#winners room

[scuderiastri]

I’m not sure why this made me think of winners room au with Lewis, Charles and Oscar but yet here we are

• I can just imagine, Ferrari getting a 1-2 and it’s their first of the season so obviously it’s all glitz and glamour and everyone associated with Ferrari is SO happy

• per the F1 mandated rules a Teams 1-2 means the drivers can either use each other OR they can choose a threesome

• so obviously Charles and Lewis are expected to only go with each other but cmon these two have explored each others body plentiful during winter break already

• yet the logistics of this are a bit difficult, Lewis doesn’t want certain people, Charles doesn’t want certain people and they both want to feel comfortable with the person

• So their list keeps getting shorter and both of them are in the mood to handle out control, both Charles AND Lewis have experience with other drivers so they know who’s not gonna submit to them

• they finally land on a safe option: Oscar

• Young Oscar with his bunny teeth who already took Charles in his mouth, blissfully gone in the head the whole time. With a look up to the monegasque that Charles lets out a mournful grunt while recounting the memory to Lewis

• they give their choices to the person handling the winners room and after an hour a freshly showered Oscar gets delivered to their room

• he’s all flushed and shy, while both the Ferrari drivers are lounging on the bed drinking wine

• I’m sure Charles will do the first move, impatient that he is, gesturing the younger to him. Making him kneel before the bed, laying the Aussies head on his thighs and scruffing him at the neck. And Oscar will make the PRETTIEST sounds, all high pitched and whimpery

• Charles will just be like “you see lew? he’s SO willing to submit, it’s rather easy” and the Brit will just laugh with that deep chuckle of his, all while Oscar keeps whining still so flustered and now even a bit ashamed of how easily riled up he must look

• they make Oscar do all kinds of positions but the youngest LOVES being scruffed and then taken from behind, doggy style and all. He’s so gooey in the head and his eyes aren’t focusing that he doesn’t even see Charles coming up from behind to his head. His mouth is already wide open, so it would really just be a shame if Charles let that go to waste now would he

• after the night they tuck Oscar in, keeping him warm from both sides and he immediately cuddles into both of them :((

• the next race Oscar is sporting two very pretty bracelets on each arm, very weirdly the letters L and C are both etched into their respected one’s underside tho ?? Strange but who knows what it could mean

[sequentialprophet]

I wrote Swerve/Yoots. It's mostly filth. You can read it here if you wanna.

[wammbam]

whatever you say, sweetheart (my doctor prescribed two doses of autistic british dick a day but i forgot to pick it up)

if that was solely up to him, there wouldn't have been a winners stipulation on the match at all, it was enough for will to have the win on his record, if he managed to get there. bryan wanted it, said something about bcc habit, something about forgoing the niceties of deference.

maybe if he waits long enough bryan will magically be perfectly fine and no one will ever remember the time that guy will ospreay almost killed the best in the world bryan danielson during a match.

~

a fic for @seth-franklin-rollins

read more here on ao3

[skyefeys]

yeah i am NEVER calling him that.

[tojisun]

eyes twitching because thinking about a different type of hockey au: ghostgaz winner's room-

simon's team lost and as the winners, and the rookie mvp, garrick was given the chance to step up and choose who he wants. he chooses alternate captain simon riley, his long-time crush. the word feels juvenile on his tongue but there is no better explanation to the feeling - he'd always dreamt of playing with riley and to be able to play against him and win is a euphoric feeling overall.

so he says riley's name, ignoring the way his ears buzz with feverish warmth at the wolf-whistles and hoots that his team let out at his choice. price even claps his back, says, "be careful, son, that you don't bite off more than you can chew."

and kyle promised that he tried - hell, he almost called for mactavish, the other rookie of this season - but kyle's winning shot was against riley. against the behemoth of the league. so he thinks he earned this, and he wants riley more than anyone.

