#I have actually drawn him once before when they played the world championship final in 2018

[ifindus]

Hi. I saw your Macedonia art and was wondering if I could request Yugotalia Croatia. It is totally okay if not. Have a lovely day either way. <3

Of course you can! 🥰 Have a great day you too ✨

#hetalia #aph croatia #hws croatia #yugotalia #I have actually drawn him once before when they played the world championship final in 2018 #so it has been a while! #thanks for the ask! 🥰

[bittysvalentines]

Three Times Jack Zimmermann Saw Eric Bittle Without Meeting Him (Plus One Time Jack Didn't See Him but They Met Anyway)

From: @missweber

To: @n3rdyl4cy

Pairing: Eric Bittle/Jack Zimmermann

Tags: eventual meet cute, slow burn before ever meeting, implied homophobia, references to unsupportive parents, coming out, cameo appearance by Zdeno Chara, AU because real life NCAA rules apply, Jack didn't go to college, Bitty gets scouted by the Falconers

Summary: Jack saw Eric Bittle for the first time over a year before they actually met, but it was still as if someone had set a match to a fuse that would burn slowly but inevitably until it reached its end.

The first time Jack saw Eric Bittle was the February of his third year with the Falconers. It wasn't in person, but it was enough for Jack to have a flash of he's cute that was harder to shove back down than it should have been, especially since the photo Tater texted him was kind of hilarious.

Tater was at the Beanpot tournament with Thirdy and some pals from the Bruins and kept texting Jack updates and photos of the game.

Jack could have asked him to stop, but that would involve explaining why thinking about college hockey inevitably set him off balance and got him lost in a world of what ifs.

But then a photo came through that triggered three reactions in swift succession:

What the hell?

Ha ha, that's pretty funny.

Huh. He's cute.

The picture was of two people. One was a Samwell player, flushed and grinning even though his team had just lost the championship round to Boston College in overtime. The other was Zdeno Chara.

The Samwell player barely came up to Chara's shoulder even though he was on skates and Chara wasn't. According to Tater, the player (#15, Eric Bittle, Junior) was only five foot six to Chara's six foot nine and was 'quick like bunny!'

Jack tried to focus on what kind of speed a player like that would have to have play Division I hockey and not end as a smear against the boards, but he kept getting drawn to the sunny smile and the dark eyes that were unusually striking paired with honey blond hair.

Cute. And he kind of looked like Kenny.

But Kenny had never smiled like that.

An ex-girlfriend used to send him borderline explicit selfies when he was on the road. Those pictures had made him smile, but Jack had never found himself staring at them like this.

Jack put the phone down and forced himself to count breaths until he stopped shaking.

Once he could trust himself, he responded to Tater with a haha.

Then he deleted the photo and the entire text thread along with it.

* * *

The second time Jack saw Eric Bittle was a little over half a year later, right in the middle of training camp. Like before, it was a photograph. This time, though, it came via his news feed.

Samwell University Selects First Openly Gay NCAA Division I Team Captain

The photo was obviously a headshot from the team's site, but the brilliant smile and warm brown eyes were as lively as if it had been a candid shot.

Jack didn't get to the article itself for ten minutes.

When he did, it wasn't what he was expecting. It was as bland and banal and calculated as any item that came from a team's PR shop. Generic sounding quotes, no sign of anything resembling a controversial opinion (other than the fact that a gay player merely existing was controversial in and of itself), no personality, no depth.

There were only two startling revelations in the article, neither of which was more than a mention with no further explanation.

One was that Bittle came from Georgia. That was definitely unusual, and Jack wondered how someone who was not only short and gay but Southern ever managed to get into hockey in the first place.

The other was that Bittle's team knew he was gay before they had voted him captain and had voted him in unanimously - which was the only time that had ever happened in the history of the team.

Jack figured the article was only the opening salvo. There would be follow-up interviews, no doubt. You Can Play would be all over it, and so would Sports Illustrated and ESPN.

All that happened though, as training camp ended and pre-season began, was that several opinion pieces came out and Jack added more names to his list of which reporters could and could not be trusted.

(The one article that went viral did so for the wrong reasons: it was a passionate, pompous, and self-important screed about gay rights in international sports that might have had more impact and less unintentional hilarity if the author had not been operating under the assumption that Bittle was from Georgia-the-country and not Georgia-the-state.)

Also, Kent texted Jack.

did u see the news?

Jack didn't reply and didn't read the other texts that followed. But he did tell George he needed to talk with her. Alone.

"I'm still not planning on coming out," he informed her right out of the gate.

"This is about the Samwell thing, isn't it?"

He nodded. He wished she hadn't put it quite that way. If NCAA hockey had been an option for him, Samwell would have been his top choice.

In retrospect, going to the Q had been a mistake in more ways than one. Thank God the Falconers had been willing to take a chance on him after rehab.

"Jack, I'm glad you trusted me all those years ago, but it honestly doesn't matter to me one way or the other if you come out now, or later, or never."

"I just..." He kept his eyes focused on the corner of her desk. "There are" - he circled his hand - "rumors."

Rumors. Gossip. A few photos he wished he could wipe from existence. Fanfic.

"You know I don't care about that, Jack."

He nodded, eyes still cut down and away. By never denying the rumors about him and Kent, he'd confirmed them for her, and he didn't know what to do about that. At least she was willing to maintain the polite fiction that she had no idea who Jack had dated back in the Q.

"Just... If You Can Play comes around and wants me to do another clip..." He blinked away the stinging in his eyes and why was this rattling him so much? "I don't feel like I can say no."

But what would he say if he said 'yes?' He couldn't offer other queer athletes any kind of advice that wasn't about hockey. But just existing would say so much in and of itself...

"I'm not ready but I should be ready, shouldn't I? Especially now."

"Jack. There's no should about it."

"But somehow this kid can be brave enough to come out, while I - "

George held up a hand to cut him off. She shook her head sadly. "I don't think he had a choice. This," she said, pointing to a copy of the article on her monitor, "is a pre-emptive strike. From what Martin Hall tells me, Bittle was out to his classmates and before he was on anyone's radar as a top prospect. And apparently, his online presence wasn't at all discreet and he has a sizable following. Hall said Bittle decided it was better to get the story out on his own terms before someone put two and two together and made a call to Deadspin or worse."

Jack understood. It would only take one picture from 2009, one recollection from a team-mate, to get the story out of his hands or Kent's. He should think about getting ahead of things, but...

... he wasn't ready. He wasn't sure he ever would be.

* * *

The only reason Jack didn't see Bittle again until March was because he had his own hockey to focus on. Then finally, the annual nightmare of the trade deadline finally passed and speculation started churning about what might happen after the playoffs.

Free agent frenzy technically didn't start until July, but there was a lot of early buzz about the young men who would be coming out of the NCAA and where in the NHL they might go.

One of these young men was Eric Bittle. There was more talk about whether Bittle was too small for the NHL than whether he was too gay for the NHL, but Jack still avoided watching the video clips Tater kept trying to show him.

(He couldn't explain why he avoided watching them any more than he could explain why he only sometimes responded to Kent's texts, but he suspected it came from the same dark place in his mind.)

And then Samwell made it to the Frozen Four. Jack didn't watch, but he felt a thrill of vindication when he heard that the Wellies (and Bittle) won.

Maybe Bittle would sign with an NHL team or maybe he wouldn't, but the short, gay, Southern kid had scored the game-winning goal in the NCAA championships, and it felt like something in the world had shifted and wasn't going to shift back.

Jack was still mulling it over when he arrived at the practice facility that morning, and George had to shout at him twice to get his attention.

"Jack, can you come in here a moment?"

The request brought the usual spike of anxiety even though he knew nothing awful was likely to happen. He followed George into her office.

"I thought you would want to hear this from me before you heard it from anyone else."

Jack's breath froze halfway up his throat. He had no idea what his face must have looked like, but George patted the air in front of her as if the soothing motion would reach him. "It's okay, it's okay, it's nothing bad, but I didn't want you caught unprepared. Did you watch the NCAA finals yesterday?"

Jack shook his head. George didn't seem surprised, and he wondered what she'd put together about him when he started looking into online degrees.

"I want you to take a look at this." She turned her monitor so he could see it. A video clip played. In it, a small player with the number 15 on his back zipped between opposing players like a destroyer through a fleet of battleships.

The third time Jack saw Eric Bittle was the first time he actually saw him play hockey.

"Play it again," he rasped once the clip was done. This time, he watched while knowing what to watch for. The way Bittle read the ice. The way he sent the puck unerringly not to where his liney was but to where his liney would be. The way he was obviously reluctant to take a hit, but had turned that avoidance into a weapon, with one feint in particular sending one Denver player crashing into the boards and his teammate plowing into him a half-second later.

The soft hands. Eyes that were as full of determination as they were of fear.

"He might need a year in the AHL first - trust me, you'll plotz when you hear how much hockey he didn't play before college - but can you imagine having that on your line?"

He could. Very much so. "And you're telling me first because..."

She sighed. "Because you're my friend as much as you are one of my players, and I keep thinking about that first conversation we had about Bittle, and about what it would mean to come out. When or if you decide to be out is one hundred percent up to you. I know you're out to a few people on the team, but I wanted to make damned sure you know that if we sign Bittle, it does not mean I'm expecting anything from you except to play damned good hockey and live the best life you know how to live. Got it?"

Jack nodded, swallowing hard and blinking the brightness from his eyes.

"Good. And if we sign Bittle and that brings any attention back to you that you don't want, we'll deal with it, okay?"

"Okay." His attention went back to the monitor, which was frozen on the moment when Bittle was hoisted into the air by two D-men who were each half again as big as he was. His expression was caught somewhere between joy, indignation, surprise, and... sadness?

He looked more closely. There were lots of other people on the ice. Parents, siblings. The goalie was openly sobbing on an older woman's shoulder. One of the two D-men holding Bittle had a woman in a hijab smiling up at him. The other had a gaggle of redheads crowding in around him.

It took him a moment, but he finally registered what he wasn't seeing. He thought about the 'pre-emptive strike' article, and how there had been so little press and no interviews or profile pieces that he could recall.

