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queezleofprague · 3 years

Note

This is a blanket ask/plea/permission to infodump about you Bartimaeus headcanons and thoughts and whatever you want as much as you can. The tag is so quiet and there's so little new content. I hunger, Mx Kepler. I THIRST.

First, this ask gave me some very nice gender euphoria, so thank you for that/gen.

And you’re right, there is not enough content for this fandom, so have some headcanons.

Kitty

She/they Kitty because yes

She’s aroace

After the ending of the trilogy, they traveled the world for three years before deciding to stay in Prague

She became friends with Jakob again and the two of them hang out together a lot

The two of them usually meet up for coffee in the morning

Kitty became a writer and they write both original fiction and memoirs

She picked up Nathaniel’s habit of doodling in the margins of papers and it always makes her a little sad

She loved bugs as a kid, but they freak her out a little now

They end up in a qpr with Piper

She gets a ton of freckles in the summer

They get sunburned very easily

Her lines fade a bit as time passes, but her hair stays gray

At first, they dyed their hair brown like it usually was, but then they decided to have a little fun and started dyeing their hair different colors

Now, her hair usually three-quarters brown and the last quarter is dyed bright red

Nathaniel

He’s lithromantic

He cannot cook. Like, at all.

He absorbs the habits and mannerisms of people around him and he’s picked up a lot of nervous quirks that way

He has a hard time falling asleep in unfamiliar places and it took him weeks to get used to his room in Whitwell’s house

But he pretended everything was fine so as not to show weakness

He used to doodle all the time, but Underwood forced him to stop

He started doing it again pre-TGE as a way to cope with stress of a new job and master and a heck ton of responsibility

Whitwell wasn’t a fan and yelled at him over it, so he stopped again

By PG, he’s started doodling again as a middle finger to Underwood and Whitwell mainly, but it also does help him relax

He always has very warm hands for some reason

He wears eyeshadow

He‘s not good at balancing on anything

He often wakes up early to just sit and enjoy how quiet and peaceful it is

Ptolemy

He likes looking for cool weird stuff and giving it to people

“Hey Rekhyt I found this pretty rock and I thought you would like it so here you go.”

He has horrible short-term memory for to-do lists, where he put things, stuff like that

But he can perfectly recite entire passages from books

He cannot draw

After his journey to The Other Place, he dictated his notes to Bartimaeus because it was easier than writing them out, especially when he first got back and could barely move

His handwriting is super messy

He remembers things mostly by association and tends to think in clusters rather than in a straight line

He usually stays up really late reading and then sleeps in really late the next morning

He’s clumsy af, and Bartimaeus teases him relentlessly about it

Asmira

She’s an ace lesbian

She’s really good at sewing

She loves music

As a kid, she was always humming or tapping a rhythm with her fingers or singing under her breath

But she was told to break those habits because they could compromise her in a combat situation

She did, mostly, but the finger-tapping still shows up sometimes when she’s really stressed

She never saw Bartimaeus again after RoS, but Bartimaeus did see her while on a mission to Sheba

She starts keeping a journal post-RoS because she wants to sit down and think more. She has more patience now and wants to spend more time putting her thoughts into words.

She did end up traveling to protect the frankincense traders, and she did that for a while

It made her happy in a way nothing else ever really had

Like she was finally where she was supposed to be in her life

Bartimaeus

Neopronoun user Bartimaeus rights

He is canonically genderfluid, so it’s actually not much of a stretch

Ey likes a lot of different pronouns, but eir main ones are he/him, ey/em, ae/aer, and re/rem

Ae cannot steer anything, and Queezle always teases aer about it

Re likes having something to do with rer hands, and as a result, knows how to do a lot of simple crafts and is super good at it

He’s particularly good at making bracelets out of whatever he can find

Ey’s decent at drawing, but ey doesn’t do it often

Ae loves flying, especially over open spaces

Post-trilogy, re gets summoned to Egypt by Kitty and the two of them spend a lot of time exploring together and healing from the events of the trilogy

His Sheban diplomat disguise idea in PG when he and the other djinn were sneaking into the Ambassador Hotel was a subtle tribute to Asmira

Not many spirits know about Bartimaeus’s connection to Ptolemy

Faquarl found out on accident when it came up in an argument they were having

Ey told Queezle about Ptolemy when she asked about his preferred form, but she doesn’t know all the details

Ae is usually extremely touch-averse but small gestures of affection mean a lot to aer coming from someone ae trusts

Queezle

Her preferred form is a leopard

Most of her other forms include some leopard features. Her usual human form has leopard eyes.

She has the coldest hands ever no matter what form she’s in

She loves to sneak up behind Bartimaeus and stick her ice-cold hands on his back. Bartimaeus does not love this.

She loves fire. She doesn’t usually use it to fight, though, she just likes being around it.

When she’s bored, she likes to just sit and play with fire

I really want to draw that now

She’s not a fan of flying. It makes her feel like she has less control of where she can go.

She has the best laugh

There’s an au in my head where she doesn’t die in TGE, and is instead able to make her way to her master to be dismissed after being attacked by the golem

In this au, she and Bartimaeus eventually meet up when Kitty summons Bart in Egypt two years post-PG

#asks #answered #anon asks #long post #the bartimaeus sequence #kitty jones #nathaniel #ptolemy #asmira #bartimaeus #queezle #bart sequence headcanons #making a quick return to post this

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elsannabackwardsposts · 4 years

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I CANNOT believe I’m late for this but uhm!!! When they were training in the Southern Isles, I’m curious about what Elsa’s reaction was to Anna calling her “Elska” 😔😔

Hey Anon! I really needed a writing prompt break, and so I’m gonna do you one better than just answering this question.

I’ve written a 1,600 word BONUS FEATURE:

Elsa’s POV Chap. 20, final scene reaction. :)

Elsa Winters had always been a woman who put her all into everything she did, always given that additional responsibility with a pre-determined future’s demand hanging overhead. And her extra effort had to be there, with the looming role she was destined to one day inherit. It was ever present. Forever present, actually, if she even tried to recall to her earliest memories.

Her parents had pressed her studies, from as far back as she could remember. Academics first; completely limited in her extra circular activities all through her formative years. Homework, tutors, studying. Had she been of the age before discovering crew, she sometimes wondered if her parents would have put her through the traditional training to become a Debutante (but thank goodness that never happened). Instead, home life trained her in manners, poise, and professional behavior; preparedness that would one day propel her forward into the world with so much greatness and respect.

Despite all of that, there had been one thing, one little joy she had found and held close to heart in those young years; way before crew was destined to find its own home in her heart.

Her language studies.

She had already loved reading, losing herself in the many stories she could come across, but to explore meaning in foreign tongue was an adventure all on her own. Of course English had been the initial language to learn, taking priority in her elementary school scholastics. She enjoyed it and, with a natural born intelligence, easily excelled at every corner from the moment she memorized the alphabet.

But what may have been most amazing was that it was not just an activity that she herself loved, but a skillset that her parents actually commended. With how she picked up her second language so early on was the very first time she could ever recall feeling that semblance of pride coming from them.

Being able to converse with foreign clients with elegance in her prose and something close to native fluency would elevate her appearance by speech alone. The comprehension of detailed linguistic patterns, semantics, intonation, would also be an equal asset to dissuade any underhanded manipulation of a company trying to skirt past the reliance of an interpreter. And so, outside of school’s required language modes, she was asked to learn their neighboring country’s native tongues: some basics in Finnish for a non-Germanic input, as well as Danish and Swedish to expand on her own Nordic based language knowledge.

It was easy. Enough of the words in Danish were the same, even if pronunciation varied, while Swedish sounded so similar, but new word selection was more demanding; Finnish, she barely got a chance to begin, but internally (and never admittedly so) she was thankful that she could at least recall the bare minimum word for ‘summer’ over a decade later.

But it was just as she passed the precipice entering her teenage years that she recalled a wave of tension befalling the Winters household; her father’s ever astute, ever composed, attitude shifting greatly. The surrounding air feeling frigid for days, perhaps weeks, only heated by loud outbursts coming from her family’s study, painfully warming her ears if she opened her door a mere crack.

One day, her mother had finally enlightened her about a fallout deal that had occurred, causing a massive blow to company funds. Just as Elsa had been warned all of these years, a slip of interpretation between two national languages, Nordic to Slavic, had been a hit to her father; both fiscally, and in pride. It was that same evening that her mother told her that she would turn her studies away from the delicate intonation shifts of Finnish speech and onto the heavier, precision based consonant production of the language having felled her father’s plans.

Polish, it was. It was trickier, dependence on a new alphabet development, those dastardly consonants, a trial all its own. However, it was here, in the challenge, which Elsa began to see variants in terms. So many more words, varying descriptions of her thoughts being colored by arbitrary linguistic creations she’d never even considered, imagined. Not just one adjective, but four! It was a spark that she had found, realization hitting her like a ray of light, opening her eyes to something even more magical.