.

simon forces himself to relax because he knows what happens at the winner's room - hell, he'd had his fair share throughout his career - but there's something damning about a rookie calling for him. about the little imp who was able to steal the puck from his stick and send it past keller's defense. about his name being called for the taking.

he sits in the sterilized room, trying to ignore the count down of time until garrick would finally claim him, but anticipation courses through his veins. because garrick is a pretty man. he'd even made headlines, after all. and now, simon's about to have a piece of him.

the door opens, almost ringing loudly in the startling silence, and simon looks up, waiting, only-

his breath leaves him in one swoop. because it's one thing to know that kyle is pretty, but it's another thing to see it this close. he clenches his jaw, tongue running along his molars.

his desires bloat.

he might actually enjoy this loss, after all.

[carlandoscars]

EXCUSE ME?! (aka Carlando causing carnage in the press conference) 👀

[mcyt-confession-room]

Not serious confession but I think QSMP bolas Rojas, the winners of Purgatory, are counted as winners like the life series winners

Hear me out, They go into a death game run by a literal eye man named The Watcher. The game itself has a similar feel to the wildcards from Wild Life in terms of its diaster mechanics.

So to me they are winners like the others (celestial body(s) is Meteors)

Thanks for your time :)

.

[mugentakeda]

post canon jet lives au where him and toph have an "unemployed earth kingdom citizen bumming off in firelord zukos home" competition

[muldj0rd]

Brazil, '00 || Makkinen

Summary: “Talked with that Jenson kid today” Michael hummed, leaning over Mika’s body, kissing up the back of his neck “He’s pretty” Mika only hummed “And good”

“It’s late” Mika groaned as Michael turned his body over so he was lying on his back.

“Sorry” Michael apologised, kissing Mika’s throat softly “Debrief and then a team dinner” He explained shortly “You okay?”

Warnings: Anal, anal fingering, top!michael, bottom!Mika, Michael says it’s not pity sex but it very obviously is

Masterlist || AO3 || Winner's Room Masterlist

Michael got to Mika’s hotel room before he even went to his own. 2 races, 2 DNFs. Of course, from the racing eyes, Michael was glad that Mika didn’t score any points, but from the eyes of a friend, Michael felt bad.

It wasn’t Mika’s fault, but Michael knew he’d blame himself.

It was late when Michael got to Mika’s room, so the Fin was pretty much asleep already, but it didn’t stop Michael.

“Talked with that Jenson kid today” Michael hummed, leaning over Mika’s body, kissing up the back of his neck “He’s pretty” Mika only hummed “And good”

“It’s late” Mika groaned as Michael turned his body over so he was lying on his back.

“Sorry” Michael apologised, kissing Mika’s throat softly “Debrief and then a team dinner” He explained shortly “You okay?”

“That’s how racing is, Michael. Not your fault” Mika said, his body more awake now.

“Neither is it yours” Michael sighed, lying beside Mika on his side.

“I was in the car, of course, it was my fault,” Mika said, barely making Michael features out in the dark room.

Michael sighed, reaching out to pull Mika closer, their lips touching softly “I don’t need your pity”

“No pity, but I did win, and I’d rather fuck you than any other guy on the grid” Michael explained with a soft smile.

“Yeah? Not Jenson who you actually think is rather pretty?” Michael groaned softly.

“You sound obsessed with him” Michael teased before going back to kissing Mika.

“Am not” Mika mumbled into Michael’s mouth, feeling the German’s hand on his waist, drawing him in closer.

“Am” Michael chuckled as Mika moved both their bodies to straddle Michael, almost not breaking the kiss.

“Shut up” Mika mumbled against Michael’s lips before he leaned back, took off his shirt, and immediately returned to kissing Michael.

“You wanna do it like this, hm?” Michael teased, his hands tight on Mika’s hips as the blond started moving his hips against Michael’s.

“Just shut up and fuck me” Mika panted, his hands trying to get Michael’s shirt off even though he was still lying down.

“You talk to your wife like that?” Michael teased, sitting up slightly so he could get his shirt off.

Mika groaned, his hand yanking back Michael's head by his hair, littering his neck with various marks.

Michael turned them around, pushing himself away from Mika “I’m gonna kill you when Corinna kicks me out”

“I’m looking forward to it” Mika teased, biting his bottom lip softly which was quickly replaced by a gasp when Michael almost forced Mika’s sweats and boxers down his legs.

“Could be a little more gentle” Mika mumbled as he reached into the bedside drawer and got the bottle of lube.