Jack may have had any number of issues with his own parents over the years, but they had always, always, always been there for him.

And in many ways, they had been there for Kent as well, even during the dark times when he and Kent hadn't been talking at all.

"George?"

"Hm?"

"There's something I want to do, when you go meet with Bittle."

* * *

The first time Jack actually met Eric Bittle was at Samwell.

Maman and Papa would meet him at dinner, after Jack and George had finished talking business. Meanwhile, they were taking a nostalgia tour of campus.

"We're meeting Bittle at the hockey team's house," George explained. "I'm also hoping to talk to a couple of his teammates." She must have studied a map before they arrived because she set off like she knew exactly where she was going.

They crossed a quad that was bordered on one side by a pond. Jack wondered if it ever froze over hard enough to skate on. Knots of students were scattered on the grass, some studying, some napping. A lively pickup game of soccer ended abruptly when someone kicked the ball into the pond.

Jack could imagine himself in a place like this, but the imagining didn't hurt as much he expected.

Maybe it was because he had figured out somewhere along the line that not being able to play college hockey didn't mean he couldn't go to college one day.

Or maybe it was because something about this place, even though he had never been here before, felt like home.

George turned right just past the quad, but Jack missed it because he was watching the soccer players trying to retrieve their ball without getting in the pond.

And, of course, he plowed right into someone.

"Oh, I'm so sorry! Are you okay?"

A slender (but still solid - Jack felt like he'd been checked) young man had landed on his ass. He had a phone in one hand, and a miraculously unspilled latte in the other.

The man tucked his phone into the back of some (very short) red shorts and reached out to take the hand Jack offered.

"I'm sorry! I wasn't looking where I was going - I've got this meeting I've got to get to and then I got a text so I thought..."

The honey-smooth drawl trailed off as the young man looked up to see who had knocked him over.

"Jack Zimmermann??"

Jack could feel the flush rise to his cheeks and was glad he couldn't see how red he must have been turning.

"Haha. Yeah. And you're Eric Bittle, eh?"

He was even cuter in person.

"Um..." Bittle seemed reluctant to let go of his hand. Jack could sympathize.

"Hello, Eric. I'm Georgia Martin - it's nice to finally meet you in person." George must have realized that Jack wasn't right behind her. "I hope you don't mind I brought company along. Did you still want to meet back at your house?"

"Oh! Yes!" Bittle reclaimed his hand, and headed off the same direction George had been going. "I made a pie for you - there should be enough for us all, even if Chowder - that's our goalie - comes home early."

George nodded in approval. If Chowder was Chris Chow, Jack knew she was hoping to speak with him, too.

"Pie, huh?" Jack asked.

Bittle nodded emphatically. "Yes, sir! I hope y'all like pecan pie," he said, pronouncing 'pecan' completely incorrectly.

Jack couldn't help teasing. "Bittle. You need to eat more protein if you're going to be in the NHL."

Bittle gasped in exaggerated shock. "You did not just say that to my face!"

"I said it to all of you," Jack deadpanned. "Not that there's a lot to say it to, eh?"

Bittle's eyes narrowed, but the corner of his mouth twitched. "Why do I get the idea that you're going to be a whole lot of trouble, Mr. Zimmermann?"

"If you want trouble, wait until you meet my parents. They're joining us for dinner tonight."

It wasn't often that he started this kind of back-and-forth with someone so quickly. But something about it didn't feel quick.

It felt like a long, slow burning fuse that was first lit back when Tater sent that ridiculous picture had finally reached its end.

Meanwhile, Bittle started rambling on about how he really should make a second pie if he was going to meet someone's parents.

Jack fought back a smile. Tater was going to be so pissed he wasn't invited along.

"Sorry I'm babbling on like this, but this is one of the most exciting things that has ever happened to me!"

"I know what you mean, um, I mean, I remember what it was like when George came and talked to me."

George was a few feet ahead of them, but he could hear her roll her eyes.

"I don't know if you ever heard the story of how I joined the Falconers, but... well, I was in a rough spot. And I knew I would be safe with them. That I would feel safe with them."

"I'd love to hear that story sometime," Bittle said gently, reaching out to touch Jack's arm, then jerking his hand away quickly.

"I'd love to tell it to you." He didn't quite reach out to Bittle, but it was easy enough to let the back of his hand knock against Bittle's as they walked along.

It would have been nice to do more, to promise more, or just say more, but he wasn't ready for that.

"I wasn't expecting to meet you today, but I'm sure glad I did." Bittle smiled let his hand brush tentatively against Jack's in return.

Some other time, Jack might have said out loud what he was thinking, that it felt like he knew Bittle, like he knew this place, knew what it was like to walk side by side with him. Like part of him already knew what it was like not to walk hand in hand, but half embracing as they walked back to Bittle's house.

No, he wasn't ready for anything like that, not yet, but for the first time it was easy to imagine a time when he would be.

#bittyjack #fanfiction #bittysvalentines #bv2019 #omgcp

[prosenkhans]

Kobe

And they were going to a youth basketball tournament. 

Just think about that for a second. When we distill what actually happened yesterday to its essence, it was a group of parents and coaches bringing their young girls to an organized youth basketball game on a nondescript Sunday morning in January. There is nothing more vanilla than that. Then it ended. Just so suddenly.

I can online imagine the fear those 3 girls had in that chopper in its final moments, the bargaining that went on within the minds of those parents as that hillside emerged from the morning fog. I am not lucky, blessed, or even really deserving enough to know the joy of parenthood. However, even the least empathetic of individuals would be hard pressed to deny that Kobe was utterly in love with his family, and Gianna to her father. All the videos, the images, and interactions caught for celluloid and digital posterity, all of them showed a family deeply appreciative of one another. Beyond all things, that seems to drive this feeling of devastation further up my throat.

The level of tragedy is defined by the amount of potential lost within such an event. 

That fact that Gianna and her friends were 12 and 13 is more than enough to gut most people with a soul, however, the potential lost goes beyond even that. He seemed happy. Genuinely. Kobe seemed happy in what was in store for the rest of his life, his “second act”. The stone cold competitor with the icy scowl and bared teeth had transitioned into a statesman, an ever present and positive force within the game of basketball. Where once there were thorns, we now saw the pedals of the rose. Hugs and high fives. Congratulations and teachings. Puppets and children’s book. What we saw was a man secure in his legacy, and very much looking forward to the next chapter of his story.

But that story ended before the sequel could truly begin. As a group of people very much looking to see how the story would continue, we are left to wonder about what those potential chapters would have said. How would he have spoken during his Hall of Fame speech? Would he talk shit, or be humble? What number would be on his chest when his statue would be unveiled? Would he demand 2 to Shaq’s 1? Would we be lucky enough to be in the building when he and Gianna would sit courtside at a game? Would he still allow us to show him appreciation and stand an acknowledge the cheers? Would he be embarrassed by the continued adulation? Would we see him at UConn games, or maybe in an Oregon sweater? Would he be a leading voice in promotion of female athletics and the WNBA? Would he still allow us a peek in his mind, dissecting basketball games for public consumption? Would he write the stories that he wanted to tell? Would he make more art? Would he go on Kimmel and talk smack about the current stars of the game? Would he still smile and wave and take a selfie with us if we were oh so lucky to meet him? Would he continue to push us to be better? These are all questions in which we will never get an answer. 

The hero’s journey is not supposed to end like this. The hero fights the good fight, gives all he/she can give, and then ride off into the sunset. 

And I use the word here appropriately in this case. No, not a hero in the sense of how your parents and role models should hopefully provide the “hero” role in one’s life. No. Kobe Bryant was a hero in the sense that Superman is a hero to anyone that paid attention to his exploits. To my generation, a group of kids and adolescents that grew up watching him, Kobe is as much of a hero to us as Batman, Wolverine, and anyone else that wore a color coordinated uniform. He was an individual blessed with glorious purpose, a res on detra. And what made it better was that he was real. Real in the sense that we could actual see him be super, see him share his gifts, in real life, gallantry made flesh. What makes a superhero super anyway? Simple. Belief. We believe that when they dawn that cape, put on that cowl, they will be there to ensure everything is all-right. That everything gets the ending that we the masses so badly want. That they will come through when we need them the most. When Kobe put on that purple and gold tunic, he became our superhero. He gave us that belief, that sense of the universe being set right because he was our guy, and he would make it so. With him gone, it just doesn’t feel the same. 

I’ve been asked through the years on why Kobe holds such esteem in certain pockets of our culture. Every time someone asks me that question, I always think back to the quote from Norman Vincent Peale.

“Aim for the Moon, and you’ll still land among the stars.”

Within the fast majority of the collective consciousness of sports fan, there is one name that is always associated with Kobe Bryant. And that is Michael Jordan. Now I was lucky enough to have watched Jordan as a very young kid, fully appreciating the skill and special athlete I was observing. There is no denying of that. However, Kobe was different. Coming in during Jordan’s waning years, Jordan and Kobe never clashed at their individual apexes. A spry and almost cocky kid, you were drawn to him. He was just a few years older than I, and thus making him a huge part of those who would call themselves a millennial. While Jordan was seen as God upon high, the antecedent ruler of the NBA, Kobe quickly became the scrappy upstart. As the years went by, we were able to follow him on his hero’s journey, watching and developing into what he eventually became. A transcendent figure in basketball. And his game was so beautiful. The efficiency in his ability to score. The complete mastery of all phases of the game. His footwork was exquisite, it was art. His ability to hit the most impossible shots, and give you the faith he would make it. You had the sense watching him that no other human had ever played basketball as beautifully, skillfully,and as passionately as Kobe Bryant. You have to remember, Kobe played for 20 years. For most of my generation, that is more than half our lifetimes. We literally couldn’t imagine basketball without him in it. But why was his story so compelling? Simply put, Kobe was really the only one daring enough to challenge Jordan at his own game, the apprentice succeeding the master. He shot for the Moon, and had no qualms letting you know that’s what the hell he was doing. And I’ll say this. He touched down on those sands, stomped his feet, and pounded his chest, as to say “It’s mine now.”

