#lightning schedule

[worldnews90]

United States Quarter-Century Teams selected by NHL.com during 4 Nations Face-Off.

The 4 Nations Face-Off is currently taking place in Montreal and Boston until Feb. 20. It is a best-on-best tournament with teams from Canada, Finland, Sweden and the United States featuring NHL players only.

To get fans ready for the 4 Nations Face-Off and to help celebrate the past quarter-century, NHL.com will be naming Quarter-Century Teams for each of the four nations.

Today, we present the First and Second Quarter-Century Teams for the United States, as selected by U.S.-based NHL.com staff writers Bill Douglas, Nicholas J. Cotsonika and Dan Rosen. The players, listed in alphabetical order, were judged based on their NHL stats and international contributions from Jan. 1, 2000, to Dec. 31, 2024.

Read More

[thetempestechoes]

No none/I don't play option, so that results aren't skewed. Please only vote for the flight that you are currently in!

[twiggy-boy]

Happy Halloween!!

My favourite racer dressed as my favourite race car <3

[madscience]

saw taemin in london w/ @kil9 wtf

[buttercup-barf]

**randomly shows up in your inbox**

May i respectfully request you to draw more Eva (Guardian Tales)—

**slinks into a hole- also hoping you have a good day—*

How's this? I tried doing my own interpretation of this sprite I found.

[purplecyborgnewt]

@gorogues

[whoredad]

so fucking miserable on the verge of a panic attack all day and now i’m suddenly filled with joy and love and wonder for the world. is this concerning

[kipaia]

surprise panic attack???

[dirtbra1n]

I hate being busy with things I don’t care about I should just start talking and hope something sticks. let’s go atmosphere that always goes well for me. haha lightbulb just happened So shirahama gets caged in some half-way isolated corner of the school. miyano looks him right in the face with no recognition in his eyes. he gets asked if he wants to walk home together. shirahama feels the world tilting beneath his feet, sees what he lost at the core of the earth, tastes blood crawling unnaturally up his throat. he declines the offer. so what now?

well first of all miyano—he doesn’t flinch at the rejection, shirahama did say this time, he did imply that there’d be a next time, that’s his fault that’s his bad he’s so fucking bad at this—miyano says something like, See you, then, not that he could super hear over the blood roaring in his ears, and this is totally a threat to shirahama through no fault of miyano’s, because to be seen tomorrow is actually kind of the last thing he wants. and also all he wants. to see miyano tomorrow and the day after tomorrow and for every day’s tomorrow forever. Who said that. he doesn’t want to be seen tomorrow because—there’s a lot of reasons for this. remind him to come back to this later. put a—put a pin in it, or something. (guilt. guilt, and he doesn’t want to be here tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow, or for every day’s tomorrow forever. he wants to not be here, is what he wants, and he wants miyano to also not be here. to be wherever he is, as a matter of fact. Shut up.)

first of all, miyano turns and leaves, shadow casting long and inkier than it might normally, and he disappears beyond one of the walls making up the impractical niche he’d been backed into. shirahama listens to his footfalls until he can’t anymore, which isn’t long, because the blood in his ears has, to say less, not gone anywhere. to say more: waves crashing on deck send him rushing against concussive surfaces; the wood screams and groans, splits down the middle; turbulent waters silence him where his mind cannot by sheer force of noise alone.

shirahama falls against the wall and folds in on weak legs, second of all, and he shudders for breath like he’s never done it before.

maybe sixth of all, he gets back to the dorms. long since dark. it’s empty and all, muted, the occasional light dimly casting shadows to be spooked by. seventh of all he dumps his bag in a seat at the table, and he’ll call it, generously, eighth, that he sits there until he wakes up gasping and coughing, his body caving in on itself, crumbling from weakened integrity. he stops counting. wasn’t very good at it to begin with.

[plushpyromoved]

the speed in which I consume sushi alarmz and off putz people

[lookninjas]

1997.

just another long-ass day that's all I've really got to say

[ceiling-karasu]

Welp, I should be off to the tropics by now. Wish me luck!

I have a few randomly scheduled posts for a bit so I should be fine.

[irisintheafterglow]

itoshi rin doesn't get injuries. ever.

he's downright religious about stretching, warming up properly, and being aware of how his body is holding up under the intense conditions of a match. he keeps a strict diet, an even stricter sleeping schedule, and pops enough vitamins and supplements to make his immune system work at 200%. but, when stupidly lukewarm isagi misplaces his stupidly lukewarm foot, rin ends up rolling his ankle harder than a bowling ball slammed down a lane. he doesn't react immediately to the lightning bolt of pain that shoots up his calf, only sending isagi a withering glare and continuing to rush the opposition's net.

like the rest of his team, you don't notice something is wrong until the end of the scrimmage, when rin collapses and curls his upper body around his ankle. his hands clutch the bottom of his leg and he shuts his eyes tight to hold in the frustrated groan he wants to release. the other players approach him and he snarls like a circus tiger, barking at them to leave him be. the same tune is played for the medical team, having no choice but to retreat after he insists he just needs a second to rest. with a deep inhale to prepare, you steel your nerves and walk over to where he sits.

"i said go," he seethes, his forehead resting against his propped knee. his eyes are shut, but he can feel someone standing there, watching him with a pitying look in their eyes. stupid. he gets hurt and suddenly it's poor, poor rin and his poor, poor ankle. it's weakness that he needs to stomp out, weakness that--

"you need to ice that." his eyes open slowly and you catch his walls recede ever so slightly. you always had a no-nonsense kind of relationship with rin, especially as a health analyst-in-training who was the only brave soul that spoke to him among your cohort. there was an unspoken level of respect that you had for him that you assumed he reciprocated, seeing as he always had patience for your long spiels outlining everything to do with his physical wellbeing. he appreciated that you never asked about his mental wellbeing, but sometimes your gut told you that maybe you should.