“Sure you don’t like it rough?” Michael chuckled softly, taking the bottle from Mika, and slowly warming the lube up between his fingers.

“Don’t care how it is-” Mika whimpered high-pitched as Michael slowly pushed his finger into him.

Michael simply chuckled softly, moving his finger in a torturing slow pace, making Mika whine out of desperation.

Mika moaned softly when Michael pushed in a second finger, letting the other adjust before he slowly started moving his fingers again.

Michael thought that, no matter how often they would do this, he would never get tired of hearing Mika’s sounds.

He’d have them imprinted in his brain if he could, have them permanently- he always wanted to listen to Mika when he was like this.

“Michael” Mika gasped softly as Michael curled his fingers to hit Mika’s prostate “P-please… Need you”

Michael chuckled, loving how desperate Mika both sounded and looked.

Mika groaned as he saw Michael smirking slightly “Shut up” He mumbled, punishing Michael’s chest softly as he pulled his fingers out, leaving the Fin feeling empty.

Michael wiped his fingers clean on the inside of Mika’s thigh before he started getting rid of his clothes.

As Michael had pushed all the way into Mika, the latter swung his arms around the German’s shoulders, his nails digging into his back as he slowly got adjusted.

Mika gave the go for Michael to move, and he did not waste it. He started by moving slowly and softly at first before he found a quicker and rougher pace, the loud smacking of their skin and their mixed moans filling the dark room.

Michael leaned back, lifting up Mika’s hips slightly- just enough so he was hitting that perfect spot over and over again, making Mika moan louder, his nails digging into Michael’s biceps.

The feeling of Mika clenching down around Michael was almost too much for him- almost making him come, but he forced himself to hold back, desperate to make Mika come first.

He wrapped one of his hands around Mika’s cock, stroking him to the same pace as his hips, quickly making him come without a warning.

Michael was relieved when Mika came, letting himself come as well, holding his hips firmly against Mika’s, coming deep inside the Fin, making him whimper slightly.

–

“If you get kicked out, you’re always welcome in my house” Mika mumbled, his fingers tracing patterns on Michael’s chest

“Yeah? Erja wouldn’t mind that?” Michael asked softly, his hand playing with Mika’s shower-damp hair where he lay on his shoulder

“No” Mika hummed, turning his head to look up at Michael “She likes you”

“Oh, she does now?” Michael chuckled softly “Also if she found out I’m fucking her husband?”

Mika chuckled softly as well “Yeah, probably don’t mention that”

[thlayli-ra]

The Spider and the Fly

Characters - John Cena, CM Punk

Pairing - John Cena/CM Punk

AU - Winner's Room AU

Rating - Explicit

Warnings - Winner's Room, blood, concussion, choking, rape/non-con, dubcon, Heel!Cena

Words - ~3k words

Summary - Cena claims his Winner's Rights from Punk... and sends a message!

Wanted to get this out before Raw tonight will probably ruin it 😅

For @stripeydani , @d-lanx , @selamat-linting and @are-we-really-doing-this and all the other Punkena shippers out there. Umm but.... I'M REALLY, REALLY SORRY ABOUT THIS!!!! FORGIVE ME FOR I HAVE SINNED!!!!

*** Please note the tags! You have been warned!***

He found Punk in his private locker room, sitting slouched on the far bench with his head in his hands. As soon as he noticed John enter however he slowly straightened up, swiping his hand back over his hair. Cena noted the subtle curl on Punk's lips, the slight softening of his red, puffy eyes, like he had been expecting him. Or hoping he would.

'Hey,' Punk said and a heavy silence hung between them, a membrane as fragile as a bubble, one finger poke away from popping. Punk moved first, the tattooed man getting to his feet with a groan as his aching bones creaked and hobbled towards him. John tensed, readying himself for a confrontation. Instead he was offered a single taped hand. 'Congratulations... Winner.'

Winner! The word sounded strange on Cena's tongue, like a bitter pill he had trouble swallowing. Not that he was unaccustomed to winning; he had enjoyed the lion's share of victories throughout his storied career and was a sure-fire entrant for the Hall of Fame one day.

No, the issue was that he'd won... against Punk!