Emotions weren’t a thing she was allowed to express. A lady was polite and demur, but a business woman was stoic and firm. It was well ingrained, both in her mind and automatic mannerisms, that she was responsible to be both.

Yet having these many languages at her hand, on the tip of her tongue, categorized in her brain, associations were built, reaching to each and every aspect of her life.. including the untouched, unexplored confines of her emotions.

Of what her emotions were, or rather, could be.

In the privacy of her room, she would talk out loud, speaking to her few stuffed animals, listening to her echoes bouncing from the tall wallpapered walls, responding to her linguistic tapes in a one sided conversation flow. But it was an outlet. She could be as energetic, upset, angry, and colorfully descriptive as she wanted without concern for retaliation. She could describe her emotions, give them meaning through multiple words, infinite sound concoctions, and finally allow herself to learn what these unfamiliar feelings were, all thanks to the connection of something as unthought-of about as everyday language.

Polish stuck to her in particular. Maybe it was because of the extra effort she had to put in to learning it, or maybe it was the sense of responsibility to avenge her family’s name from a financial embarrassment.

Or maybe it was because, of all the languages she had been told to learn, Polish was the only one that her parents did not speak. Something she could call her own. Something she was free to use around the house, to express each and every thought she felt without fear for being told to stop; to actually be encouraged to say her mind all under the guise of ‘practice’.

It was during this period that she came to try out familial names, allowing herself the little pleasure to actually address her parents by terms of endearment that had been bred out of her vocabulary before she could remember; mamusia and tatuś. Stark contrasts from the formal ‘mother’ and ‘sir’ she was required to use at any other time in daily discussions. And without any close friends to practice on, she found a longing for use of such endearing names, but when put into real life social situations, joining crew and meeting Flynn, her sharing of these private language abilities was already farther away from socially acceptable than her own social ineptitude.

A longing to express closeness, forever tucked into the depths of her heart, stored within a language she held for family pride and family love; never expecting to find someone who both was allowed a chance into her heart while simultaneously drawing her mind to even think in the second language.

And yet, then she came to know the graceful grace of summer; Anna Grace Suvi.

It was a moment, so organic, filled with ease and contentedness, with friendly familiarity, and enjoying a favored topic, the most random language; a moment that she never foresaw an opportunity to share with anyone in her life. And it just.. happened. For the first time, not spoken to an audio tape conversation partner, not given to her favorite childhood toy, but given to an actual person. An actual friend. A friend she’d let deeper into this hidden part of her heart’s emotions than she realized.

“Anka.”

The embarrassment had been hot and flustering, at least after she recognized the error. More embarrassing was that she would never have even realized her slip had Anna not called her on it. Oh how natural had she felt around this girl.. but for how long?

Elsa had been quick to catch herself, spinning a tale, administering tricks that she was trained for, using supporting facts to hide misleading information in a genius guise. When Anna moved on, she silently vowed to never let that verbal slip up happen again, and she prayed that Anna would forget the entire incident by the time they reached that class lessen. A new semester should definitely put enough distance to erase such a stupid memory.

After consciously and successfully pushing that event aside, so many new worries now taxing her mind’s reserves, the brilliant blonde had certainly not expected to be wrong.

Unfortunately, that wouldn’t be the case.

Standing beneath the searing hot sun of the Southern Isles, sunblock painted cheeks red and burning from a reason farthest from sunburn, Elsa was left in an absolute stupor. Blue eyes watched the body of her Freshman Double’s partner running away with a merry pep in her step, but all the older girl could do was attempt to process the repeating term bouncing around in her skull.

“Elska.”

The knowledge that Anna had not just remembered the silly slip of tongue (and also had managed to piece the meaning together despite likely sleeping through most of her studies) should have been enough reason for why the Senior turned away, bracing herself against the hull of the prepared Double; tightly gripped fingers trembling along the carbon fiber, navy orbs wide eyed and blinking rapidly, each breath exhaled with a shudder. And she wished, really really wished, to the highest heavens, that that information was reason enough.

But as her heart pounded, she couldn’t mistake the initial trip; the flutter of delighted surprise, a zing shooting through her chest, and the wave of momentary elation. Finally, not just having discovered a person to express her yearning unspoken feelings of closeness to, but a person, for the first time in ever, to actually return the very same sentiment in a personally cherished language she shared with no one outside the privacy of her heart.

#elsanna #elsanna fanfiction #backwards elsanna #BONUS FEATURE #ask #Nothing is a spoiler #everything is either already known or wasn't a major thing to be addressed in the main plot anyway so enjoy! 😁

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sternerstufftoys · 4 years

Text

He Got Touchy

(inhales)

Oh man, I don't want to do this. Why am I doing this? No-one's making me do this. I'm still doing this. I said I was doing highlights from each year of G1 one week at a time, and you can't talk about 1984 without Optimus Prime. I already did Megatron, now it's time to get the big red bugger out of the way.

Because here's the thing. I don't much like Optimus Prime. No, that's not quite right, I like him well enough I suppose. I like him fine. But I don't care about him. Yes, that's more like it. I don't really care about Optimus Prime. He's not my space-dad, he's not the hero I ever admired as a toddler, he's a relic, a symbol of everything that came before.

Like I said in the Jazz review, I was born in 1984, so by the time I came to Transformers a few years later, Optimus was already dead. Rodimus Prime was in, and any sightings of Optimus felt more like flashbacks than anything else. Optimus was part of the generation that your older cousins might have owned, that the big kids that had grown out of Transformers would recognise. We didn't need them any more. We had Chromedome. And, uh, Wheelie.

Still, I remember being excited by the anticipation of watching The Return of Optimus Prime again. The second coming was a big deal, even if you don't remember the first coming. And then it came and went without leaving an impression, because the nicest thing you can say about it is that it's kind of a dull episode. But returning to it later...

Listen. Rodimus Prime earned his place as leader. It took most of a season, but he bloody well earned it. He doubted himself, he questioned the idea of leadership, he self-reflected until his arse was a highly-polished sheen. But. He. Earned. It. It's the closest that the G1 cartoon ever got to a story arc, with Rodimus finally overcoming his doubts by the penultimate story, The Burden Hardest To Bear. And then before the series could die a merciful death, along comes Optimus to undo everything because he's Optimus Prime and he made some kids cry in 1986 when he went all grey and stopped moving. In doing so Hasbro made it clear that they weren't going to ever commit to any real changes in the franchise, and that sooner or later everything will just reset back to normal. Back to boring.

And yet. When I opened up the packaging for this here KuBianBao MP10-V Convoy, a downscaled knockoff of Takara's own MP10 from a few years back, I have to admit to feeling a thrill of excitement on seeing it for the first time. Specifically, the luscious deep blue of his legs jostled a memory I didn't realise I had, of being round a friend's house as a child and jealously seeing their G1 Optimus Prime in person, with that same navy blue hue that somehow signified a certain level of quality well above anything I had at home.

Damn. I like it.

I'm not going to bang on about how good MP10 was or is. It's still to my mind the best version of the character that exists, and that's including the more recent cartoon-accurate MP44. MP10 looks like a truck, not a hastily-animated drawing of a truck. Here though it is scaled down to better exist next to main line transformers, with the loose scale guide that means that cars are deluxes, trucks voyagers, etc. Plus he doesn't tower over his mates in robot mode either.

There's only a few changes to the original MP10 tooling going on, most notably a metallic waist instead of the plastic one that the original had. You also get a bunch of extra accessories as well - some spare heads I could never get on, a jetpack in case you want him to recreate that time he had a jetpack, and a sword in case you want to... well, swords are cool I guess. God knows where the sword originally came from, but in solid die-cast metal it could double as a handy letter opener if you want to resume your correspondence from your fellow 19th century fops. Whatever its origins, KBB didn't think to give it the wrapping around the handle which it was clearly designed for, so it rattles around unconvincingly in old Optimus's hand. Still, taking the rubber grip off a cheap biro and gluing it on seems to have done the trick.

The trailer, and the rest of the accessories such as roller and a slightly sunburned Spike, were sold separately some time later, meaning that the eventual cost was not altogether far off what an actual MP10 would be. Still, you can't not have a trailer. The vestigial part of my brain that was programmed as a pre-toddler to enjoy putting things inside of other things still gets a tickle out of stashing deluxe cars inside. I'm a simple soul.

That'd all be fine, but let's stop ignoring that elephant in the room. This is a knockoff, and that troubles me. Not, I should add, that I'm especially troubled by the infringement of copyright, even the outright theft of physical moulding equipment owned by Takara. Okay, that's pretty low, but Takara and Hasbro are big enough, old enough and wealthy enough to take that hit. What bothers me more is that, being a knockoff, there's no way to tell how, where, or in what conditions it was manufactured.

