre ones, and everything in between.

Opposed: Like, nobody talks this way. We sound ridiculous right now.

In favor: I know I'd pay top dollar for just such a book!

Opposed: Wait, is this all just some stupid plug?

In favor: But who? Who could write such a book?

Opposed: This is pathetic.

In favor: Well, there's good news!

Opposed: Let me guess…

In favor: The Down Goes Brown History of the NHL was announced this week, and is available now for pre-order in both Canada and the USA. Hockey fans will delight in this whimsical retelling of the league's history, with an emphasis on the weird and wonderful. From The Rocket to Mr. Rogers, The Down Goes Brown History of the NHL tells the full story of the world's most beautiful sport, as presented by the world's most ridiculous league.

Opposed: Did you honestly just say "whimsical"? Literally no real person has ever used that word.

In favor: In this fun, irreverent, and fact-filled history, Sean McIndoe relates the flip side to the National Hockey League's storied past.

Opposed: You literally just cut-and-pasted that off the book cover.

In favor: Look man, I spent a year writing this thing. I barely saw my family, I almost went blind squinting at old newspaper clippings, and they've sent me "one last round of edits" like six times in the last month. And after all of that, the whole thing still isn't completely finished because the stupid Golden Knights came along and wrecked one of the last chapters. So help me out here.

Opposed: Sigh. Fine. You do what you have to do.

In favor: Thanks.

Opposed: But can we go back to complaining about instant replay review soon?

In favor: Next week after the Cup-winning goal gets waved off, I promise.

The final verdict: Well gosh, looks like we'll all be getting our Christmas shopping done early this year!

Classic YouTube Clip Breakdown

Today is the first day of June, and there was a time when that meant that the hockey season would have been long over with. Not any more, of course—the playoffs have stretched into June for years now. So today, let's welcome the new month by going back to the first NHL game ever played in June.

It's June 1, 1992 and we're in Chicago for Game 4 of the Stanley Cup Final. The Penguins are up 3-0 in the series and looking for the sweep and for their second straight Cup win. As a side note, they're also looking for the 11th straight win in a single postseason, which would tie the record previously held by [checks notes] the 1992 Blackhawks. Huh. Maybe 1992 wasn't the best year for parity. I'm sure nobody enjoyed it.

Our clip begins with a vaguely weird aside about how the legendary Chicago Stadium will soon be torn down and replaced with a modern arena. The Stadium really was an amazing place to watch hockey, but the weird part is that it wasn't actually replaced for two more years, so the somber tone here feels a little premature.

Speaking of the end of the Chicago Stadium, it was the Maple Leafs who shut it down, and they did it with a 1-0 win. Eat that, Hawks fans. I'm sure nothing has happened in the ensuring quarter-century that you can throw back in my face.

The Blackhawks tie it up a few minutes later, as Dirk Graham cuts across the zone and beats Tom Barrasso. I know that whenever we do these old 80s or early 90s games, we always beat the whole "goaltending was terrible back then" observation into the ground, but go back and rewatch this goal. Graham basically moves from the inside edge of one faceoff circle to the other—like maybe ten feet total—and Barrasso is reduced to having to do a sideways bunny hop to stay with him, then falls down as soon as he makes the first save. And remember, Barrasso was a borderline Hall-of-Famer. This is just how goalies moved back then. In hindsight, it's amazing every game didn't end up being 13-12.

On a related note, the previous game of this final was a 1-0 Penguins win. I'm not sure anything about early 90s hockey made any sense other than Mario Lemieux was good and if you fought Wendel Clark your face would explode. Other than that, you were on your own.

The Penguins come right back a few seconds later with a Kevin Stevens goal. "Ah, look out Loretta." Did I mention that our play-by-play guy here is Mike Lange? You probably figured that part out on your own.

The Stevens goal spells the end for Belfour, which gives us the opportunity to remember that their backup was goofy European weirdo Dominik Hasek, who at this point is 28 and not very good. Two years later he'll win the first of six Vezinas. Seriously, my "early 90s hockey made no sense" theory might be on to something.

Lange is telling us a story about Hasek being drafted in 1983 "when it wasn't real fashionable to draft people," at which point the Blackhawks score to make it 2-2. I know the goal interrupts Lange just as he was going to make a point about drafting Europeans, but I prefer to imagine he had completed his thought and that it was just unfashionable to draft anyone at all in 1983. (For one team, that was actually true.)

The Penguins regain the lead as Lemieux and Hasek perform a short play entitled "What the Nagano shootout should have looked like." But Graham comes right back with his hat trick goal, and we're tied again. At this point we have one of those fun old-hockey-highlights moments where you realize it's still the first period and remember how much fun this sport is when everyone's defensive strategy was "Screw defense, I'd rather score."

It's always fun during a high-scoring highlights package when the guy putting the clips together is like "Oh yeah, I should probably work in one save." In this case it's Lemieux getting a breakaway, only to be robbed by a sprawling Hasek. Maybe scratch that thought about if Mario had been in Nagano. Not because of this save, just because I realized Marc Crawford probably would have had Eric Desjardins shoot instead.

Larry Murphy gives the Pens their fifth lead of the game, and this time they manage to pad it when Ron Francis "beats goaltender Hasek like a rented mule." The good: Mike Lange. The bad: Every play-by-play guy from the next 25 years who convinced himself his catchphrases were as funny as Mike Lange's.

But that's all the Hawks would get, as we cut ahead to the dying seconds. Lange does that wonderful play-by-play thing where he starts in with his "we win" call but then realizes he's a few second early and has to backtrack. But he makes up for it with his all-time classic "Lord Stanley, Lord Stanley, bring me the brandy" call.

Wait, is it me or did he actually say "get me the brandy"? I'm pretty sure he did. This is like finding out that Sherlock Holmes never said "Elementary, my dear Watson" in any of the books. I swear, if it turns out Lange never asked us to sneak up and mutilate him with a hacksaw I'm going to question everything from my childhood.

And that's it for our clip. The Penguins win the Cup, and the season ends just hours into June. And in case you were wondering why the season stretched on so long in 1992, it's because there was a ten-day player strike just before the playoffs. A work stoppage, hockey being played in June, and a Blackhawks/Penguins matchup? Man, no wonder Gary Bettman couldn't wait to get on board a few months later.

Have a question, suggestion, old YouTube clip, or anything else you'd like to see included in this column? Email Sean at [email protected].

DGB Grab Bag: Ovi Face, June Hockey History, and Stop Lying about Start Times published first on https://footballhighlightseurope.tumblr.com/

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