For over a decade now, Punk had been his banana-peel opponent. The last time he'd defeated him on a Premium Live Event was back when they were still called Pay-Per-Views. Elimination Chamber 2011 to be exact when, just like tonight, he'd eliminated Punk last to become the overall winner. After that, they'd wrestled five times on major events yet Punk had emerged victorious each and every time. He had John's number, could see every one of his Five Moves of Doom coming and counter them effortlessly. No matter what John did, Punk had a knack of running rings around him, all while wearing that unbearably smug grin on his pierced lips.

But things were different now. They were older, slower, balding and greying and that lip ring was now a sad distant memory. But that wasn't all.

Cena stared down at the open palm, thinking back to that moment in the ring when he had extended the same olive branch to Punk, remembering the way the younger man had shook his head, hushed out a 'no', then embraced him in a hug. Now, with the roles reversed, the message was still the same. 'No,' John said at last then rushed forward and wrapped Punk up in a hug of his own. The tattooed man sighed contently, sinking into his Winner's arms he pressed his face against Cena's shoulder.

They lingered there, wrapped up in in each other's warmth, the rest of the world melting away until there was only him and Punk, only them, only this moment. Whatever else existed beyond that door ceased to matter.

'I'm sorry.'

Another echo from the chamber. Punk didn't so much as flinch. 'Don't be,' he said, 'I missed you.'

The ghosts were surrounding them, both men haunted by what had transpired before, but then, hadn't it always been this way? Punk and Cena. Cena and Punk Their legacies entangled, tethered together with unbreakable chains. 'I missed you too,' Cena replied and went to lift Punk's chin with his hand-

But it only broke the spell, the younger man blinking back to reality when he caught sight of red smears marring John's fingers. 'You're bleeding!' Punk exclaimed and in that moment it reverted back to what it used to be. Punk taking charge. 'Sit down. I'll fix you up.'

Cena smiled, enjoying the welcome taste of familiarity. They'd always had this kind of dynamic between them with Punk opting to be the one handling the reigns. Everybody believed Punk was a sub, and for the most part they were right; he got off on being dominated and beaten down. They all witnessed how sweetly the tattooed man writhed with pain, the way he would open his legs as he lay face-down on the mat, suffering beautifully as blood poured down his twisted features.

But how easily they forgot that other side of CM Punk. The one that liked to dangle a hapless victim on the end of a string then twitch his little finger to make them dance. His theme music was 'Cult of Personality' for a good reason; he liked to take poor, broken souls under his charred wings and mould them into his latest devotees. People went insane for Punk - look at Drew, look at Seth - whether they wanted to or not and very few were ever aware of the demon's curse until it had already devoured them whole.

That included Cena. Their first match together, when John had tried to call the plays and Punk had scoffed before putting John in his place quicker than a whipped dog, had changed something in the older man's brain chemistry. Before, he thought Punk was a scraggly misfit, petulant and difficult but after that match, he rapidly became one of John's favourite opponents. He liked Punk being in charge, he liked being able to switch his brain off and let himself be lead for once.

'I said 'sit'.'

John obeyed and took a seat on the bench while Punk grabbed up a towel and headed through to the showers. Left alone for a brief spell, John felt the mask slip from his face. His lips stiffened, his eyes darkened, losing that sparkle of innocence they once held. Yes, things were different now. This time when Punk came to gleefully gnaw on John's soul like a chew toy, the way he always did, he would find nothing there but a festering hole.

'What am I gonna do with you, John-Boy?' Cena swiftly put the mask back on, smiling sweetly at the tattooed man as he wrung the excess water from the towel in the doorway of the shower room. 'Didn't even think I was that rough with you this time.' Punk look up and returned the soft smile, a cheeky light dancing in his gentle hazel eyes.

'You weren't,' John replied, his voice sounding gruff and course in the peace of the locker room. He cleared his throat to sand off the rot. 'Trust me.'

'I do,' Punk said, setting off an invisible spark in the older man's chest, exciting him, 'but if I was man-handling you like you say, then how the hell did you get the pin on me?'

Pin? He hadn't won by pinfall. How did Punk not know that...