It's a high-grade knockoff, using high grade materials, so skilled and trained workers had to have been used to put it together. But even so, while Hasbro and Takara would be publicly raked across the coals if they were ever to be exposed as using exploitative working practices in their factories (and risk their stock values) KBB have no such concerns. Were the workers paid adequately? Were their working hours reasonable? It's not like we'll ever be able to tell, as they'd never advertise their situation, having flagrantly broken the law to even produce something like this. And it'd be a mistake to assume that just because the product is good that the company's moral compass is equally good.

And it's not perfect either. Partly due to the downscaling process that makes certain parts small and fragile, and partly due to the use of materials which aren't quiteup to Hasbro / Takara's standards, there are flaws in MP10-V's makeup. One of the flaps that cover up the wheels on his legs broke off a while ago, and was far too fiddly to repair. The other one is hanging on there - just. Over time the parts don't seem to fit together as well as they did when it came out of the box, and some joints are getting looser with age, while others seem to seize up. So... do I regret it?

Sort of. I regret having supported sketchy knockoff merchants in China. But I don't regret the toy itself. Honestly, if Hasbro or Takara had just made this themselves they'd have had my money, but they didn't. Well, they sort of did with Earthrise Optimus Prime, and the similarities at a glance make it very likely that the existence of MP10-V was a consideration in its creation. And owning MP10-V makes it impossible to ignore the scrunched-up torso proportions that ER Prime has, as well as the disappointingly small trailer that can't fit a deluxe car inside properly. So no, I'll keep my sketchy knockoff for a good long while yet. It's only Optimus Prime after all. I was never that much of a fan.

#transformers #maccadam #toy review #Optimus prime #kbb #mp10 v

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setepenre-set · 5 years

Text

Operation: Angler Fish (part 2)

Megamind/Roxanne, K+ rating, pre-movie AU

Minion encourages Megamind to give their damsel in distress an unusual present for her birthday.

AO3 | FFN | part 1

(links disabled so that this will show up in the tumblr search tool. I will reblog this momentarily with the links; look for it in the notes.)

“And—ah—here is the fabrication section of the lab,” Megamind says, “which is—where the big metal parts for the large machines are made. I’ve got basic molds for standard parts, of course, things that can be used easily in multiple machines, but the more complex pieces I design separately and we use wire and water EDM—that’s, um, Electrical Discharge Machining which—it’s—it’s very good for complex shapes and easier to preserve detail—”

For approximately the thirty-seventh time, he attempts to force himself to stop babbling. This attempt, like the thirty-six attempts before it, is an utter failure.

“—that’s the main EDM there, and you can see there’s another smaller one beside that wall there,” he says despairingly, “that’s the brainbot EDM; that’s where their parts are made. Most of them use a standard set of molds, but spikes and other customized parts like specifically shaped teeth can be designed and made as well, and of course there’s a great deal of variation in, for example, the number of limbs the brainbots can choose to have—”

Roxanne makes an interested humming sound, trailing gloved fingertips over the surface of the larger machine, then puts both hands on the edge of it and bends forward, and the movement causes the blue silk fabric of her skirt to fall forward, framing the shape of her—well—

Megamind jerks his gaze up guiltily and, at long last, finally ceases to babble, mostly because he’s now focusing very intently on not swallowing his own tongue.

Roxanne makes that sound again and straightens up, turning to face him. She’s—there’s a curve to her mouth, not exactly like a smile, but the maddening hint of one and he has no idea what she’s smiling about and—

She leans back casually against the machine, practically lounges there, and Megamind has no idea where he lost control of this whole Make-Miss-Ritchi-Evil-Queen-for-a-Day plan, but he very definitely has.

Another shoal of brainbots flies by, led again by their queen, Zero, all of them strangely quiet as they make their way past Megamind and Roxanne, all of them turning their eyestalks around as they go, craning their eyepieces over their braincases like interested drivers going by the scene of a disaster, which is exactly what this idea is shaping up to be. Maybe the bots can sense that; maybe that’s why they’ve been flying past in quiet little groups since he started Roxanne’s tour, although you’d think they would help him in that case.

Fake an emergency! Rile up the crocodiles! Start a fire somewhere! Anything!

In absence of a rescue from either Zero or Minion, who has been conspicuously absent since the beginning of this whole debacle even though it was his idea originally, the duplicitous fish.

“Do you have any questions?” Megamind asks desperately.

“Where are your books?” Roxanne asks, as if this isn’t a complete conversational hard right turn.

Megamind seizes on the question gratefully though—if he can just keep this tour moving, he won’t have to deal with her staring at him like—like—like that.

“Ah!” he says, “Well—I do, of course have copies of all of the records, financial and otherwise, of all the organizations that fall under my authority as Overlord, both physical copies and electronic copies. Which—ah—which collection would you like to see?”

Roxanne’s brows draw together even as she smiles a little bit wider, a look of bemused amusement.

“Oh, I’d be interested in seeing them both,” she says. “But I meant where do you keep your books, Megamind—books you read for pleasure.”

She lingers over the last word, drawing it out, making it into something almost indecently sensual, and Megamind feels heat flood his face.

“Um—I—why?” he asks.

Why does she want to know; why does she keep asking these kinds of questions; he was prepared for her to ask reporter questions, science questions, not—not—personal ones.

“Curiosity,” she says. “So where do you keep them?”

“…in my bedroom,” Megamind says, and at this rate his face is never going to be a normal shade of blue again, is going to stay fuchsia forever, a permanent blush of everlasting embarrassment.

He wonders, somewhat hysterically, if he could pass it off as some kind of sunburn, or perhaps a lab accident gone tragically wrong.

Roxanne makes a disappointed sound.

“That’s too bad,” she says. “You can tell a lot about a person, based on what their bookshelf looks like.”

Megamind, thinking of the bookshelf in his room, the one full of romance novels, makes a noise which sounds something like ‘ulp’.

Roxanne straightens up from the machine and saunters over to him, hips swaying, making the blue silk of her split skirt ripple like water.

“That’s all right, though,” she says, and slips her arm into his. “Bedroom tours are probably too—intimate—” again she draws the word out sensually, “—for a first visit. Although technically speaking, I have been here plenty of times before.”

She begins walking, moving through the Lair as confidently as if she’s the one who lives there, and Megamind helplessly allows himself to be pulled along with her, powerless and swept away by the force of her.

“I don’t think it counts as a social visit if one of you is tied up,” Megamind says.

Roxanne gives him a sidelong glance, dark lashes and curving mouth and sweetly vindictive amusement in her glittering blue eyes.

“You’ve lived a very sheltered life for a supervillain,” she says. “Haven’t you?”

Megamind makes a strangled noise and Roxanne’s smile goes wider, like that of a very self-satisfied cat.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “I think it’s sweet.”

“Oh look at this door over here!” Megamind says loudly. “Doesn’t this way look exciting?”

“It says ‘exit’, Megamind,” Roxanne says, voice rich with amusement.

“Which stands for exciting! In this circumstance!” Megamind says. “It’s the alligator pit; why don’t we go look at the alligators wouldn’t that be great—”

“Ooh,” Roxanne says, and he follows her gaze to see her looking at—

The curtain which closes off the section of the Lair where he constructs his idea clouds and evil plans.

Well. It should close it off; Megamind remembers having closed it off before setting out to invite Roxanne to the Lair. It was pulled completely shut when he left, but now it’s open—just slightly, just a crack, the red material at the opening swaying gently, as if from the breeze created by a passing brainbot.

There’s a light on in the idea cloud section—that shouldn’t be on either; what have the brainbots been up to? He wanted them to create a distraction but this is not what he meant at all.

Golden light shines invitingly through the opening, filtering through the hanging scraps of paper, twisting slowly in the air, staining the light different colors, making it flicker and change.

“What is that?” Roxanne asks, moving towards the curtain.

“That’s—I mean—it’s not—you probably wouldn’t be—”

She turns her head and gives him a look, eyebrow arched, chin tilted. The light catches on the spikes of the crown she’s wearing and why did he think it would be a good idea to put her in a crown?

Oh yes that’s right because he is a fool, brought low by his own hubris, that’s why.

“Megamind,” she says. “You promised to answer any question I asked.”

“…it’s the idea cloud for the next evil plot,” he says, too overcome to even try to argue.

“Really,” Roxanne says, eyes sharpening with even more interest. “Let’s go look at that, then.”

“But—”

Roxanne gives him another of those looks, and Megamind subsides.

“Oh, don’t look so miserable,” she says as they make their way through the curtain. “Keep an open mind, Megamind; you might even enjoy this.”

“Oh. What fun,” Megamind says.

“An anti gravity beam?” Roxanne says, looking at the plans he brought out when she asked him to explain.

“Yes, exactly!” Megamind says, gesturing excitedly. “Isn’t it brilliant?”