The whole comparison debate and legacy really doesn’t hold much water. The game changes. Everything about the sport changes. The names change with each passing generation. However, Jordan and Kobe represent something quite different. While the pioneers and legends helped move the rocketship of basketball through the void of space, we can honestly say that Jordan was the first man to touch down on the Moon. He is the Neil Armstrong of basketball in a sense. All credit given. However, if he’s Neil, Kobe is Buzz Aldren. They are on that same rocket ship together. Jordan may have touched the sands of immortality first, but just like Aldren, Kobe followed him down that ladder and followed those footsteps to the same place. His legacy, his imprint, is right up there with the first. It is the sequence of history, with one’s value not diminishing the others’.  And just like Aldren’s actual footprints on the moon, Kobe’s legacy will be set eternally, looking down upon us from high.

But what will that legacy be? There is this silly debated, a national question of “who is the greatest Laker, Magic or Kobe?”. I always found the question silly. In short, the wrong adjective is being used. Magic, who is naturally gregarious, warm, and a welcoming personality became a leader and 5 time champion in his legendary career. Apparently you can’t be in Magic’s presence without wanting to hug him. He is the most beloved Laker. Beloved. Kobe, simply put, is the most revered. Revered. Kobe once said, “I always want to outwork my potential.” That was Kobe as a Laker. Sometimes cold, often surly, he was a driven kid that became a man obsessed with being the best. And it drove some people, competitors, and even teammates away at times. However, as a person who was privileged enough to watch his entire career, he did the one thing we can only ask for as fans. He lived up to his potential. As the world of athletics change into self branding, load management, and disconnected passion for the process of improving as a professional, Kobe stands as the shining example of someone who literally gave all he could to his craft. By blood, by sweat, and by tears.He dared to be great, unapologetically striving for perfection. He knew he was the best, and made sure that all his competitors and people watching were aware of that fact. He accepted the responsibility of the dawning the mantle, of being the standard bearer, the face of a sport. He certainly failed at times, but he never wavered in his journey. Often the most talented player in the room, his work ethic and drive was that of a player with a fraction of his gifts. And we loved him for that. You never felt cheated when you saw Kobe Bryant play. He squeezed every ounce of the potential within himself and left if on the hardwood floor for all of us to behold. He gave us championships, memories for the rest of our lives. He gave us that. He gave us himself, and we were so happy to see him walk off that court, thank him, and let him enjoy his next chapter. And now he wont.   

I can go on and on about this. I still don’t have the ability to eloquently describe all the thoughts and feelings about all this. I’ll just lastly state that we are lessened by the loss. Not just as Laker fans, or basketball enthusiasts. We are lessened as a generation when our hero’s depart with words left unwritten. We are lessened by all potential lost. But we go on. Jerry West, with tears in his eyes, said it best about his surrogate son.

“A singular word, Kobe, will resonate forever.” 

In a city that is defined by the brightness of its stars, the most brilliant of them all has dimmed from view, and future seems so much more caliginous than it did just a day before.

#kobe #kobe bryant #black mamba #kb24

[remedialpotions]

You Can Breathe Now

Read on FFN or AO3

A/N: In honor of the 20th (!) anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts, have this fic about my two favorite fictional idiots. Loosely inspired by a conversation about the liberties that the filmmakers took with the layout of the Burrow (hi guys!). I hope you enjoy it!

Summary: The night of May 2nd, 1998.

Word Count: 3,791

Rating: K+ 

Hermione couldn’t sleep.

She could lie on a camp bed, and she could listen to Ginny’s deep, even breathing, and the creaks and groans of a house held together by magic. And she could worry herself sick over the Weasleys, and Harry, and her parents in Australia, worry until a knot tightened in her stomach and hot beads of sweat popped up along her skin. She could close her eyes and let myriad images swim together in her brain: Fiendfyre, explosions, a beheaded snake. But she couldn’t sleep.

She had slept a little that afternoon, back at Hogwarts. After a shower, and a sandwich - Harry’s first order of business, after visiting Dumbledore’s tomb, had been to politely ask Kreacher to fix them all some food - she had found herself climbing the stairs to the boys’ dormitory in Gryffindor tower, wearing a faded pair of cotton shorts from the depths of her beaded bag and an old t-shirt because it was all that was clean She had merely been going there to check on them, or so she told herself. They were her best friends, and they had all been to hell and back - and anyway, she used to go up there all the time for far more trivial reasons. She really hadn’t needed excuses any longer.

But when she had set foot in the seventh years’ room - all achingly familiar, even Seamus’ Kenmare Kestrels poster - she saw only Ron. His hair had still been damp, his skin pink, practically rubbed raw from what had clearly been a scalding hot shower. Their eyes had locked, and like a magnet she had been drawn toward him. Wordlessly, they had settled onto his old single bed, atop the scarlet duvet, her heart thudding erratically as his arm looped over her waist and pulled her back against his chest. Even as sleep had tugged enticingly on her consciousness, she had felt his nose come to rest in her hair and his knees nestle behind hers. Her ears had still been ringing, and her limbs ached down to the bone, but as she had drifted off, she had felt more at peace than she had in years.

And then they had all gone back to the Burrow. All evening, she had watched him play chess against himself in the sitting room, watched as he made a sort of brown sludge out of the beef stew his mum had cooked entirely by hand, watched as he carried a bowl up to George, who remained shut in his old bedroom. Watched, with a sinking stomach, as he kept his eyes cast to the floor and spoke hardly a word to anyone, least of all her. In the space of a few hours, he had gone from closer than she’d ever dreamed to further away than she ever imagined.

So she couldn’t sleep. She had tried to let herself off the hook - to think that if she just laid in silence with her eyes closed, that was good enough - but her eyes kept popping open as though searching for something. And as Ginny let out a garbled snore and turned under the bedclothes, Hermione knew, as if she’d always known, that the thing she was searching for was Ron.

Which decided it, really. She slid soundlessly out of the camp bed, and after fetching her wand from the floor, she crept out of the room and up the ramshackle staircase. When she reached the topmost bedroom (the label reading Ronald’s Room was still affixed to the door, which sent a pang of nostalgia into her stomach), she turned the knob and entered before she could think herself out of it.

It had been nine months since she had set foot in Ron’s room, and she drank in the cozy, familiar surroundings, illuminated by the silvery moonlight slanting in through the window. Harry slumbered peacefully on a camp bed against one wall, his glasses on the floor next to him. In one corner sat several tidy stacks of comic books, and beside them, the old frog tank (the water inside of which had almost entirely evaporated) and Ron’s Hogwarts trunk.

His bed, however, was empty. It didn’t even look slept in. Hermione’s stomach plummeted and her heart leapt into her throat, but as she drew her wand, a light, cool breeze swept over her bare calves. Which, in all the summer evenings Hermione had spent in this very room, had never once happened before.

She was extraordinarily sleep-deprived. And emotionally drained in a way she’d never been. And yet, she couldn’t possibly be imagining it, the gap running floor to ceiling in the wall. As Hermione stepped closer - her curiosity would be the death of her one day, she was sure - she saw that part of the wall had slid open, and beyond the worn-out orange carpet was a small wooden balcony, complete with an uneven railing.

Hermione was nothing if not observant, so she had always known there existed a little balcony attached to Ron’s room, but as there had been no visible door, she had chalked it up to the eccentricities of the house itself. It was just like the Burrow to have a balcony one could only access via broom, but this... this was something else entirely.

Something creaked, just then, and Hermione caught a glimpse of a moving shadow outside, and before she could help it, she approached the little doorway and peered outside.

“Ron?”

He was there, of course, clad in denims and a maroon jumper, his bare feet dangling over the edge of the wooden platform. He turned to face her, and for a moment, she could swear she saw a smile flash over his entire face.

“Hey.” His voice was soft, quieter than she had ever heard it.

“Erm-“ Hermione swallowed; why was her voice suddenly failing to cooperate? He had been her best friend for nearly seven years, and he had held her while she cried and bandaged her injuries after she had been tortured, and they had kissed, for heaven’s sake - surely she could speak to him.

“Come sit,” he said, patting the space next to him, so she ducked through the opening and joined him, leaning back against the wall.

She wasn’t sure how close she should get, really. She wanted to sit right up against him, to feel the warmth of his skin pressing into hers. She wanted that closeness from Gryffindor tower again. It had been the easiest thing in the world, to let herself sink into him like she had that afternoon, and it would be the most natural thing now to loop her arm through his, allow his hands to envelop hers. But she sensed, somehow, that she should hold back.

Ron shifted a bit, pulling his feet up to rest them flat against the floor, his forearms atop his knees, his jumper sliding up to reveal his wrists. He wasn’t looking at her, and he wasn’t speaking; his gaze had shifted up, to the glowing half-moon in the sky and the mess of constellations surrounding it.

And she wished he would say something. Anything. What she wouldn’t give to hear him prattle on about the Chudley Cannons, how he was sure this year would be their year for the championship, or how obnoxious the ghoul in the attic could be, or the time when they all went played Quidditch in the orchard and Harry had nearly crashed into a tree. Anything but the quiet.

“There’s a lot of stars out tonight,” Hermione said when she finally couldn’t take it anymore.

“Yeah.”

“You’re probably used to it,” she continued on, words bubbling up faster than she could stop them, “you’ve lived here all your life. But when I first started at Hogwarts, I couldn’t believe it. I used to just stare at the ceiling in the Great Hall and I couldn’t believe how many stars I could see - well, growing up in London, with all the light pollution-“

“Light pollution?”

“Yes, well, London’s such a big city, all of the skyscrapers and street lights brighten up the sky to the point where you really can’t see any stars. But here it’s so different.” He had turned his head to face her now. “Here, you can see everything.”

Slowly, he nodded. “Yeah,” he said again. “You can.”

And then more silence, the awful, billowing kind, the sort where every second that ticked by felt like several lifetimes. Ron leaned his head back against the wall and swallowed, his tongue wetting his lips.

Why was she so bad at this? She never knew what to say in the face of grief, never knew how to handle it. She had never been a patient person, and never the one people sought out for emotional support. That person was Ron, and now, in his time of need, she had no idea what to do.

He stole a glance at his watch and then let out a long breath through barely-parted lips.