Cena thought back to the closing moments of the Chamber. The stomp from Rollins had been brutal, smashing Punk's skull right into the thinly padded steel on the outside of the ring. The worst part was that the tattooed man didn't even see it coming and didn't have a chance to protect himself as his brow collided hard. Now, scanning his eyes over the other man, Cena noting the large welt bruising Punk's forehead, the way he leaned too heavily on the doorframe for support, how sluggish and clumsy every one of movements were.

And in that moment, a wonderful realisation broke on him like a radiant dawn. Punk was concussed, his brain entirely scrambled. He couldn't even remember the end of the match!

'I guess I just wanted it more,' Cena said. Careful there, John. Don't give the game away just yet.

Punk snorted with derision as he stumbled closer. 'Not a chance,' he rebutted, 'I wanted that win more than anybody else in that cage.'

Oh Punk, you're really not that naive, are you? To think that just because you were the only one (that mattered) in the Chamber who's never main-evented Wrestlemania that you were the only one who cared? Punk moved in close to grab up Cena's soiled hand and rub it clean with the damp towel. John watched him, his gaze locked tight as a sniper's rifle. Punk's hazels flicked up briefly, caught him staring and paused, their faces inches from each other.

John's fingers found Punk's dishevelled hair, his hand gliding through the sweaty strands until it clasped the back of his head and pulled him in. Their lips found one another, both men opening wide to welcome their dear friend in. Punk's mouth was warm and moist albeit empty without the tongue bar and even though he'd stopped chewing gum in the ring, it still tasted as sweet as cherry pie, the rich red tang bursting with juices beneath its buttery outer layer.

While they kissed, Cena artfully closed his powerful thighs around Punk's slender waist, locking him in. The Venus flytrap closing its mighty jaws around the fly after luring it in with its nectar.

You wouldn't know, Punk. You wouldn't know because you've never tasted it but closing the Showcase of the Immortals once, twice, five times? It was never enough. It's an urge, a need, a hook that fastens itself deep into a person's lip and hauls them in, much like what I'm doing to you right now.

His other hand trailed down Punk's back, feeling each droplet of sweat catching in the folds of his skin, until it came to rest at his hip, delicately teasing the waistband of his trunks.

Punk pulled away from the kiss abruptly. 'Cool your jets, John-Boy,' he scolded the older man in his best commanding tone, the one that once turned Cena's insides to putty. 'First, we deal with the bleeding then we can have fun.'

John watched as Punk grasped his hand again to wipe the last of the blood off, his expression unchanging, a being made of granite, grey and cold. He had grown tired. Tired of the posturing and the constant need to pander to the masses. His whole career he'd been a victim to the whims of the crowd. They loved him, they hated him. If Cena won, they rioted. He was a boring do-gooder who couldn't wrestle and buried other talent. Then, in that Chamber, when he and Punk had finally come face-to-face, they started to chant.

Let's go Cena! CM Punk!

Let's go Cena! CM Punk!

Memories came flooding back. To times when he was despised by anybody over the age of ten, to when he was seen as a corporate stooge selling out. To when they all put their adoration on a skinny runt from the indies with slicked back hair and a Pepsi tattoo. Punk was a damn dirty heel back then and they revered him, raised him to become the biggest babyface in the company overnight to where he even began outselling Cena's merchandise. He understood why, he'd been there and heard the Pipebomb live, the words spilling from pierced lips like venom. He could see the appeal of CM Punk - the rage, the fire, the danger. It had sucked him in just as easily.

The hand stroking back and forth along Punk's waistband refused to relent until it needed to do more than tease. Without warning, John pushed his hand inside, under the trunks, under the speedo, to grab his trophy between his legs. Punk let out a loud yelp and froze. The fly now paralysed by the spider's bite, ready to be bound up tight and devoured.

'Fuck John, I told you to wait until I'd finished.'

'Then finish,' John rolled his fist along Punk's already semi-hard dick, lavishing in the whimpers it drew from the tattooed man.

'Fine.' Punk grit his teeth, fighting against the sensations wracking his senses. Fighting his basic desires. Fighting. Just like out in that Chamber when he'd kicked out from a Pedigree, kicked out from a Stomp, kicked out from an AA. Again and again. Always fighting.

Never give up, right?