It really is; she’s actually very impressed; she’s never gotten to see Megamind’s machines and plans being created; she’s usually just here for the falling apart phase of everything. But—

“I mean, yeah, the anti gravity beam technology itself is genius,” Roxanne says, “but—why?”

“Why—what—what do you mean, why?” Megamind says, gesturing at the idea cloud. “To defeat Metro Man, of course—”

“And rule the city as Overlord, Metrocity will be mine at last Miss Ritchi evil laughter evil laughter, yes, yes, I know the spiel,” Roxanne says, waving a dismissive hand and ignoring Megamind’s indignant sputtering at her imitation of him. “But why an anti gravity beam?”

“I—I’m not sure what you’re asking,” Megamind says.

“It’s pointless,” Roxanne says. “Why would you do this; it’s never going to work!”

She sees an expression of hurt flash in Megamind’s eyes, and then his mouth goes flat, his eyebrows drawing down.

“Yes, yes, your plans never work, Megamind; give it up,” he says, “evil fails, good prevails; I know the schpiel as well, Miss Ritchi—”

“That’s not what I—”

“—should have know it would be like this; should have known—”

“I mean,” Roxanne says, “some of his powers work off of anti gravity, Megamind; why don’t you reverse the polarity of the neutron flow or—whatever it is, I don’t know—and turn it into a targeted gravity beam instead?”

Megamind halts in midsentence, mouth still slightly open, eyes suddenly very wide.

“…his powers do what, now?” he says.

“Work off of antigravity,” Roxanne says. “Obviously?”

“Obviously?” Megamind says, voice rising with incredulity. “What do you mean, obviously?”

“Obviously!” Roxanne says, gesturing again, both hands this time. “Come on! Flight? Have you seen Wayne? He’s huge! And not in any way aerodynamic! How the hell else is he going to get off the ground; I mean really.”

“You—surely he didn’t just tell you this!” Megamind says. “Even if you are his girlfriend, that would be—”

“—even if I was his girlfriend, that would be incredibly stupid,” Roxanne says. “Which Wayne is. Just—not in this particular circumstance.”

“You just—you just came up with this,” Megamind says, and then blinks. “Wait. Was his girlfriend? Was as in—past tense?” 

“Was as in entirely hypothetical, never going to actually happen because he is approximately as interesting and attractive as a lampshade,” Roxanne says. “And—well, yeah, I just came up with it. You really didn’t—I mean, it seems really obvious to me, and maybe I’m wrong, but it’s got to at least be a hypothesis worth testing, right?”

Megamind takes a soft, sharp breath.

“It,” he says, “was not obvious, Roxanne. You just happen to be extremely intelligent and perceptive.”

Roxanne’s breath catches at the compliment, at the ease with which he gives it, at the fact that he doesn’t seem to know he’s said something astonishing.

“And this,” he says, “this is—”

He places the tips of his fingers together, steepling his hands, and then he smiles at her, slow and dangerous and very, very sharp.

“Oh,” he says, voice dark and promising. “Oh, my dear, clever Miss Ritchi—this is a hypothesis very worth testing indeed.”

Roxanne isn’t sure if she actually says oh, or if her lips merely part, soundless with wonder because—

(my dear, clever Miss Ritchi)

—because he’s said that before, called her that before, but she never realized before that he means it.

“Yes,” Megamind says, fingers still steepled together, supervillain smile curling his lips, “yes, we will certainly be testing the anti-anti-gravity beam. It will be—”

“—anti-anti-gravity beam?” Roxanne cuts in, unable to help herself, in spite of the way her heart feels like it might never learn to beat normally again.

“—an evil plot to—” Megamind, who had begun to pace, as he usually does during evil monologues, stops in his tracks and mid-sentence, frowning at her. “Yes, of course, Miss Ritchi,” he says, “the anti-anti-gravity—”

Roxanne gives him a flat look.

“It’s a gravity beam, Megamind.”

“Anti-anti—”

“Gravity beam.”

“But—”

“Gravity. Beam.”

“Oh, potato, tomato, potato, tomato,” Megamind says, waving a dismissive hand as if he’s trying to chase off a particularly annoying gnat.

Roxanne gives a snort of laughter and he grins at her, bright and triumphant and happy, so very happy.

“We should record it, too,” she says. “So even if it doesn’t work we’ll be able to review the footage and see if we can work out what went wrong from there.”

Megamind’s expression changes from innocent joy to dark delight in an instant, and Roxanne—

Roxanne suddenly feels as if the air between them is filled with electricity, lightning ready to strike at any moment.

“What an excellent idea, Miss Ritchi,” Megamind says, and Roxanne suppresses a shiver of something that she can’t even come close to pretending is fear. “Yes, we should record it so we can review it later.”

He laughs, low and beautifully wicked, and then—

“Really?” he says, in a tone that hovers between uncertainty and laughter. “A lampshade?”

“A beige lampshade,” Roxanne says, and Megamind’s evil laughter rings through the Lair.

(After a few moments, it’s joined by hers.)

...to be continued.

Day two of my birthday week celebration! I hope you all enjoyed the chapter!

(thank you to my dear @displacerghost for beta reading this, and for originally giving me the story to finish as a present 💜💙💜)

#megamind #megamind/roxanne #operation: angler fish #fanfiction

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twistednuns · 5 years

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December 2018

Iglo Veggie love with broccoli, buckwheat and black beans. Quick and easy.

The TEDxTUM event was pretty inspiring. I loved how they organised it and some of the speakers were amazing. Seeing all the cool stuff other people are working on actually motivated me to try and achieve great things myself. I'd like to learn about something new, start a project or volunteer.

Pick Up Limes videos.

The way Cher sings the word Memphis in her cover song.

Seeing Frank for the first time in four months. Having a good time at the Uncle Acid concert, getting a beer at Flex. Even though meeting him always causes some kind of emotional turmoil it might actually help to solve a few things I've been stressing over this time, for example that whole deal with Claudia.

Spending two hours in the kitchen on a Sunday morning. Preparing a summer and a winter curry. Pre-cutting salad. Listening to Tai Chi music. Baking these divine buckwheat chocolate cookies - absolutely delicious even though I forgot to add salt. Kinda healthy, too! It's grain-free (I even used groats) and I substituted part of the sugar with honey.

Gift ideas for rock collectors and mycophiles.

A spotted woodpecker in our backyard.

Dalmatian Jasper. Such a pretty stone.

Blinded by the Light. And a trip down musical memory lane. Making a nostalgia mixtape. Singing, enjoying the sound of my voice (as long as I hit the right vocal range).

Drawing owls. For hours. Using my Polychromos coloured pencils. I'm currerntly working on two owl-related projects, designing a logo for coffee roasters and making my friends' wedding invitation. Drawing owls like lovebirds is such a satisfying thing to do. Also: making my students come up with new ideas! Some actually drew some owl logos, too!

Tetris.

Reading books I don't understand. By people who are smarter than me. A very humbling experience. There is so much more to learn, experience and achieve.

Franzi's elegant coat and her ice crystal earrings. She's pregnant but she is skinnier than before and looks great. We cuddled up on a rooftop and had Kinderpunsch.

Practising The Pogues' Fairytale of New York for for karaoke night. I never hit the NYPD choir note quite right. My neighbours must hate me.

Taking a mental health day. Starting the day with baking cookies, making vegan sushi rolls. Reading, taking a nap. Yoga in the evening. Feeling really happy and relaxed. One of those rare inspired days when everything just falls into place. I kept revisiting beautiful places and memories during Shavasana. And I LOVE my yoga teacher more and more each week. So sad she is leaving the studio.

Taming your temper - tips for anger management.

Another coincidence. I wondered when the next Bilderbuch record will be released when I was looking at Mavi Phoenix at her concert - that girl is the female version of Maurice Ernst. A few hours later I found out that Bilderbuch actually had released a new album one day ago. WHAT.

Mirror tape.

Being a fluffy little red cat's human of choice. We sat in a cat café, no animals in sight. After a while a cat walked up straight towards me, sat down on my yellow scarf and kneaded it. Later she demanded attention and purred while I scratched her jaw. Apparently this was quite a rare occurence because she is said to be really shy and hard to handle. Weirdos unite!

Making Bhindi Masala, a vegan okra curry. Spicy and intense - delicious! Oh, and sushi rolls filled with avocado, veggies and fancy tofu/tempeh. Now I have a whole container waiting for me in the fridge.

Practising yoga for 20min on a gloomy Monday morning. Lighting a candle, drinking a cup of Ayurvedic Kapha tea with honey and lemon.

Tom, who inspired me to learn more about Ayurveda. And to rewatch The Darjeeling Limited because let's face it - Wes Anderson really knows how to make one of the poorest countries in the world look gorgeous.

We become what we think about. It's impossible to be successful without having a destination.

Quotations from Siri Hustvedt's The Blazing World: 1 / 2

"Smelling you almost makes me cum."