"i'm fine," he says through gritted teeth and you resist the urge to roll your eyes at his melodrama. you bite back your initial retort and instead settle on the turf next to him, your legs facing the opposite way so that you're not making direct eye contact. he watches you from the outskirts of his vision, as do the rest of the remaining team on the field, but doesn't deny your company. you let him take a few more breaths before asking your next question.

"what hurts?" any other trainee in your group would immediately be subject to scathing insults about their personality and emotional aptitude. you'd seen it, how he snapped at the trainees that weren't you.

"calf. ankle. inside of my foot," he mumbles, shame evident in his voice. he didn't like appearing weak; he already felt weak living in the shadow of sae. it was something he was constantly fighting against, carrying the sack of weight on his shoulder every game. he waits for you to scoff, to tell him to get over it, but you don't. instead, you hum and refrain from looking at him directly. in a way, it's the indirect conversation that he appreciates the most.

"i'm gonna get you a tennis ball for your ankle. where's your water?"

"back left by the bench." you nod and retrieve both items, returning to him in no time at all. you don't even stop to converse with the other concerned members of the management team, making a beeline back to him like you had no other place to be. "you should go," he says before you sit down again.

you wait for him to elaborate. he doesn't.

"do you want me to?"

he hesitates.

"...no."

"then i'll stay." you sit closer this time, still facing the other direction, but close enough that your arms could brush if he leaned close enough. rin won't admit that he likes the proximity. "i don't need to tell you how to use a tennis ball," you comment and his silence expresses his gratitude. he reaches wordlessly for the ball but you hold it just out of reach. "but, i am gonna force you to drink water before you do anything else."

"i'm not thirsty."

"i don't care," you reply. "you won't get better if you're not hydrated." part of him hates that you're right, that you're sitting here pitying him. but, he takes the bottle from your hand anyway and downs a few sips that turn into large gulps. he didn't realize how parched he'd become. "there. what else can i do?"

"stop pitying me," he scowls without thinking. as much as you like to think he's different when he's with you, there's still times like these when the rage slips out and he snaps. you haven't known him long enough to weather his storms, but you're determined to wait it out and you know he notices. he's too smart not to notice the way your shoulders sag, the way you conveniently look anywhere but in his direction, the way you're fighting every instinct to abandon him to protect yourself. "it's," he forces out, surprising you both, "it's not-i'm not your responsibility. i don't need you to take care of me."

"but do you want me to?"

he hesitates again and turns to look at you completely, detecting no sense of pity or malice or arrogance in your expression. you were there to help him, and you wanted him to trust you. what a foreign feeling.

"yes."

so you continue to sit there with him in silence, running your fingers absentmindedly over the turf as he gently massages his ankle with the tennis ball. you don't question when his shoulder brushes yours for a second, then returns to completely lean against you. when he decides it's time to wash up, he takes your hand and lets you help him off the field, his arm draped around your upper back as you act as his crutch. you later tell him after he's showered that you didn't help him because you pitied him, but because you knew he would be too stubborn to ask for help.

"how are you so sure?"

"because you told me to leave, remember? and who would have helped you if i left? who would you allow to help you?" you don't wait for him to answer and bid him a polite goodbye, leaving his face warm and completely at a loss for words.

he decides that it's not so bad if he gets injured, as long as you're the one sitting on the turf with him after the game.

[lunariarts]

the world is testing me and by jove I am laying on the floor sobbing

[terraswallows]

I know stereotypes are bad, but let’s be honest—every trans girl has a vibe. So tell me, which one are you?

A cute hacker girl fueled exclusively by energy drinks – You type at lightning speed, have a questionable sleep schedule, and may or may not be a digital cryptid. Bonus points if you can do eyeliner so sharp it doubles as a weapon.

A literal cat/dog (kitten/puppy also valid options) – You either radiate smug feline energy or are the human embodiment of "wagging tail, big eyes, head pats please." No in-between.

Target mom – You have opinions on scented candles, will absolutely offer to buy your friends snacks, and could run a household with military efficiency if you weren’t so busy being cute.

Three communist manifestos in a trench coat trying to add others to their cause – You own at least one tattered copy of The Communist Manifesto, believe transition should be free, and could (and would) unionize a girl’s night out.

Teenage witch – You collect shiny rocks, you’ve considered hexing a TERF, and your idea of self-care involves moon water and aggressively manifesting a hotter body.

OH NO A LITERAL GOBLIN! – You hoard shinies, giggle mischievously, and the concept of “pretty girl” and “chaotic gremlin” are one and the same to you.

A vampire with an addiction to fluffy things – Yes, you are the night. But also, you need a soft blanket, thigh-high socks, and a collection of plushies to survive.

A faerie who steals genders and scrambles eggs – You don’t just crack eggs; you turn them into omelets. Gender is yours to redistribute. Watch out, because if you so much as look at someone, they might start questioning things.

A 1950s housewife but horny and super progressive – You bake, you’re adorable, and you’re absolutely calling someone “darling” while making them question their sexuality.

Goth was never just a phase, it’s a lifestyle – Your wardrobe is mostly black, your eyeliner could kill a man, and you’ve perfected the balance between spooky and sapphic.

Goth but discovering the color brown (steampunk) – You have very strong opinions on corsets, pocket watches, and the intersection of sapphic romance and gears.

Cottagecore is my goal in life – You dream of a cozy cottage in the woods where you and your cute wife bake bread, tend to your garden, and forget what capitalism is.

I choose you, random fetish! – You didn’t mean to be this way, but here you are. Your interests are niche, intense, and probably make people blush when you explain them.

So, which one (or ones) are you? Or are you something even gayer?