“I can go,” Hermione offered. “If you want - space - or something-“

“No,” he said at once. “No, I don’t want space. Not from you.”

“Because I would understand-“

“No,” he repeated. “Stay. I want you to stay.”

As the seconds rolled by, punctuated by the rustling of leaves in the garden, Ron looked again at his watch. Every time he did, Hermione noticed, he was increasingly annoyed by it.

“So.” Part of her felt like she had to keep talking. Maybe he needed her to fill the silence. “Have you always had a secret door in your wall?”

At this, he actually smiled. “I mean - yeah. I have. Dad charmed it so it wouldn’t open until I was seventeen - prolly for the best, knowing me - but then by the time I’d turned seventeen, I sorta had bigger things to worry about.” Idly he raked his fingers through his hair, which was still long and unkempt after months in hiding; Hermione wished he would stop being so carelessly appealing. “So I thought I’d try it out tonight.”

“It’s nice out here,” she said even as an inadvertent shudder swept over her.

“Oh - you’re cold-“ He sat up straight and made to worm out of his jumper.

“You don’t have to-“

“No, seriously-“ Into Hermione’s lap fell a pile of maroon wool, leaving Ron now in a dark blue t-shirt. “You can keep it,” he added as she pulled it over her head. “It’s my one from fifth year, it doesn’t even really fit - and I like it better on you anyway-“ He stopped himself, biting into his lower lip.

“Thanks,” said Hermione, pulling the sleeves down to cover her hands and savouring the warmth seeping into her skin.

The jumper smelled like his soap, and she curled her fingers into her fists so as to keep her hands to herself. She wanted to run her hands down his arms, over the brain scars branded into his skin and the burn marks on his hands from the cursed gold at Gringotts, to see if he still radiated warmth from the inside out.

Next to her, he stifled a yawn and then tipped his gaze back up to the glittering sky. In the moonglow, his features had become so fragile, from the patches of freckles on his cheeks that Hermione had long committed to memory and the thick, dark circles around his eyes.

“Why are you still out here?” she asked, trying to keep her voice tender. “You must be exhausted.”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“Yes, but I asked you first.”

He peeked at his watch again and stifled a growl of frustration.

“I’m waiting for midnight.”

There was a desperation on the edge of his voice as he spoke, an impatience. A longing, almost, like this was the thing he wanted most in the world and he couldn’t exhale until he had it. And Hermione wanted to see this day end just as much as anyone else, but Ron… Ron needed it to end.

“Why, exactly?”

“Because.”

“Ron.” Even in her annoyance, Hermione couldn’t keep the affection out of her tone, and he turned his head to face her. “We’ve known each other how long? And you think I’m just going to let you leave it like that?”

There it was again, that ghost of a smile on his face, even as his teeth caught his bottom lip.

“It’s just… there’s a lot I want to tell you. A lot, but… but I can’t do it today.” He nodded as though reassuring himself. “It can't be today.”

Adrenaline was not an unfamiliar sensation for Hermione, especially not after the past forty-eight hours, but it usually struck right in the midst of the thing. This feeling now, of being on the cusp of something, of just needing a nudge to go over the edge and never look back, was brand new. Every single one of her nerves had awoken at his words, ready for whatever came next.

“I’m really not sure if matters-“

“But it does!” he insisted, so sharply that Hermione was momentarily stunned into silence. “And it’s in-“ He looked at his watch again- “Twenty-seven minutes and forty-one seconds, so just let me wait this out.”

Hermione pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapping her wool-covered arms around her bare legs. Her mind was darting from thought to thought without bothering to complete any of them. How could he possibly tell her he wanted to talk to her, but then not actually follow through? Didn’t he know how that would drive her batty? Didn’t he know how much she hated the not knowing? Twenty-seven minutes might as well have been twenty-seven days for how slowly the seconds were slogging by.

Even as she tried to keep her eyes on the sky, busying herself by picking out constellations, her gaze inevitably slid back over to him. His fingers were fidgeting with a loose thread in the seam of his trousers, and every few seconds he looked at his watch, only to disappoint himself.

One of these days, she was going to have to stop staring at him.

“Ron?” she attempted. “What was going to happen at midnight? I mean - what were you planning, before I came up here?”

“Oh. Yeah, you have sort of thrown off my plans a bit,” he said, bumping his shoulder lightly into hers. It was such a small action, but it was so playful, so sweet, so inherently Ron, that she nearly leaned in to kiss him. As though she’d kissed him a thousand times before (as opposed to once, in front of Harry), as though it were the most normal, expected thing in the world for her to kiss him just because he was being charming.

But he seemed pretty adamant about the next twenty-seven minutes, so she simply hugged her knees a little tighter.

“So what was it going to be?”

“Right - well - I was going to go get you from Ginny’s room-“

“Really?”

“Oh, yeah. She sleeps like a log, she’d never notice. Erm, and then I was going to see if you’d go on a walk with me.” Suddenly he cringed. “Is that stupid?”

“No, not at all,” said Hermione, vehement; she could think of little better than a midnight outing with Ron. “Though we might need shoes-“

“Nah,” he brushed her off. “Walking in the grass is so much better when you’re barefoot, anyway.”

“What about when I step on a thistle?”

“That’s what magic’s for,” he replied airily, inciting a little chuckle from Hermione. “Anyway, I thought we’d go on a walk, and I could tell you all the things that I’m waiting-“ Another check of his watch- “twenty-four minutes to tell you.”

“Which are?”

“Twenty-four minutes,” he repeated.

“Why’s it so important to you? To wait until midnight?”

“Because...” His eyes had gone simultaneously dark and bright. “Because I think I know where we’re headed - at least, I really hope that I know. And I just don’t want that to be on the same day as - as everything else that happened today. I want it to have its own day.” He squeezed his eyes shut as though clearing them. “Maybe that’s barking - probably is, since we’ve already - but I just want it to be a new day.”

They were always so bad at timing, they could never get it right. They had never been ready for each other at the same time, and then when they finally were, the world had had other plans, but now they were here. They were sitting on the secret balcony of a magically-constructed house, where below them gnomes slumbered in a garden and brooms waited in a shed to be flown. And if they could just wait a few more minutes, they could have what they wanted.

Maybe Hermione could be patient for once.

“Can I wait with you?”

“Yeah,” he breathed in relief. “Yeah, of course - unless you want to go back to Ginny’s room, and I can do the walk thing like I planned-“

“No.” Hermione shook her head. “No, I like it here.”

Ron’s arm snaked around her shoulder, pulling her into his side. “Me too.”

When Hermione dragged her heavy eyelids open, the moon had shifted positions in the sky. Beside her, Ron was breathing slowly, deeply, and she reluctantly picked her head up from his shoulder to ease the kink in her neck. She couldn’t remember drifting off; the last thing she remembered was leaning against him, letting the scent of his hair drift into her nose, and she supposed that her fatigue would have to override her anxiety at a point.

She sat up a bit straighter, trying not to jostle his arm, and reached across his body for his left wrist. Despite the spring breeze, his skin under hers had remained warm, and since he seemed pretty well asleep, she allowed herself the privilege of touching her fingertips to the many scars decorating his arms. Those from the brain had faded in time to a dull ivory, slicing relentlessly through the endless freckles, but the burn marks were new, red, angry. They still smoldered at the surface, and somehow she knew that it didn’t matter how much dittany she applied, or how much burn-soothing potion: healing would just take time.

Time. Eagerly she turned the face of Ron’s watch so she could read it, and even through the sleep-induced fog in her brain, she quickly deciphered the stars and planets spinning before her.

“Ron.” She slid her hand down over his and squeezed. “Ron, wake up.”

At the sound of her voice, he stirred, rolling his neck to stretch it.

“What time is it?” he asked at once, stretching his legs out and bending one knee so he could angle toward her.

“Just gone three.”

“In the morning?!”

“Yes,” Hermione laughed as she watched excitement flood his features. “It’s May third.”

Her stomach fluttered madly as his arm moved up her back so that his fingers sank into her hair, just behind the shell of her ear.

This was it. This was the very moment that she had anticipated for nearly seven years. He was going to tell her how he truly felt, in no uncertain terms. It was finally upon her now, and looking at him, truly looking at the boy she had grown up with - now undeniably a man - and the way he was looking back at her now, like she was the thing he treasured most in the world… suddenly, she found she didn’t need to hear it.

He had shown her, time and time again, and it hadn’t just been in the big, dramatic gestures. He had offered up his life for her, yes, but the way he loved her - and she knew, now, that he loved her - had always been in the little things. He used to be the one reminding her to eat during exam time at Hogwarts, and he would fix her tea at night back at Shell Cottage, and save her the lemon-flavored Bertie Bott’s because he knew they were her favorite. She did still want his words, but she wanted his actions more.

“Hermione,” he said quietly, his voice cradling every syllable as though they were precious. “I need you to know-“

“I already do.”

“But I’ve never told you-“

“You don’t have to.”

“And what if I want to?”

His face had drawn a shade closer to hers now, and she found her attention locked onto his lips. She could hardly remember what they felt like, so frantic their first kiss had been, and all she wanted was to taste them again.

“Then you can,” she said, oddly breathless, “but later.”

There was a soft pressure on the nape of her neck as he pulled her in to close to gap between them, and a light puff of his breath on her lips, and then they were kissing, and kissing, and kissing, and his hand was in her hair and her heart was in her throat and she had all but stopped breathing, only needing him, his lips, the taste of his tongue as it slid against hers-

With a smack that seemed to echo across the countryside, their lips parted.

“Damn,” he sighed, resting his forehead on hers. “I could’ve kissed you hours ago.”

“You could’ve kissed me years ago.”

His face flushed at that. “Shhh,” he teased, bringing his other hand up to cup her cheek. “Let’s not think about that now.”

Hermione let her weight tip toward him and kissed him once more, internally combusting with every moment of his lips over hers, the warmth of him emanating out of every single pore.

”Doesn’t matter anyway,” he muttered against her mouth. “Knew you’d be worth it.”