John watched the lines in Punk's face crinkle with every sloping pull of his large hand, spied the crow's feet deepen as his eyes lazily blinked, getting hazy with lust. Just a little more...

Punk wiped the last of the blood, then examined John's hand. Knotting his brow he turned it over, inspecting the back. 'I can't find it,' he said, and John let the sickness take hold, the darkness creeping into his features. 'John, where's your wound?'

Cena smiled. Not that poster boy, all-American smile that made the girls swoon and the kids cheer. Not the cute, dimply smiles he often shared behind closed doors with Punk whenever they found themselves in each other's company. No, he sneered, like a python that finally had its coils wrapped taut around its prey.

'It wasn't my blood,' he said.

The knot deepened. Punk trying to solve the conundrum after only hearing half the riddle. 'Then... who's was it?'

Cena just stared back, quirking his brows.

'John?' He tried that commanding voice again, utterly oblivious to the switch happening between them, how their roles were rapidly reversing. 'Who's blood was it?' Cena refused to answer beyond his vicious sneer. Watching as it all clicked into place in the other man's foggy mind. '...Cody? What did you-? CODY!'

Punk tried to get away but John's legs were locked tight around him like a snare, tightening the more the rabbit struggled. The hand that was only moments ago being tended to so gently by the tattooed man now grabbed him by the throat. Using his superhuman strength, Cena spun Punk around, sending his spine crashing hard into the wall. Punk struggled, beating his fists against the arms that held him. Always fighting. But the more he writhed like an insect stuck on flypaper, the more he became trapped, Cena squashing him tight into the small recess.

'It's too late, Punk,' John informed his prize with a face now devoid of human emotion.

'GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!'

'Stop yelling.'

'FUCK YOU!'

'Fine. I know exactly how to shut little punks up.' The fingers on Punk's throat pressed tighter, pushing into his windpipe. The shouting stopped instantly as Punk's face began to turn a deep pink. Their gazes met and Cena admired the way Punk's red-rimmed, tear-bitten eyes struggled to focus on him. His head injury raging inside his skull. Would he remember this moment too?

He'd make damn sure of it!

It was too easy to rip Punks' flimsy little trunks down, freeing his rock-solid cock. John suppressed a chuckle at the sight as he unbuckled his belt and jorts with his free hand and let them fall to his ankles. 'Sit,' he ordered the younger man, shoving him down by the grip at his neck until he was slouched against the bench, his erect cock standing like a flagpole. Never once releasing his grip on his trophy's throat, Cena mounted him, pushing himself down onto Punk's dick until it broke through his ring of muscle. Punk grimaced, his inked fingers weakly digging into Cena's wrist as he brutally ground his hips down onto him, forcing him further and further in until he was buried deep.

'You surprised?' Cena taunted his prize, who squinted up at him pleadingly, trying to gasp in air. 'This is always how we do it, right?'

John started to bounce, feeling Punk's cockhead rub up and down his passage. And every so often while he rode his trophy, he squeezed Punk's neck a little tighter. See, the problem with the STF is that his opponent was always facing away so he never got to see their expression as he applied the pressure and in the Chamber, when Punk was being cruelly crushed beneath Cena's weight, his little porcelain body going limp as he passed out, the sensation had felt so delicious that Cena wished with all his heart he could see the life fade from Punk's eyes himself.

Now here, in his Winner's Room, he got his opportunity. His eyes never once leaving Punk's face. Watching as his eyebrows steepled up pleadingly, meeting in the middle like two hands touching in prayer. His eyelids drooped over his glassy hazels while his mouth hung open. Cena hooked his finger in, dragging it across his slack lower lip.

Yes, things had changed and this was how it was meant to be. With Cena on top, the king on his throne and everybody else firmly beneath him. He'd understood the moment he'd witnessed Punk, dazed from Seth's vicious final stomp, hanging limply, half-suspended by the bottom rope with his ass up, begging to be bred like a prize bitch in heat. He had relented to this little slut for too long and it was time to finally stamp his authority on him like a brand.

He punctuated that sentiment with another savage drive onto Punk's cock. His trophy was failing now, going under, so Cena grabbed his own throbbing cock and pumped it urgently, pushing himself over the edge. He came with a grunt, soiling his trophy's stomach and thighs with his red hot cum. After catching his breath for a moment, he stood up, yanking himself free of Punk's dick. It flopped, his erection wilting like a flower in the frost.