Running around with a fake septum piercing. I kinda like the look. I'm actually considering getting a real one but so far I'm fine with the clip-ons. The good thing is that you can't see the ring's ends anyway in that kind of piercing.

Spending time with the old friends. The best ones. The ones you don't have to speak to and it's still not uncomfortable. The ones you can be super weird around and they embrace it. The ones you can tell your strangest ideas and stories.

There is a new Turkish supermarket right around the corner! Fresh cilantro whenever I want! YES!!!

Heavy snowfall. It does look kinda pretty, I admit.

Many questions, not enough answers at the ESO Supernova exhibition/planetarium. / Making another cat friend over breakfast. / Seeing my foxy ginger lady Anika again after such a long time! / Orange marzipan lebkuchen and roasted coconut almonds (they taste like Raffaello). / Finding the perfect earrings and a beautiful head band at EDITED - The Label. / Performing Fairytale of New York live on stage with Manu. Being able to curse at somebody through song is perfect, I had a lot of fun. Also, he promised me his art teacher sweater as a Christmas present.

A knitting project with rainbow wool.

Making a clay sculpture for my mum. Taking it out of the oven at 80 degrees, wrapped in a dish towel like a baby.

The honey marzipan nougat bar from dm bio.

Meeting Manu at his office. Receiving the most awesome paint palette sweater as a Christmas present! And he let me spend a full hour in virtual reality! He has such an amazing programme which lets you draw in 3D and float around in space (with VR goggles). I'm absolutely fascinated and intrigued. Gotta visit him more often.

Meeting Tobi, Maike, Lena and Christian at Märchenbasar. Being drunk after some Feuerzangenbowle with rum (Pfeffi in Manu's case) and white mulled wine. Taking the long way home.

Buying Paulaner Spezi for my class. Supermarket trips with the kids before 8am. Schrottwichteln. Watching random goat videos and intros to children's series.

Having a drink at Goldene Bar in Haus der Kunst. Such a gorgeous place. I'm trying to get into a workshop on the museum's architecture at the end of January.

Making random people want to kiss me. Having no desire whatsoever to actually kiss them.

The Harry Potter round (on special request) at the pub quiz.

Reading Stephen Hawking's short answers to some of the big questions. I have to admit, I know nothing about physics or cosmology and at times his explanations were super hard to understand (fine, I probably didn't understand most of it) but I love creating a need to use my brain in uncommon ways.

Vivid dreams. About dangerous skyscrapers (just different floors stacked loosely on top of each other), a kidnapping in a futuristic car by very glamorous gangsters, lesbians on a scooter trying to save me, travelling through Asia and the US with Sash, a sinking ship (but all the passengers swam back to the surface after a short period of unconsciousness), ATMs, fancy drinks, meeting strangers with beautiful eyelashes at a restaurant.

Discovering the Trouvelot astronomical drawings (1882) on the darkest day of the year, winter solstice. Watching the night fade away ever so slowly in the morning from the kitchen window, squeezing fresh oranges to make juice for breakfast. Bright orange and midnight blue is a great colour combination.

ASMRctica.

An article about a dear friend of mine appeared in Süddeutsche Zeitung! So happy for him.

Spending time with very old friends right before Christmas. Tobi, Sash, Michi, Yanic, Fischi and his wife... Playing MarioKart on SNES with Peter and taking weird selfies together. I had a very nice evening.

Managing to get a look at downtown Chicago during my layover. I uber-ed into the city centre (watching the skyscrapers getting larger and larger), walked around Millenium Park and along Lake Michigan. I spent quite a bit of time at Blick, an amazing art store, before I took the train back to the airport.

Arriving in Mexico in the middle of the night on Christmas Eve. Seeing the city sparkling from above. Watching a bunch of kids beating a pinata well after midnight. Arriving in a beautiful artist's apartment in Condesa.

The Anthropology Museum in CDMX made it on the list of my favourite museums ever. I could have spent days there. I kept sketching some of the funny masks and Maya figurines. There were plenty of creepy tombs and skeletons, depictions of weird Gods, handicrafts and woodcarvings. It was just so interesting, probably because I had never seen a lot of South American / Aztec culture before and I love learning and exploring new things.

Christmas day in CDMX: sunshine, tacky glitter decorations, pointy balloons and spiky pinatas. Dancing, ancient smoke rituals performed by a Mayan community.

Mexican street food, especially the vegetarian street food tour with David. Meeting the Blue Corn Lady (her quesadillas are with cactus and beans and they're incredibly delicious). Flatbread, corn, fruit with chili and lime. Pulque and Mezcal. Finding out that the green salsa is actually worse than the red one. Tacos, Enchiladas, Tamales. If you go to Mexico just for the food you'll still have plenty to explore.

That evening with the pink sunset. Walking through the old used book store in Roma. Reading an interesting take on Lars von Trier's Melancholia. Meeting the resident cat.

Lucha Libre! Watching the luchadores, especially the small people in the second round. Laughing about the Mexican boy next to me swearing at the top of his lungs. Getting a mask as a souvenir.

Climbing the sun and moon pyramid at Teotihuacán. Getting a sunburn. Enjoying the atmosphere. It's a very impressive site.

Diving in Cozumel with Brooke-Anne (a librarian from Las Vegas who was raised by Mormons), Cynthia from Quebec and Lucie from Toulouse. Entering some coral formations underwater. Eating cantaloupe melon and chocolate cookies after the dive. Spending the evening with another Canadian, Jussi from Finland and that other dude from Puerto Rico. And some Indio beers.

What I loved most about Tulum were the ruins (right next to a gorgeous beach) and the health food restaurants (La Hoja Verde and Co.Conamor).

And this year I don't really have a good New Year's Eve story because I fell asleep at quarter past eleven in a little village west of Tulum. All alone. Could be worse though, I had an amazing year.

#personal #present perfect #things i love #december #2018 #december 2018

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allofbeercom · 6 years

Text

From Manchester City to Oklahoma: how a rejected footballer kept the dream alive

Laurie Bell became one of the most expensive 12-year-olds in British football history when Manchester City signed him from Stockport County, but he had to wait a decade and move 4,000 miles away to make his professional debut

In the dressing room of a baseball stadium in the American South, I fiddled with orange shinpad tape, yanked my heels to my buttocks to stretch already-limber quadricep muscles, and tap-danced impatiently on plastic studded football boots. Ten more debutants in creaseless kits waited in line. A dipping Oklahoma sun peeked inside the tunnel, beckoning. When the referees eventually signalled that it was time, we marched out. First on red clay, then green grass, then across the straight white lines of a freshly painted football pitch. In the stands, 8,000 soccer rookies rose to their feet, waved homemade flags, and glugged half-price cans of Modelo beer. Up in the posh seats, the clubs hierarchy were given a first tangible taste of a team that had been two years in the making.

It was a momentous walk for all of us: the first action on the first night in Tulsa Roughnecks history. For me, it proved the last, improbable leg of a 14-year journey that had transported me 4,000 miles from my English home. At 22 years old, after a sequence of rejection and lateral footballing progress, my professional debut had finally arrived.

Men in military uniforms trumpeted out a national anthem. For a moment, a reverential hush cloaked the excitement for soccer pulsing through this old oil city. Stood by the halfway line where short stops might field on baseball-playing days I considered how we all arrived here. How had this brand new team leapt into existence? What did this crowd expect? Was our flung-together squad any good? Whats that centre-backs name again? And, of all the football clubs in all the world, how the hell had I ended up in Tulsa, Oklahoma?

This wasnt English football. This hadnt been the plan.

Tulsa Roughnecks players sign autographs for their fans. Photograph: Lori Scholl

Statistically speaking, the first match in the Roughnecks record books ended in a 1-1 draw. But as sunburned schoolteachers and hoarse local lawyers joined kids clamouring for autographs at the perimeter of the field, that balmy night in March 2015 felt decidedly like a victory. Shirts sold, fireworks crackled and fans fell in love. Giddily unpracticed, I signed programs, iPhone cases and exposed forearms. Opening night was a win for the Roughnecks and for football in the city.

There was immediate evidence of both a passion and market for soccer in Tulsa, like there is in increasing numbers of cities across North America. In the past two seasons across the top three leagues covering the US and Canada the MLS, NASL and USL 24 new professional soccer clubs have founded. Tulsa Roughnecks is one part of professional soccers recent proliferation in the US. This is one players insight into life at a brand new club.

Describing Tulsa Roughnecks FC as brand new is only partly true. In 1983 a professional outdoor team from Tulsa named the Roughnecks was crowned king of the North American Soccer League. They beat the Toronto Blizzard in Soccer Bowl 83 in front of 53,000 fans.

The glitzy NASL attracted footballing greats such as Johan Cruyff, George Best, Pel and Franz Beckenbaur. Their presence helped draw impressive attendances at stadiums nationwide, with thousands more fans tuning in on TV. Even without a bona fide superstar, the Roughnecks enjoyed a strong local following and considerable onfield success. But when the league folded and soccers grip on the imaginations of the American people loosened, the team followed suit.