#romione #romione fanfiction #romione fanfic #rhr fanfiction #battle of hogwarts #my writing

[namisashimi]

Yicun: ‘League of Legends deserves to be understood by more.’

source. yicun special column (mirror) by danneergou (丹尼二狗) and yicun (一村) for pentaq. images by yicun.

translator. it’s been forever, but maya brought my attention to this article by the lpl photographer, yicun, on his experiences at worlds this year. it’s actually a really fascinating and very personal reflection, and i hope you enjoy reading it as much as i did.

Because for those who don't understand, there's so much more excitement to be experienced.

From our first interview with him during the 2016 Mid-Autumn Festival, PentaQ has known this LPL photographer for more than a year. Since we didn’t meet him on the competitive stage, our understanding and knowledge of Yicun comes more from his photography - in it, you can find all that is League of Legends. That five-colored stage, that youthful, passionately shouting audience, the champions lifting their trophy and their glory, the losers crying in the corner, or even those busy passerbys coming and going.

Before the 2017 World Finals began, PentaQ published a series of 'Pre-Game Special Columns,' one of which was on Yicun. In that article, Yicun used photography to reminisce about how from when he first encountered League of Legends at All-Stars 2013 to now. After the finals, we once again contacted Yicun in hopes that we could hear his new feelings after the entire Worlds weekend.

And so, in the same place we saw the same old Yicun – dressed in athletic gear, full of life. From his arrival in Wuhan on 9/20 to his return to Shanghai on 11/5, he said this hectic yet fulfilling journey of a month and a half let him once again see the heyday of esports.

post-worlds memory: a heart under the giant championship cup.

the longest, yet the happiest worlds.

If I had to remember the last time I worked for this long, I would look back to Season 5 Worlds, two years ago. If I calculated carefully, it would only be shorter than this year’s by a few days – that was 9/26/2015, when I and some friends went to watch a concert by Rene Liu, then hurried to Paris.

A person in a foreign country will have a lot of boring moments, a lot of spare time – after all, that place is someone else's center stage, and where you live will not be that close to the players and the competition. But when this year’s Worlds came to China, my life had nothing else. Every day was Season 7 Worlds; there was no spare time, no leisurely moments – just focusing on one thing. Time really flew.

yicun in 2015: carrying his bag and his camera, he followed the world championships across europe.

Looking back on S5, the biggest feeling at the time was regret, but this year - perhaps some people might disagree with me, but I think SSG lives up to this championship. When I experienced this year’s Worlds, I realized the championship was not just determined by strength on paper, but rather by willpower. Sometimes, what we are battling with is not just skill and strategy, not just the player’s in-game performance, but rather their mental strength - in groups, SSG didn’t perform well and lost two matches in a row to RNG, but once they entered the playoffs, they became the team that wanted to win the most.

In competitive sports, ‘the one who is brave wins on a narrow path.’ In that moment, whoever could endure to the end won.

No matter what, looking back on that one and a half months - perhaps it was a shot that was both the longest and yet felt the shortest. It seems like only yesterday that I was preparing my luggage, yet now, the battle in the Bird’s Nest has drawn its curtains.

from short sleeves to long sleeves, from Wuhan to Guangzhou, to Shanghai, to Beijing - a month and a half’s ‘strange journey.’

from play-ins to groups, from excitement and worry to pity.

Most of the time, my photography plan isn’t officially set, but rather determined by myself. To me, photographing Worlds is a kind of mission, a kind of responsibility. It’s not that someone else is making me take these, but rather that I want to take them. To be honest, the official commission I received didn’t include Play-Ins, but I felt that anywhere that had LPL teams, I should attend.

Because I hoped that no matter what the result, even if WE could not make it out of Play-Ins, I could still faithfully chronicle this moment.

Throughout the entirety of Play-Ins, WE still had some stumbles. Apart from the LCK, this was almost a rehearsal for the performance of the other major regions, so even though the wind was calm, the waves were choppy. Compared to later rounds, I was more anxious during Play-Ins, because this was the first year this stage existed and many didn’t consider it a serious competition. As a result, I was all the more worried that WE might not make it out. However, even as I worried over this, I saw the analyst team working to help the LPL. At the time, the three teams had already come to Wuhan and started practicing, and we could once again see the strength of the LPL working together.

the play-ins were a part of we’s world championship experience.

Because my hometown is Huangshi, Wuhan was very close to home. I had originally planned to visit home after Play-Ins ended, but for various reasons failed to do so - I’m usually someone who returns home periodically, but this Worlds, after Play-Ins began I didn’t go home at all.

In the groups, EDG was truly worth pitying. They really had the ability to get out of groups. Sometimes, though, you just get unlucky; that’s all that can be said.

You see, in this year’s Worlds, the Western teams really are not weak. From certain standpoints, the Western teams and the SEA teams have a greater tactical ability than LPL teams, or even LCK teams. Asian teams are more stable in their basic mechanics, in their fighting and teamwork than the West, but when something unusual happens, or when there’s a patch change, our ability to react is less than those of other regions. We are too used to following our own tempo in the game. So, even if it’s just my own opinion, when EDG faced C9, perhaps they had yet to adjust themselves to their best form.

If you want to talk about pain, this year’s EDG was not as painful as that of the past two years. After all, that year was far more regretful. Speaking of something that left a serious impression on me: after EDG lost, Clearlove walked off the stage. At that time, he hadn’t yet gotten his mindset out of the game, and as he walked onto the stairs and saw me, he said something like this.

‘What’s left depends on WE and RNG.’

So, I want to say - our players have their own shared honor, and this honor, it all exists in each of their hearts.

even if i can’t go on, then please take my hopes with you and go forward. this is the honor of a region.

to touch hearts, to leave no regrets.

Quarterfinals and semifinals - one in Guangzhou, one in Shanghai. Comparatively speaking, the quarterfinals most touched our hearts, while the semifinals most caught our attention and left us with no regrets.

Of my entire Worlds photography journey, the quarterfinals were the most unforgettable. Here, whether they sadly left the stage or continued on, each team had their own story to tell.

For example, FNC vs. RNG. I had followed FNC for a long time, while RNG was one of our LPL teams. I liked both teams a lot, so I felt like I had returned to that quarterfinals in 2015, where FNC faced EDG. Another game was MSF vs. SKT. MSF performed incredibly well, and I really hoped they could win. To me, the quarterfinals brought all the highlights from the group stages together. In groups, even if you lost every game the first week, you’d still have a thread of life to cling to in the second week. Quarterfinals were different. If you lost, you lost - win or die.

Luckily, both our LPL teams took the win.

Ah, the quarterfinals. How many years had it been since we last broke out of quarterfinals? That was really a different feeling. In past years, my heart would always feel empty after quarterfinals, because our team was out. Semifinals, finals - those photos were all taken for someone else to see.

The position I gave myself was not just for Worlds, but also for the LPL. So once the LPL teams had all left, my heart would feel that ‘emptiness.’ Even in the Bird’s Nest, it was the same. I knew that in my life, I wouldn’t have many opportunities to take photos in the Bird’s Nest, but as the as the 11/4 finals drew closer, I was more willing to ‘pull myself out’ and experience the match as a spectator - it had been a very long time since I last watched a game as an ordinary spectator.

So if the end result of the quarterfinals were happiness, then in Shanghai, in what could truly be called the ‘esports headquarters,’ what we welcomed was the pain of the LPL teams being eliminated.

Compared to those of the last two years, this year’s results are, of course, slightly better, and perhaps even reminiscent of S4 - really, so close. Even though the Chinese teams didn’t make it to the Bird’s Nest, this year was still a successful year for the LPL. Even if we didn’t have the best competitive results, through our matches we had broadcasted the culture that belonged to us, that belonged to League of Legends. The people around me who played other games had begun to appreciate League of Legends; my friends from other careers, who had no relationship to the game, were also supporting League of Legends, supporting the Bird’s Nest, supporting the S7 World Championships.

‘fighting’ might be the best descriptor of the lpl. it implies ‘no matter who wins or loses, we will put in our best effort.’

After the semi-finals ended, many people said it was like the end of youth.

Hearing this, I felt comforted rather than miserable. Whether our youth had come to an end was not for us to say, but if you could wholeheartedly say something like that, it meant League of Legends had completely affected you, that it had become a part of your youth. Those who said ‘my youth has ended,’ congratulations. You have become adults. But if you are willing to wait, League of Legends is really just like you. It too is growing up.

So, I don’t think ‘youth has ended’ is a sad topic. No matter what, it proves ‘once, it existed.’

So, I don’t care ‘whether youth has ended or not,’ ‘whether the game was deleted or not,’ what I care about is if it really gives you happiness.

league of legends deserves to be understood by more.

Honestly, that day in the Bird’s Nest, before the game started I was worrying the seats wouldn’t fill up, and then the photographs would look ugly. But after Jay Chou finished his song and Legends Never Die began, I looked all around me and discovered I had already sunk into a sea of people.

During the finals, I mostly enjoyed the game from a spectator perspective. Because I spent most of my time in the audience, my photographs were largely of the whole venue; because the stage was so distant, I didn’t take many pictures of the players or match details. There was one photograph - during the most critical moment in the third game of SKT vs SSG, I caught the last rays of the setting sun. The second the setting sun passed through the Bird’s Nest, Faker secured first blood. I had a strange premonition: this could be Faker’s last first blood in this year’s World Championships.

the last ray of the setting sun filters through the top of the Bird’s Nest, alighting on the faces of the audience.

-- but since I’ve been talking so much, many of these questions have been brought up already. So I wonder, is it still important to discuss the final victory more?

I think back to six or seven years ago, maybe 2011 or 2012. I was still in Beijing then and had yet to take up a League of Legends-related photography job. I would often go to the Water Cube to swim, and no matter how many times I saw the Bird’s Nest, how many times I saw the Water Cube, I would never have thought that one day, we would be hosting an esports competition there.

And now, in this very moment, it is truly a golden age, a golden age that belongs to esports.

I began to photograph esports in 2006. In these ten years, I have been through the rise and fall of many games, and I have experienced many of what I felt were golden ages. When I photographed CS, I found like that was a golden age; when I photographed DOTA, I felt like that was also a golden age. But thinking about it now, for those of us in the gaming sphere that was definitely the case, but that’s only a small group of people who love games. It is still a very small circle.