Then finally, Cena released the hold on his neck. Punk fell, collapsing to the floor at John's feet. The older man admired the view as he pulled his pants back up and buckled them securely. Once dressed, he nudged the lifeless corpse at his feet with his toe, laughing as he placed his sneaker against Punk's head and shoved it into the dirt, just like he had done with Cody only moments before.

'Well Punk,' he spoke aloud, his voice booming against the eerie quiet of the locker room, 'while you lay there, hopefully as uncomfortable as you can possibly be, I want you to listen to me.' He bent down low, closer to Punk's ear. 'I don't hate you Punk. I don't even dislike you. I like you a hell of a lot more than I like most people in the back. I just hate this idea that you're the Best in the World.'

Grabbing a fistful of hair, he lifted Punk's heavy head off the floor, watching as a line of drool ran from his lips to the tiles below.

'Because you're not. I'm the best!'

He let go, heard the crunch of Punk's face hitting the ground then stood up. Grabbing one of Punk's towels he wiped himself clean as he left the carnage behind in his wake.

'And I'm gonna remind each and every one of you.'

[lagerloutfic]

go ahead and try a little crazy on me | 4K | E | Leon Draisaitl/Artūrs Šilovs | Winner's Room

Leon huffs out a laugh before he can help himself. Goddamn, this fucking goalie is cute. He doesn’t know if he’s trying to be cute but he is.

Anyone else in their feelings about the Nucks goalie? Yeah.

Read on ao3.

[ratatatastic]

once again it becomes increasingly obvious paul needs his alone in forest time but he really is zito's grouchy wife wdym this man was so ready to hang up the towel after being fired from multiple coaching gigs and zito just absolutely did not let him like thats just how it happened? alright man

[bitter69uk]

Recently watched: Faye (2024), Laurent Bouzereau’s bittersweet HBO documentary about volcanic screen icon Faye Dunaway. It immediately disarms by emphasizing Dunaway’s scary diva reputation. Before we see her, we hear Dunaway imperiously snapping “Can we shoot? We need to shoot. I’m here now. C’mon. I really would like to shoot” then fretting “This is the worst seat in the world. I’m not happy with anything here … I need a glass of water, not a bottle.” This is followed by the notorious Johnny Carson clip of a desiccated and cantankerous Bette Davis raging she wouldn’t work with Dunaway again for a million dollars. And the revelation that co-star Jack Nicholson nicknamed her “Dread” (as in: “the dreaded Dunaway”). From there, Faye provides context. Ambitious Southern farm girl Dorothy Faye Dunaway dragged herself up from humble beginnings through grit, talent and beauty (via old family photo albums we chart the emergence of her sensational cheekbones and hooded eyes), diligently studying her craft and toiling onstage until catching Hollywood’s attention. In her 1967 film debut The Happening, Dunaway is already weird and edgy (she was never a conventional ingénue). Faye scrutinizes Dunaway’s triumphs in New Hollywood classics like Bonnie & Clyde, Chinatown and Network but also her career disappointments (like Mommie Dearest – a previously verboten subject – and the aborted Maria Callas biopic, her passion project), personal tribulations (her father’s alcoholism, the death of her younger brother, her divorces, the adoption of her son Liam, the confession that Marcello Mastroianni was the love of her life. And – unexpectedly – her fixation with Blistex lip balm). Faye also reveals Dunaway’s battles with bipolar disorder and alcoholism. (I remember when Nina Simone was regularly described as “volatile” and “temperamental”. It wasn’t until after her death it was disclosed, she struggled with mental illness). The supportive Liam ponders, “If she wasn’t in so much pain, would she have been that good?” Dunaway is a mesmerizing actress – do we need her to also be “relatable” and “likeable”? As one of the featured talking heads replies when asked to summarize Dunaway in one word: “She’s complicated.”

[105gridpenalty]

“They’re reinstating the Winner’s Room for the rest of the season?”

Max slowly repeats his team principal’s words.

“I’m not allowed to swear, but they want me to fuck the winners of the remaining races.”