Having been founded in 1978, the Roughnecks disbanded six years later, the season after they won the championship. A few upstarts tried to bring the sport back to the city but they were unsuccessful and Tulsa was largely soccer-less for the next three decades until 2013, when Mike Melega, General Manager of the Tulsa Drillers baseball franchise, picked up his newspaper.

I saw in the paper one day that Oklahoma City was getting professional soccer, said Melega, the picture of an American sports executive: khaki trousers below a club-crested polo shirt and dark brown hair cropped neatly around the back and sides. At the time time, Melegas only title was GM of the Drillers, a feeder club affiliated with a Major League Baseball team, but his staff was also tasked with managing the Drillers under-utilised ONEOK Field, a three-year-old, $40m stadium in the heart of downtown Tulsa.

Youre always keeping your eyes open for trends and opportunities, continued Melega. Professional soccer in America is growing and I thought our city needs to be at the forefront of that.

Tulsa and the state capital, Oklahoma City, are 100 miles apart: neighbours by American standards. Melega discovered that the same ownership group had already purchased expansion rights for soccer teams in both cities. An attractive new sports franchise and a lonely stadium: the GM foresaw a marriage. Melega, along with Brian Carroll, vice president of media and PR, convinced the Drillers owners brothers Jeff and Dale Hubbard to fund a wedding.

Dale Hubbard is a former professional baseball player who had never watched a game of soccer. But Melega is persuasive and, trusting his judgment, the Hubbards purchased a majority share in their citys expansion rights. A crazy, crazy year and a half of preparations followed. But on 18 December 2013, addressing a room of reporters and early self-declared supporters, Melega held a scarf above his head and announced that soccer was returning to Tulsa. In 2015, the team would compete in the United Soccer League, the third tier of US soccer.

Laurie Bell playing for Tulsa Roughnecks. Photograph: Lori Scholl

That same afternoon in Milwaukee, Wisconsin I completed a Media Law exam. I was 21 and two-and-a-half years into a university soccer scholarship. Five days earlier I had been named in college soccers team of the year (making this Mancunian an All-American), having enjoyed my finest season as a footballer. From central midfield I scored 13 goals, captaining my Division One team to league success, record home crowds and a coveted spot in the NCAA national tournament.

I finished the exam then packed a suitcase to return to my parents home in England for Christmas. On the flight, early visions of playing professionally in the US pushed law out of my mind. At the time, I couldnt point to Oklahoma on a map.

Every time I touch down at Manchester Airport, Im struck by the abundance of white rectangles painted on to patchwork grass fields below. There are football pitches everywhere. While the game gains popularity in the soccer-hungry landscape of 2016 America, there remains just one other professional team within 250 miles of Tulsa. By contrast, within 25 miles of the Manchester runway sit nine professional clubs, with almost double that number at semi-pro level. Before my 18th birthday, I had represented three of them.

I was scouted by Stockport Countys School of Excellence as an eight-year-old and excelled in their navy colours for the next four seasons, building up a reputation in the region. So when Manchester City offered me a spot in their world-renowned academy, a tribunal ruled that hefty compensation was to be paid to County, making me one of the most expensive 12-year-olds in British football history.

A lifelong City fan, I gladly committed my teenage years to the academys Platt Lane training complex, where prodigies progress and dreams come true. Every Tuesday and Wednesday I was excused from school and reported to the same fields and the same coaches that reared my City heroes: Shaun Wright-Phillips, Stephen Ireland, Micah Richards and Joey Barton. On Saturdays after my own matches I ball-boyed at the stadium. From pitch level, I watched Daniel Sturridge and Michael Johnson make Premier League debuts, convinced that one day Id be out there too.

But the fantasy of playing professionally for my boyhood club ended when I was 16, graduated from high school and deemed not fast enough to mix it with the latest crop of demi-stars scouted from across the globe.

Two years later, a second door to dreamland shut firmly in my face. I had completed a two-season youth team apprenticeship at Rochdale AFC, a club 108 years older than the current Roughnecks. Desperate to land contracts, my team-mates and I fought to impress The Gaffer by whatever means necessary. On the pitch, we scrapped to a Youth Alliance league title. Off it, we completed chores: filling wheelie-bin ice baths with freezing water, packing training equipment into The Gaffers Nissan Navara and obediently scrubbing the first teamers boots we wished to fill.

I regularly trained with the professionals, played alongside them in the reserves, and appeared in a first-team pre-season match. When I was named the clubs Youth Player of the Year in 2011, I became quietly confident about my chances. But money wasnt flowing through the grey, north Manchester town. And the first-team was stacked with experienced central midfielders. I just dont see you replacing them next season, rang The Gaffers crushing message in May 2011.

On the drive home I pulled into a Chadderton layby to call Dad. As the call connected, I turned off the wipers and watched raindrops slide slowly down the windscreen. How much of my cracking voice he made out Im not sure. But he got the message.

We knew this was a possibility, so just keep your head up, mate, he reassured me. Were going to find you a club. This is not the end. Another, maybe even a better, opportunity is going to come along for you.

It would do, not that I could see it then. I was 18 and after a decade on the English academy track thought I was finally nearing destination professional football. As it turned out, I was just setting sail on the scenic way around.

Team-mates found non-league teams and workaday employment. School friends packed for universities. My academics, which I had managed to successfully attain alongside football, earned offers from a number of prestigious British schools. But none interested me. I needed football. If not, adventure.

When the tears dried, I impressed at a showcase match in front of scouts from across the globe and was presented with an opportunity that ticked both boxes: Soccer! In America!

I agreed to play on a four-year football scholarship at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee that would cover tuition fees and provide help towards rent and textbooks.

My flight to Americas Midwest region connected at JFK. On approach to landing I looked down: baseball fields everywhere. I sneered, silently judging a sport I didnt understand, never imagining a few years later I would be playing on top of a matching red clay diamond.

By late 2014, Tulsas new club had fans, a crest and a name. A competition carried in Tulsa World, the local newspaper, allowed readers to decide what the franchise would be called. Future fans voted for a Roughnecks resurrection. The club assembled a supporters group The Roustabouts from the most enthusiastic responders to the newspaper poll and drew up diagrams of how to squeeze a football pitch on to a baseball field.

Mike Melegas vision was taking shape. The Drillers had erected a soccer club from nothing. All that remained missing was an entire squad of players and a head coach to scout then train them. But as the baseball staff believed: if you build it, they will come.

The Roustabouts show their support. Photograph: Lori Scholl

David Irving already knew Tulsa well when Melega first made contact. The 63-year-old Englishman had played for the NASL incarnation of the Roughnecks for a season in 1980, following a career scoring goals in the UK for Workington, Oldham Athletic and Everton. He also knew the USL, having coached in the league for 16 years. He led Wilmington Hammerheads to a title in 2003 and set Glenn Murray on a course to the Premier League in the process.

Irving was appointed in November 2014 and handed keys to a renovated locker room full of empty seats. The search for a squad took him and Tom Taylor, his assistant coach, across half the northern hemisphere.

For the first two months I was just travelling, trying to recruit players and set up combines and look for players, said Irving, Cumbrian tones still heavy despite a quarter-century living in America. That was my priority and everything else would just kind of fall into place. I started during Thanksgiving. I went to combines in Chicago, to Fort Lauderdale, San Diego, LA, Vegas, Orlando, all over. Tom was in Ireland, I couldnt make that one. So we went all over. Its a process, and it was challenging putting a team together for February of 2015 when we started pre-season.

On their travels, the pair realised they were recruiting for a much different USL than the league they had worked in before.

In 2015, 13 newly founded expansion teams competed in the USL. The inflated league rebranded and restructured into two conferences an east and a west instead of one. Another five clubs began USL play in 2016, making the new-look league 29 teams strong, with yet more committed to join in 2017.

The influx is a product of two factors: the demand for professional soccer in more cities across America and the leagues alliance with Major League Soccer in 2014. Twenty-one of the current 29 USL teams have MLS affiliations. The relationship allows players to be loaned between teams, imitating the Spanish model, in which La Liga clubs field second rosters in divisions below.

At its core then, this evolving league is a developmental one. Evidence is in the young squads the average age of the Roughnecks 2015 team was 23 and the five substitutes a coach can field per match. Players generally sign modest contracts (with housing usually included) lasting the duration of the seven-month season, after which theyre on their own financially. According to Irving, change is good for US soccer.

Obviously its great to have the MLS teams entering the league, he said. It brings the whole thing up to a new level. I think every team has a different philosophy, whether theyre going to use the USL for development or for senior players to get time, or a combination of both or for academy players. Whichever, the league is getting better.