Whereas now, I truly feel the real golden age is not just something that occurs within the community. It needs to influence more people, more people outside its usual sphere of influence, like your parents, like your friends, like those strangers who walk past you - allowing those beside us, who have no understanding of the game, to still feel the beauty of esports. This is something that League of Legends’ World Championships has accomplished.

these musicians from all around the world - in their creations is the best evidence of the golden age.

It’s just like the Kaiyung golden age in the Tang Dynasty. The development of our economy, the strength of our country - those were only internal things. What really radiated out and influenced the whole world was our history, our culture. This kind of intangible power is what endures.

League of Legends is the same way; it is not just a competitive sport. It has the positive energy of a competitive sport, the ability to excite people, but now and in the near future, we can still have more - music, movies, and even more forms of art. We will always be growing. We have not stalled.

In the past, when I photographed esports and games, I’d always have this desire to photograph ‘culture’ - at that time, I didn’t realize what I photographed was actually ‘culture.’

League of Legends deserves to be understood by more.

And to those who do not understand it, I say - there’s so much more excitement to experience.

yicun has many good photographs, but few are of him. this one, taken by ren yijun, is of him at the sixth anniversary celebration.

postscript: a moment for those who left.

'Taking photos is like being a historian. Even if they're not pretty, I still need to document them.'

'Even after so many years of photography, I wouldn't rate my skill too highly. I don't think I'm a talented photographer, but I do think I'm one with a sense of responsibility.'

'I don't take photos just to please people, but rather I hope they'll be like a slice of time, a truthful reflection of what happened.'

'I like photographs with stories. Only those have life.'

As a photographer, Yicun is constantly adjusting his own trajectory, constantly questioning what kind of photographer he wants to be, what kind of photos he wants to take. But his target has never changed: to chase the truth of a photo, to use the photo to tell a story.

So, at the end of this article, we've included some of Yicun's photographs. These represent the departure of the LPL teams from the 2017 World Championships, and in their moments, a story from Yicun's first-person perspective.

Of course, this kind of outcome may have left some people sad, but as Yicun wrote in his previous column, for some things 'the longer we wait, the happier we are when they are fulfilled.'

The night EDG was eliminated, after everyone had left, I went to their practice room and happened to encounter Meiko and iBoy. They were packing their things and preparing to leave. I noticed a commemorative coin left had been left on the desk; each player only got one, so it was especially precious. I asked them, why aren't you taking it? Meiko looked at it and said he was afraid that seeing it later would make him sad, that I should take it as a gift.

The day RNG was eliminated, Mlxg was the last to leave the stage. Even off-stage, he still sat taciturn in his seat, giving the impression that he had turned to stone.

11/14, after the final battle in the Bird's Nest, shouts of 'RNG' were suddenly heard on the stream. At that time, Ming sent me a message – he said, when he heard the audience shouting RNG's name, his heart felt 'empty.' In that moment, I could feel how his heart had stirred, how much he wished that the team appearing there was really RNG.

WE was eliminated in the quarterfinals. After the game, Condi kept smacking the hand-warmers against the chair, hitting it again and again. To him, that may have been a way to vent.

The night WE was eliminated, Mystic and his little sister were outside the hotel. To Mystic, China will always be a foreign country, yet he has made it his home for the sake of his dreams. When he meets his countrymen, his real family, that strong feeling of closeness will burst out.

In the end – thank you, Yicun, for making time for us.

#league of legends #source: pentaq #s7 worlds #yicun #i have a lot of feelings about this article #but mostly regret that it took me so long to translate #but i am very glad for yicun's positivity on lpl's worlds performance #and i hope he's right that league of legends is something greater than itself

[sneakyhomunculous]

Thrill of the Hunt

Hey everyone, I just want to get some of my thoughts down onto the page. This is mostly just me rambling my thoughts on the current state of OP and Competitive Magic in general. Disclaimer: I have been a lifelong competitive player. My first games of magic were FNM booster drafts 15+ years ago against some unbelievable competition. From day 1 I was drawn in to the fierce competition in the game. I know that I am privileged; Undeniably lucky and advantaged in every way before I even get in the que. I’m a white cis male who grew up middle class in the US with supportive parents. I was able to spend my free time cutting my teeth on Magic Online and traveling to local PTQs/GPs. But this post is not going to be about where you are from; or what challenges you may face personally; or what hurdles your demographic have had to overcome. All of that stuff is completely true and valid. I will touch on it lightly, and I am happy that things are being done to address some of those issues in Magic. That being said; This is going to be solely about the drive for fair competition that burns inside of every single one of us. Inside every single person reading this; Every person that has played this game for probably half of their life or more. For every person that has spent 1000s of waking and/or dreaming hours thinking about decklists, new formats, new ideas, old formats, old theory, new theory; All the while completely forgetting that their is any life outside of competitive Magic The Gathering. For every person that plays this game in search of something they can’t really define. It’s not exactly the validation of self improvement; or the highs of the good finishes. Or even the good times with friends and all the learning we get to do along the way. It’s simply the constant burning desire for competition. Going into battle against a sea of villains who are all fighting for the same thing you are. That upper hand in this ruthless game of marginal edges. I was never part of the “Old Boys Club”. I was always an outsider; a local end boss at best. In my 15 years of being a competitive player; I have played in only 20 or so GPs, 7 PTs and a few SCG tournaments (5 or so). I have always had other commitments (School, Full time Job, Wife and 3 kids), and I never focused 100% on magic as a job or anything. Despite all of this, I was always totally enthralled by the Pro Tour. I know I am not alone. I spent years traveling to PTQs in the South and found that there were 100s of local players who wanted the exact same thing as me. 1000s worldwide all chasing the same dream. The dream of mastering this beautiful game and moving up to the very highest level. The Pro Tour was an enigma; until you played in it. Once you did, you realized how right you were all along. The entire reason you played the game was for your shot in those 16 (17! 👌🏻💪🏻) rounds. The current state of the PT/Wizards Organized Play is still mostly a disaster. Everyone sort of knows this, but it seems that most people don’t care to admit it. (They usually either benefit directly from the current system, or they are incentivized to “be cordial” in hopes of one day benefiting from the climb up the ranks of the popularity contest. They say nothing or even back up the new status quo.) Shoutout to the true hero’s like GerryT and Lucas Berthoud. They benefited from the RNG in the system and still stood up for the fairness of competition. To the Edel’s and Soorani’s; keep fighting the good fight. I will always tell it like it is. At this point they are going further and further into the wrong direction. Magic is completely peaking; unfortunately OP is floundering around hopelessly. The only way to make anything happen right now is to win tournaments. No 2nd places. No top 8s. No good run,nice 11-5 see u in a few months. You have to be ruthless and collect trophies. If you don’t do this, at the moment you are an afterthought. That being said, I am coming for the trophies. When I win the Players Tour Finals 1 and then the World Championship you don’t have to worry; I will still be screaming for organized play to be about open and fair competition. The reality is simple; The highest echelon of competition is now DIRECTLY mingled with one giant absurd petty ridiculous unbelievable comically hilariously awkwardly stupidly infuriating POPULARITY CONTEST. This is mind boggling for so many reasons. It doesn’t have to be this way! No system is ever going to be perfect. It’s impossible to make everyone happy. It’s impossible to be 100% fair. But you could at least fake it? Just try a little bit?? Having invitationals is awesome. Invite Savjz and Day9 and then whoever you want to help out with the diversity issue. But don’t tie them directly in to the Pro Tour results??? And then make them 3x important as the Paper Pro tour Results???? It literally makes so little sense and is so infurating I cannot believe how little has been said about it. I know Wily and Lucas Kai etc. talk about it often. But 25+ of the MPL all pretty much silent on it. Even the people on the bubble aren’t raising hell!!? I can’t imagine being someone who grinds and did well in multiple paper MCs this year, who is now on the bubble of rivals or MPL (that they found out about randomly over halfway through the season) and not invited to most or any of these Arena MCs!! They are OBSCENE tournaments already; 750K prizepool for a small group of players. The EV is unbelievable. And they just PILE on the Mythic Points or whatever BS system they use. It’s like worth double or more points of the Paper PTs 🤦🏻‍♂️😂😵 Siggy and I were talking while I was waiting to play my Quarterfinal match of the last fucking Pro Tour. I was in the top 8!! Siggy had just gotten 10th. I told him how bittersweet it is. With PTs mattering less and no1 caring anymore; I don’t feel as excited as I expected I would. It helped me focus as I know that winning is the only result that matters. I can get 2nd and no1 will remember me. I will not be invited to the next Pro Tour on Arena in a month. In 2 paper PTs from now I will not be there at all unless I top 8 the next one too!! (Or I get on the good side of some Wizards people maybe, or up my clout and twitter followers.) People say this stuff as a joke, but even in this PT top 8 I felt alienated a bit. Ondrej was getting literal hugs from all of the staff before the quarters even started because they know him from inviting him to things, because he calls himself Honey and smiles and is nice and streams. I love Ondrej and I believe he’s a really great player and deserves to be playing these tournaments anyway; It’s just wild to me that at the literal highest possible level of competition it’s still about some things other than the competition. Lucas and others have covered it, but in no other games/esports is this the case. When you watch the TI; or even the Fortnite World Championship... You don’t see famous players or clout farmers. You see unbelievable talent and dedication, the absolute best of the best who clearly earned their way. You don’t see Marshmello and Drake; or even Ninja and his buddies. You see 100 kids between the ages of 13-20 you’ve never heard of; who are all so unbelievably good it will give you the chills. Siggy said something along the lines of “Yeah it is really weird; I got 10th for 5k which is just an unbelievable result obviously. But the Arena PT next month is worth like 5x. You get 7500$ for dead last! And so many points!!” Congrats Siggy, but I won’t be playing in the Arena PT. Neither will 1000s of players who have played in the handfuls of paper PTs over the past few years. SEPERATE THEM! Have all the Arena Invitationals you want. Spend as much money on that as you want. We can take the slaps in the face it’s no big deal. “250k PLAYERS TOUR FINALS! Qualify by winning FIRST PLACE in a GP this season!!! Only 128 Players very exclusive wow wow cool we have to kill the pro tour to make this happen but it’s awesome woohoooooo” “Cominggggg to Long Beach Californiaaaaaaa Your 3Million$$$$$ Arena Mythic Professional Tour Championship of the Universe!!!!!!!!!!! 38 Unbelievable challengers will be taking on this new format and chopping up the 3 million$ plus 100s of Mythic pojnts catapaulting them all into the MPL conversation while you argue on twitter about who should have been invited; as if it fucking matters. As if we read that shit at all!!! If we fucking cared about what you think maybe we would respond to you sometimes 😂💪🏻😬👌🏻👌🏻💯” Just relax; stop giving away rivals/MPL points in tournaments that are invite based and already so high profile with massive prize pools. (This doesn’t affect me at all by the way; I am not even close on points it’s just very obviously the right thing to do and it’s unbelievable they aren’t acknowledging it and just continuing to invite whoever they feel like). Ok enough clowning... but for real though. What in the fuck is this popularity contest bullshit?? How is this being joked about so lightly, it’s an abomifuckingnation! Invite whoever you want, just pick some people based on some predetermined merit. Give people a chance. Something to shoot for. Have open tournaments for people from Australia and Latin America. Have open qualifier tournaments for females/NB Invite people who deserve to be there from previous PT performance like Allen Wu or Eli Loveman or Matt Sperling or Sebastian Pozzo or TheSneakyhomunculous or Jack MF Dobbin or Lan d Ho and Mark herberholz for all I care. Just give the people some feedback on anything ever! Ok enough is actually enough I could write forever about OP and what I wish they would do. But really all we can ask for is fair competition and clear communication. People will complain about anything and everything, but if Wizards would just be open and honest while communicating and promoting fair competition at the highest levels... I couldn’t give 2 shits how little money the tournaments pay or where we have to play them. We just want to have a fighting chance to play against Paulo and Luis and Kai and Yuki and Allen Wu and Zvi and Gab and Seth and Li and Lucas and Shota. Aside: Arena is also a disaster at this point. How can they not implement a friends list? Any programming/computer scientist people know what the fuck is going on? It’s been 2 years now and they are still printing $ faster than a magic streamer from outside the US with 10k+ twitter followers can print with 500000 Arena PTs on the horizon! And they still can’t fix anything ever? How is there no spectator mode or tourney mode? How is building a sealed deck still impossible? How is the best fucking computer you can find lagging after 5 matches no matter what? We gotta figure this shit out m8. Arena should have nice big competitive in client tournaments every day. At least one or two a week. Instead we can’t even draft the fucking current format? The bots can’t fucking click on Merfolk Secretkeeper? 3 cards in pack they really click deafening silence over the secretkeeper???? God dammit GG’s no re sorry u had to read this. TL;DR Old Man Yells at Clouds