Laurie Bell playing for the Tulsa Roughnecks. Photograph: Lori Scholl

Bigger and better: the USL is growing in a very American way. And with professional soccer proliferating across the nation, more opportunities are opening up for players. However, spots for non-US citizens remain limited to seven per team, driving competition high between foreigners chasing their American dreams. Last year, I realised mine in Oklahoma.

The week before Irvings official appointment, my college soccer career ended in a 1-0 loss on a bitter winter night at Cleveland State University. Rooted inside the frosty centre-circle, I looked out into the Ohio abyss and wondered where football might take me next.

My sights were set on Major League Soccer and weeks later I was invited to the MLS combine, an annual three-day showcase attended by head coaches from each team in the top US league. I spent the winter preparing: first, alone on frozen Wisconsin astroturf pitches as I finished my university semester, then in England with Blackburn Rovers first team. But while with Blackburn, I suffered a cruel recurrence of the patella tendonitis that had haunted me as a teenager. In January 2015, I arrived in Fort Lauderdale, Florida with a suitcase full of painkillers and doomed hopes for a miraculous recovery.

As a foreigner, I was already vying for one of a limited number of international MLS spots. That season, Frank Lampard, Steven Gerrard, David Villa and Andrea Pirlo would claim four of them. To land a contract, I needed to at least outshine my college-age competition. Instead, in front of American soccer royalty, I winced through three forgettable 45-minute appearances. On draft day, the MLS commissioner called 84 names. Laurie Bell wasnt one of them. Rejection stung afresh.

I returned to Milwaukee questioning. Why had no club ever taken a chance on me? Was something fundamental holding me back? How long could I continue failing at chasing a dream? And was there anywhere left to try?

Some of these USL expansion teams still need players for this season, offered my college coach Kris Kelderman. Theyre putting together whole rosters from nothing. What do you think?

Not knowing what to think, I landed in Tulsa in late February and reported for a pre-season trial. A pair of tornadoes during the week did little to reassure me I was in the right place.

If I had hesitations about the wilderness of this new USL, they evaporated upon walking into the Roughnecks upmarket ONEOK Field home. I found my name fixed to a locker in Premier League-class changing rooms, a kit printed with my chosen No4, and was given a comfortable flat to sleep in. I met a young group of players who were impatient to prove themselves and a staff that was building from the ground up. Immediately, I wanted in.

Irving was familiar with me through a recommendation from another English coach I had played under the previous summer. As long as you dont want too much fucking money, he said, half-smirking, fully serious, as I sat trembling in his underground office at the end of my trial, wed like you to join us here this season.

I squirted a response, agreeing to become the 11th signing in Tulsa Roughnecks history then floated back to my new apartment. With no Wi-Fi installed yet, I hurried a mile to the nearest Starbucks to Skype my parents. As the call boop-boop-booped into life, the clouds broke and an orange sun bounced through the windows. Two expectant faces 4,000 miles away squeezed together inside my phone screen.

They want me, I announced, as relief as much as joy plastered all our faces. Im going to be a Roughneck. In the most improbable location a baseball arena in tornado alley, USA I had finally found my first professional football home.

Upon signing for enough money to contentedly live on, but not too fucking much I became part of a unique squad. Given the clubs new status, no players had past experience in Tulsa, resulting in an utterly egalitarian dressing room. No captains, no cliques, no hierarchy. And initially, not much leadership, conversation or banter either. Far from the abusive pre-season initiation stories Id heard from English first year pros, I took a seat at my locker, one of 21 equal parts. In Tulsa, rookies might have pumped up the balls, but our own were left unharmed.

The Roustabouts. Photograph: Lori Scholl

Almost inevitably, this unfamiliarity resulted in a slow start to our season. But form steadily improved and, ultimately, playing for a brand new club proved much like playing for any other. We won as many games as we lost, the squad united through plane rides, card games and nights out on away trips to Arizona, Washington and California, and we put ourselves in contention for post-season playoff qualification. After winning our final fixture 2-0, the fate of our season hinged on Austin Aztex beating Seattle Sounders 2 our rivals for a playoff berth one week later.

When the game arrived, Melega, Irving and the rest of the organisations staff suggested we watch together. Over the course of the year, players had grown close to the creators of a club at which most of our contracts were close to complete. So, on a hot September night we gathered inside Empire Bar, where orange Roughnecks scarves entwined with more faded football memorabilia on the walls. We knew our chances of progress were slim and the whole night shimmered in end-of-term affection. One midfielder had landed after-season work at the pub and nipped behind the bar to pull me a pint. By kick-off time, a Twitter invitation lured hundreds of Roustabouts cramming through the doors.

So we watched together. The staff, who had turned a fanciful idea to fill a stadium into a real life football club. The fans: regular Tulsa townsfolk wholeheartedly embracing their new hobby. And the cluster of coaches and players parachuted into this baseball playing southern US city from all corners of the globe and tasked to get the football rolling.

We did, but there would be no fairytale finish to Tulsas first season in the USL. Seattle won 3-2 and the settled table ranked us seventh best in the Western conference. On paper then, several of the 24 North American expansion clubs were more successful than Tulsa in 2015.

But as nail-biting TV-watching evolved into a lively end of season party, there felt like plenty to celebrate for all involved in the Roughnecks organisation. League positions and trophies are important goals for a football club. But truer measures of success for a start-up sports team are surely its reception by a city and integration into local culture.

To my mind, that has been the Roughnecks chief success, one that makes the club a model for future expansion teams. Irving placed as much importance on us bonding with fans signing every autograph and sharing post-match drinks in local bars as any onfield tactics. Melegas staff appointed The Roustabouts de facto club ambassadors and organised the squads appearance at several community events.

The result was that a diverse ONEOK Field crowd produced the fifth highest average attendances in the league nationwide, a remarkable feat in the clubs first season. When jogging through downtown on cool down days, workers banged on office windows, kids hi-fived us, and pick-up truck drivers affectionately tooted horns. And one year on, now plying my trade in Sweden, I still receive regular well wishes from Tulsans via Twitter.

As the afterparty staggered to Legends the citys resiliently popular country dancing hall and players, coaches, club staff and supporters joined cowboy-booted locals on the dance floor, the assimilation felt complete. To sustain this professional soccer proliferation, each new North American club must dance to its own beat. And thats how I learned to Tulsa two-step.

This article appeared first on In Bed With Maradona Follow Laurie Bell and In Bed With Maradona on Twitter

from All Of Beer http://allofbeer.com/from-manchester-city-to-oklahoma-how-a-rejected-footballer-kept-the-dream-alive/

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imakeficrequestsandthendisappear · 7 years

Text

When You Say My Name CH10

Author: YoungDumbandFullofHeadcanons /https://imakeficrequestsandthendisappear.tumblr.com/

Summary: Being an Army brat means that every new town is a chance to start over. When the Criss family moves to Derry, Vicky Criss dies so Vic can start living.

Pre-IT (2017), AU: Trans!Vic Centric, Henry/Vic Slow burn

Angst  Fluff  More Angst  Smut  Even More Angst Playing fast and loose with the canon

Rating: Explicit

Archive Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Major Character Death Rape/Non-Con Underage

Category: M/M

Fandoms: IT (2017) IT - Stephen King

Relationship: Henry Bowers/Victor Criss

Characters: Henry Bowers Victor Criss Patrick Hockstetter Reginald “Belch” Huggins Henry Bowers’s Gang (IT) Oscar “Butch” BowersThe Losers Club (IT) Pennywise (IT)

Language:English

Chapter 10: Kiss

Summary: Henry could never put into words all the thoughts he had in that moment. He could never begin to describe the ethereal face under the harsh television glare. He could never even fathom why this sight of his friend makes everything in his chest compress and expand all at once. But he does know that all he wants to do is kiss Vic again, and he lacks the impulse control to stop himself.

August, 1986

Vic keeps his promise and never does tell anyone about the kiss in the barrens, but the other half of his promise breaks almost immediately. Because age twelve is the time when everything starts to change.

At first Henry avoids Vic, not altogether shunning him, but just actively putting more distance between them when they’re together. They lean a little less into each other now. Henry grabs onto him less often, though Vic still follows loyally behind as if Henry is tugging him along. Henry still comes through the back window at night, but he doesn’t wake Vic for the bandages he needs. Instead he just lies down, bleeding from wherever, and rests strategically further away from Vic’s sleeping body than usual. And Vic starts trying not to cry as often around him, because Henry seems less willing to wrap around him and hug him through the tears. Overall the new dynamic is cold and harsh and neither boy enjoys it, but it persists for a few weeks.

Until the tension brakes one night.

The two sit cross-legged on the living room floor, the room dark except for the glow of the television. Terminator plays on a network channel and both boys are engrossed in the film, but are not so hypnotized that they don’t keep an alert ear out for the sound of Mr. Criss’ car pulling up in the driveway.

Daddy seems to be coming home later and later every night, but Vic tries not to think about it. Instead he hopes that he and Henry have time to finish the movie before he does get back.