[junker-town]

Tactically Naive: Euro 2020 qualifying is really upping the weirdness

Everything you need to know about this delightful mess of a tournament.

Hello, and welcome back to Tactically Naive, SB Nation’s weekly soccer column. In this week’s slightly delayed edition, we look back at the grand sprawling mess of Euro 2020 qualifying, which came to an end — almost, sort of — this week.

And after 18 months hard qualifying, it’s time to say goodbye to ... San Marino

Well, not quite. But there are 24 teams going to Euro 2020: that’s going on half of Europe’s 55 footballing nations. 20 are through, with four spots left to fill. And UEFA have jazzed up the playoffs. Once upon a time, two teams would have played home and away for each place. Now, four teams will play for each spot: semi-finals, then a final.

More football! Glorious football!

So that’s 20 teams already qualified, and 16 more playing off for the last four places. Which means that after a couple years of qualifying, and a Nations League tournament as well, we’ve managed to eliminate ... yep, just 19 teams from contention. Have to imagine those 19 are feeling pretty silly right now.

Of course, it’s kind of nice to keep so many teams involved for so long. And we certainly haven’t missed the friendlies. But it’s hard not to feel like UEFA saw people say, “Eh, this Europa League’s a bit weird, isn’t it?” and thought, “Weird? You wait. We’ll show you weird.”

Groups! Get your groups!

The weirdness doesn’t stop there. Because Euro 2020: Michel Platini’s Grand Tour will be held across most of Europe (and just a smidge of Eurasia), the draw for the groups is being finessed. If a host team qualifies, they get to play at home.

Makes sense. Cuts down on air miles. They’ll know the good restaurants already.

So we already know, for example, that Italy are in Group A, because three of Group A’s games take place at the Stadio Olimpico in Rome. And we know that Germany are in Group F, to be held in part at Bayern Munich’s Allianz Arena. And Russia and Denmark both have to go into Group B, because that’s where Group B will happen.

But wait! Ukraine can’t go into the same group as Russia, for reasons of ongoing geopolitical unpleasantness. So they have to go into Group C, leaving only Belgium able to occupy the top spot in Group B. In summary, before the draw has even taken place, Group B is three-quarters full: Belgium, Russia, Denmark.

And just to lessen the tension even further, there are only two teams that can fit into the fourth spot:

Due to the host requirements, Wales and Finland can only be drawn into Group A or B. France are guaranteed to draw one of Spain, Italy, England or Germany. Portugal have 80% chance of drawing one of Spain, Italy, England or Germany (Ukraine other poss).

— Dale Johnson (@DaleJohnsonESPN) November 20, 2019

World Cup champions in danger?!

France’s qualification was ... well, it was basically fine. They topped Group H by a clear six points and only lost once in ten games. Job done.

But! When it comes to drawing the groups, the teams are allocated into pots according to their qualifying performances, and France ended up performing comparatively worse than six other teams, most notably and surprisingly Ukraine. That puts them in pot 2, which creates the situation in the tweet above when combined with the requirement that hosts play at home.

So that’s one of Spain, Italy, England, or Germany, all set to have their house party ruined by the arrival of the World Cup champions. There’s also the possibility, albeit remote, that Portugal end up in the same group as France and Another Big Team. Cross your lucky rabbit fingers, and we might just get a Group of Death worthy of the name.

Finland, Finland, Finland

We don’t have the final list of qualifiers yet, so there’s every chance this could change, but as it stands Finland are the only team that will be making their European Championships debut in Russia, or Denmark, or wherever the hell they end up.

This came as a shock to Tactically Naive. First, we were surprised that Jari Litmanen had never masterminded something beautiful to get Finland to a major tournament; and then we were outraged that Jari Litmanen had never graced a major tournament. Come on, football. Do better.

But who needs Litmanen, when you’ve got Teemu Pukki and Tim Sparv? Where Iceland went four years ago, Finland go this time around, and the whole world will be waiting to see if they can deliver the same glorious outcome: making England look ridiculous in front of the whole continent.

One day, when things settle down, I’ll try and describe what it means to us. Today though, I just wanna say thanks. Thank you for being there during the hard times. Thank you for believing. Thank you for helping us make history. We’ll be forever grateful. ( :Jussi Eskola SPL) pic.twitter.com/GGxbhcksCB

— Tim Sparv (@TimSparv) November 17, 2019

Cymru am byth

Let’s check in with Gareth Bale, who is still — despite Real Madrid’s best efforts over the summer — being paid sackloads of cash on a weekly basis.

The extent to which Bale no longer gives a single solitary shit really is very enjoyable. pic.twitter.com/eflCjhq7Pi

— Nick Miller (@NickMiller79) November 20, 2019

Back to Spurs in January, then.

The Red Misery

There can’t be many managers who have capped off a successful, unbeaten qualifying campaign with a 5-0 win, then immediately left the stadium in a flood of tears and lost their job shortly afterwards.

So pour one out for Robert Moreno — the former assistant manager to Luis Enrique at Roma, Celta, Barcelona, and then Spain — who took over as the Spanish national team coach in March after Enrique stepped down to spend time with his sick daughter. Nine games, seven wins, 29 goals and one “permanent” contract later, he’s been sacked. Enrique is coming back.

We’re guessing Moreno won’t be alongside him. This should have been a heartwarming story: one friend keeps the ship steady for another, who then returns from personal tragedy to lead his country again. Instead, per Sid Lowe, it seems Moreno was given assurances that were then undermined behind his back. And so, tears.

It wasn’t so two years ago, when Julen Lopetegui was sacked two days before the World Cup started for his heavy flirting with Real Madrid. Since then, Spain have been coached by Fernando Hierro, Enrique, Moreno, and now Enrique again. Given that Spain might be the most extravagantly talented footballing nation in the world, it’s a good job that they are constantly wracked with chaos. Otherwise nobody else would stand a chance.

To absent hosts

For the first time in Euros history, the hosts will be missing the tournament. Well, at least two of the 12 (twelve!) hosts: Azerbaijan are out, and two from Hungary, Romania, and Scotland will end up in the same playoff group.

The general consensus is that home advantage is helpful in football, and that this is exacerbated in tournaments. It seems that a national party can enhance a team’s performances far beyond expectations. Think of Russia storming through their World Cup to everybody’s great surprise, including possibly their own.

So will all these home teams have a kind of double advantage? And will this skew the tournament against the other 12 teams that are playing but not hosting? England will play three games at Wembley, a stadium in which they last lost in 2016, in front of what we can assume will be a predominantly England-supporting crowd. It might make an English group stage actually fun.

But alternatively, perhaps the disparate nature of the tournament will work against the usual tournament bounce. It’s hard to roar “It’s our time!” when you need a footnote. It’s coming home, Wembley will sing, and maybe it is. But it’s going to Rome, and Budapest, and Munich, and doing a whole mess of interrailing first.