They sit an appropriate distance from each other, not touching but within arm’s reach, but the gap seems immeasurable because usually they would be lying on their stomachs, shoulder to shoulder and hands twined together if they weren’t in danger of getting caught. Henry is fidgeting, eyes jumping across the screen, tapping his fingers against his thigh, refolding his legs every few minutes, but Vic is trying not to pay attention to his restlessness.

Suddenly Vic feels something distinctly warm and clammy on the top of his hand, and flinches it back before he can stop himself. Henry pulls his hand away, holding it in midair with the slightest tremble, looking nervous and rejected in the low light of the television. And Vic doesn’t have to think twice about grabbing Henry’s hand in his own as fast as he can. This is the first time they’ve really touched since the barrens, and he doesn’t want to ruin it by making Henry think that he doesn’t want to hold hands.

So they watch the next half hour of the movie with their conjoined hands resting between them. Henry is still clammy and fidgety, flexing his fingers, running his thumb across the inside of Vic’s wrist, gently scraping his nail across the web between Vic’s thumb and forefinger, until Vic can’t pay attention to the movie anymore and looks over at Henry.

And Henry is looking right back at him, cheek propped on the other hand as half-lit eyes assess him like pieces of a puzzle.

The television lights up as something explodes on screen, and it illuminates Vic’s face in a way that Henry knows he’ll never forget. The reds and yellow fire on the screen highlight the gold tones of Vic’s hair, and the blond bangs fall into his eyes just enough to obscure to way the dark irises shine in the television’s glare. There’s a pinkness in along his nose and cheeks, either from flushing or from the sunburn he��d gotten earlier in the day. In the light, his lips catch a certain shiny luster, slightly dampened by spit and tinted pink from anxious biting. And then what sets all those luminescent colors off is the shadows that darken one side of his face, contrasting the warm hues with cool blue wherever they touch his pale skin. There’s a duality to the image, dark and light, hot and cold, hidden and exposed. And there has always been a strange duality to Vic that draws Henry in, something about the angles of his cheeks and the plushness of his lips and the haunted look in his dark eyes.

Henry could never put into words all the thoughts he had in that moment. He could never begin to describe the ethereal face under the harsh television glare. He could never even fathom why this sight of his friend makes everything in his chest compress and expand all at once. But he does know that all he wants to do is kiss Vic again, and he lacks the impulse control to stop himself.

Vic stays perfectly still as Henry leans into his space and presses their lips together. Their noses push uncomfortably together again, and the amount of actual lip-to-lip contact is low because of the angle. But the warmth is persistent as Henry kisses with a little more umph than before, because he wants to really feel it this time. The odd closeness is also there again, it is still unnerving but weirdly pleasant, and even though his outsides don’t move, Vic feels like everything inside him is abuzz.

Pulling back quickly, Henry sits back in his spot and looks away like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He doesn’t cry this time, for which Vic is grateful, but Vic can see that his shoulders are starting to rise and hunch forward, trying to become as small as possible. Eight months of being around Henry has taught him that this body language is a mix of fear and shame and sadness all wrapped up together in Henry’s mind. Vic doesn’t know any words to cure the toxic mix of emotions, but when Henry tries to separate their hands Vic latches on tighter, intent on not letting Henry avoid this again.

“I’m sorry,” Henry mumbles after a moment, eyes still downcast and face red with shame. His palm is even sweatier than before.

Vic has to work really hard to swallow down the lump in his throat and open his mouth, still feeling the tingle of phantom pressure on his lips. But finally he can squeak out some words as quietly as possible.

“It’s okay,” His voice cracking a little at the end.

Henry slowly looks back up at Vic, somber and skeptical like he thinks that it really isn’t okay.

Before Henry can slink away, Vic scoots closer, sitting on his hip and folding his legs underneath himself. So now they are touching shoulder to shoulder, with their hands still clasped, like they should have been all along because this is what feels right for them.

Still looking a little pouty, but all together less upset than a moment ago, Henry leans into the touch. But then he catches the sight of Vic’s lips again, this time they are dark and glistening in blue shadows as the television light dims for a moment.

“Can I do it again?” Henry asks quickly, without the forethought to stop himself.

“Sure,” Vic responds just as fast, not giving Henry any time to regret asking and because he doesn’t know what else to say.

And then Henry reaches up his free hand to Vic’s cheek, feeling the skin turn hot under his fingers as he turns his face inward and kisses him again. This time they actually angle their faces right, fitting their lips together a little more seamlessly. Their eyes shut on instinct, and the low light is fading until they are just kissing in the dark as the movie credits roll. Henry readjusts the kiss, lips squelching as he pulls back a millimeter and then leans back in, pushing more of his lips against Vic’s. He does it again, this time aiming a little farther down and catching Vic’s bottom lip between his own, and then pulls back a little again to switch their angles to see if kissing on the other side feels any different. He then he keeps at this pattern of leaving a string of soft, dry kisses on Vic’s mouth without ever fully breaking their lips apart.

Vic’s head is spinning, probably because he’s forgetting to breathe between kisses. His lips are slowly chasing Henry’s every time he pulls back, trying to find that rhythm of kiss and rest and repeat, but getting too lost in it to really be an active participant.

When Henry pulls away fully, though his hand is still on the other’s cheek, Vic can’t help but lean in a little more, waiting for the next kiss to come and opening his eyes when it never does. Foreheads resting against each other, tips of their noses touching, breathing in each other’s air, they just sit and look at each other in the dark. Vic fills his lungs after the long bout of kissing, but it does little to stop the dizziness in his mind.

“Is this okay?” Henry asks for permission, punctuating his question with another lingering peck on Vic’s bottom lip and pulling back again.

Vic can’t make more than a soft keening noise at the back of this throat, but nods hesitantly back. He reaches over with his free hand and put it on Henry’s cheek to steer their mouths back together, and then they lean in and it’s not just Henry kissing Vic anymore, it’s them kissing each other.

This time they set a rhythm that they both can follow, pressing together and then pulling apart for tiny puffs of air, never letting contact break as they change angles and press in harder. They get stuck for a moment half-stepping each other’s lips, Vic kissing against the bow in Henry’s upper lip, and Henry is pressing a long sucking kiss against Vic’s lower lip. But then the hand on Vic’s cheek tilts him more to one side and the Henry seems intent on getting as much of his mouth against the other boy’s as he can.

Neither boys would say that kissing feels good exactly, it’s still too warm and sticky and a little awkward, but they would never say that it feels bad. Pleasure isn’t a word in their vocabulary yet, not in the same context it would have in the future, but that description also doesn’t fit the feeling they get from kissing. It’s more like the feelings they get when they comfort each other through tears, vulnerable and anxious, but then it’s relieving and satisfying a deep want for contact that exists far below their skin.

The extra movement makes their lips wetter, spreading each other’s saliva every time they drag their mouths together. It makes the kisses smack and squelch a little louder. The wet noises seem impossibly jarring in the quiet bubble they’re in, so the boys lean in a little more and just rub their lips together silently for as long as they can.

But then they hear the loud, rumbling sound of a truck pulling up the drive way and they jump away from each other. Vic turns off the T.V. with a shaking hand and then the two boys rush to the spare bedroom, shutting the door and keeping the light off and lying down in the cushion mound on the floor. They hear Vic’s father come through the front door, holding their breath and afraid that he would just somehow know that they were there and what they had been doing a moment ago. But the man’s footsteps only linger for a minute before he goes up the stairs and the sound slowly fades away.

Vic and Henry exhale in relief, and then can’t help the mischievous grins they give each other, because it feels like they’ve just gotten away with something amazing. Their hands find each other in the dark, clasping back together and pulling them closer. Their last kiss is one more lingering peck, lips now dry and chapped from overuse. They lie back and their heartrates slow as they drift off to sleep. Ironically, this little peck is the kiss Vic thinks of as his first kiss, because it isn’t accidental or curious, and it doesn’t feel nerve-racking or strange, it’s the first kiss that just feels natural.

Notes: Link to AO3 http://archiveofourown.org/works/12399036/chapters/28867215

So this is like the fluffiest little throw away chapter ever, and I love it anyway. It was actually supposed to be just part of a short intro for the next chapter, but then I couldn't stop.

There is the most detailed kissing scene i've ever written. and it had terminator in it. What even is this chapter? XDXD

So I did the thing where I decided to add a few new chapters in to my outline, so if yr curious this right now is set up to be a 30-ish chapter fic. the good news thing is im not trying to pack as many things into one chapter and which means i will be able to update faster. But also the chapters are gonna be around this length unless its like super plot heavy. More like fluff/angst ficlets that follow a plot thread.

I hope you guys like this, even if it didn't really go anywhere in the plot. I just think little fics like this are cute and a good exercise in descriptive writing.

I love your feedback and your comments!!!! light of my life I swear to God. <3 <3 XOXOX

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