[sayonaranxiety]

I Fell In Love with A Dandelion

She was beautiful. I mean, she is beautiful. But she was toxic. She was a nightmare in disguise and I was in love with her. She smokes, she plays around, she do whatever she wants to do. "I screw men your age." was the first sentence she said to me--no, whispered to me. She pulled my collar gently, her tiny hand crept up onto my back as she leaned on me to whisper those damned words. Maybe she saw a slight blush on my face or maybe she saw me a little flustered because she laughed almost hysterically after saying those words. For someone who said those kind of words, even if it was just messing around, she didn't look inappropriate for her age. She wore a short ripped jeans with an oversized shirt, revealing a death metal shirt behind it. She didn't wear something like tight mini skirt with her thong exposed for everyone to see or a super tight and low cut shirt to reveal her breasts. No, she wasn't like that. I saw her carrying around her worn 'Advanced Calculus' book, when everyone else in my class has a spotless, untouched calculus book. She enjoyed the world differently.  "Sophie Moore, my class." I said with a low, commanding voice as I walked away from her. I could hear her friends giggling, feeling their eyes burning my back. "Stop that, Soph or you gonna get more trouble than you already has." One of the girls said, "See you in class, Soph." I walked into the building, I could hear her tiny steps behind me echoed along the deserted hallway. Before walking into my class, I waited for her by the door to get inside first. That beautiful smile she had when she said she'd screw men my age was gone, replaced by a subtle, unpredictable face. I closed the door behind me, a loud click was heard, turning the outside noise into mumbled words. She picked the front seat placed right in front of my desk, combing her straight blond hair, waiting for me to start the conversation. "Will you explain to me why are we here, Miss Moore?" I said, sitting on my desk, a few inches away from her. "I'm sorry, Mr. Hemming. I was just trying to entertain my friends earlier." She said, her face filled with guilt. She was unpredictable. "You do realize it was a form of sexual harassment, yes?" "Yes, Sir. I am truly sorry." Our eyes met and I could see the word that came out of her mouth was sincere. I was wrong about her a few minutes before we reached my class. I thought she was going to make excuses, flirting uncontrollably just like those inappropriate females her age. "I hope you will be more responsible with your words and yourself in the future, Miss Moore. I may be young, but I am not a person who you can use for an object of entertainment." I said, walking away from my desk as I reach the door, "I'm afraid people wouldn't hesitate to do bad things to you if you decide to continue what you were doing." Her body was glued to the chair, her head tilted down. I waited for her to speak up her mind, but she was dead silent. "You may go, Miss Moore." I said, holding the door open for her just like the way we came in. She stood from her chair, slipped a few strands of hair behind her ear and looked at me in the face. "Are you married, Mr. Hemming?" She asked straight forwardly, catching me off guard. "I'm afraid it's none of your business. I hope you're not--" "I know, I'm sorry. I just hoped that you'd answer. Good afternoon, Mr. Hemming." And just like that, she left without looking back. Leaving me out of words in the deserted hallway as I watched her fast pacing from me, disappearing. Sophie Moore was 17. I was a decade older than her.  Yet it didn’t stop her. And me. 

She was broken and so did everything around her. But at the same time, she managed to change my life. "Miss Moore," I said as I stood between the students with a quiz paper in my hand, "Will you solve this one for us, please?" I continued, looking her from her back. Sophie turned to me as our eyes met, she stared at me for a solid three seconds and stood from her chair. Her glare was... peculiar. It made me felt different. I followed her to the front where she reached the marker from my desk and started solving the problem. Her hands went smoothly through the white board with her pinky finger pointed out. As she finished, she turned to me once again with the same expression and waited for my reaction. "Excellent." She gave me a little smile and went back to her chair. Sophie slipped her hair behind her ear and stared at her book. The way she gave me glares flipped something inside of me, like some kind of a switch that I never knew was there. It all started from there, when she finished solving the problem on the white board and it kept happening on and on. When she was summoned by Vann to the teacher room to pick up some papers, she saw me sitting on my cubicle. When Vann told her things she should do with the paper, she focused her eyes on me. I laid my back on my chair, adjusted my tie and waited as we both drawn into each other's eyes. "Are you listening to me, Moore?" Vann clicked her fingers in front of her face. We stopped. She nodded, repeated the exact words Vann told her and left the room without another glance. And after that, I thought everything just stopped. But, I was wrong. We kept drowning into each other's eyes whenever we were in the same room and I found myself addicted to it. One day Hayes wanted to see me in the gym, he needed the list of kids in my class who would want to participate in the upcoming championship. I gave Hayes the list and made some small talk, he told me how Jennifer and her friends tried to bribe him to cancel the remedial and gave her and her friends a score good enough to pass by revealing some cleavage. "So you cancelled?" I asked him with an amused face. He was in his early thirties, a few years older than me but he already had some receding hair happening in the middle, giving him the middle aged vibe. "What do you mean?" He asked me back defensively, his hands crossed in front of his chest as he shifts from one foot to another. I mimicked him, crossing both of my arms. "What? You know what I mean." I chuckled. I observed his expression, he was tense, eyes not focused, he was watching his class playing a dodge ball with his eyes turned to me every few seconds. I threw my head back, amused. "You canceled the remedial after they showed you their over developed breasts?" I whispered to his ears. "No, I did not." He frowned as he blew his whistler loud enough to make my one ear went deaf for a few seconds. "Hank! Don't hump the ball!" He screamed, followed by a roar of laughter from the whole class, echoing in the gym. "I swear that sick bastard need to take something to lose his hormone." Hayes said under his breath. "Don't make this about Hank, Hayes. Tell me what you did." I said, nudging him on his elbow. "I didn't cancel the remedial." He said with a pause, pretending to be focused to the game, "I just made them work on some papers instead of retaking the test." He said, clearing his throat. I laughed silently behind his back, imagining him falling for those fake silicones. As I was teasing Hayes, I realized something and I stopped. "Isn't that Jennifer kid is friends with Moore?" I asked carefully, hoping my tone didn't rise any suspicion. "Moore? You mean Sophie Moore?" "Yeah, yeah, Sophie." I said, pretending. "Cut it out, Hemmings. You should stop calling their surnames. Just get along with them by calling their names." "Whatever, I just thought I should keep the formalities." I was lying, I was more interested in discussing Sophie. "Yeah, yeah, formalities my ass!" Hayes said, forgetting my main question then finally continued, "Oh, I guess Sophie is one of Jennifer's packs but she was never like Jennifer I guess, although I heard the school had to call her parents when she cursed in front of Graham and the whole class. But, Sophie's kinda cool actually--" I stopped listening to Hayes when I saw Sophie Moore aimed the ball to one of her shrieking friends. Her long hair was tied loose behind her back, she was having fun in there until our eyes met. For I don't know how many times, our eyes locked into each other. I stopped listening to Hayes as she stopped caring about the game. The way she stared at me, the way we locked our eyes into each other was special. It was as if she was trying to tell me something. I could almost hear Hayes screaming beside me and tried not to care until my eyes were focused on the ball that was flying towards Sophie. And before I could react, the ball hit her straight on her head and sent her to the ground. The moment her head hit the ground, Hayes' scream became more audible in my ears. Hayes ran to her who was already surrounded by her friends. As Hayes checked on her by calling her name, I ran towards them, carrying her without any second thought. "I'm taking her to the nurse room." I didn't look back. I carried her in my arms although her friends were calling out to her. I slowed my pace and came to a stop in the middle of the deserted hallway. I looked at her rosy cheeks, her long straight blond hair that she loves to tuck behind her ears, her tiny earrings, and the curves on her upper torso. When my gaze was back to her face, her eyes opened. It took all the muscles in my body to hold myself from startling and ended up dropping her to the floor. She parted her lips and asked, "Where are we going, Mr. Hems?" "It's Hemmings, Moore." I corrected her as I continued walking down the hallway. "Can I just call you Mr. Alex?" "Hemmings is enough, Sophie Moore." I once again turned her down as I took a turn to the nurse room. I put her down on the bed gently as she circled her tiny arms around my neck. Her sudden move startled me enough to almost fall upon her. I stopped myself from falling with both of my hands on her sides. "Stop this Miss Moore. You've done enough." I said, referring to our constantly meeting eyes moments. She pressed her lips onto mine before I let out another sentence out of my mouth. The way she moved her lips were delicate, slow but sure. She separated our lips apart gently and said, "It's Sophie." Her nose was red, the colors on her cheeks became more visible than before. The iris of her eyes reminded me of a flower, a flower called, dandelion. The moment when I realize, I'm falling in love with a dandelion. 

#random rambling #short story #i was drunk #well i guess he is a lolicon #they're kinda dating in secret after this #but she still kisses another guys #maybe she's just trying to protect hemmings #from their kinda forbidden relationship #haha kill me #hemmings is really jealous with everything #and the he would ask her about their relationship #and why is she still kissing other guy #even though practically he owned her #btw sophie is really good at calculus #but she's dangerous #she slept with her spanish and english lit teacher #oh and her step brother #yeah sophie's kinda messed up #but she's faithful though #or is she #hahahaha #wtf am i doing #should i write more about this? #not sure though #bye

[maryeemeeh]

Wolves of Manhattan

SUMMARY: He is the rich kid from the Upper East Side with a troubled past and a dysfunctional family. She is from Greenwich Village who is pulled into the world of the rich and famous when her parents receive promotions. When their paths cross, a spark is ignited and the tables are turned when they learn they are far more connected than they thought. AU.

A/N: My apologies for taking months to update. You might want to re-read the previous chapters to refresh your memory. 

Originally posted on fanfiction.net 

CHAPTERS: One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven 

CHAPTER EIGHT

Everyday seemed to get worse.

His parents were arguing again and he was sitting on the back seat of the limo trying to not hear them. He didn't bother to care what it was about this time. It was always the same meaningless argument. They mainly fought about business, their crumbling marriage, and most of all, Lucas.

He looked out the window and watched the buildings and people on the street pass them by. What was going outside was far more interesting than the argument.

"I'm just saying, our son deserves to play in the championships, don't you agree?"

Lucas heard his mother released a heavy sigh as she pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to ease the headache that was starting to form. Thanks to his father who seemed to drive everyone around him crazy.

"Lucas," his father addressed him. "Don't you think you should play?" He simply shrugged his shoulders, keeping his eyes out the window. "Son, you have every right to be on the field with your teammates. They wouldn't have gotten this far without you."

"But they did." Lucas retorted, annoyance nipping at the edge of his words. "I missed a couple of games, and they got to the finals without me."

"Are you saying you don't want to play?"

"Of course I want to play, Dad. But I messed up, and I'm paying for it as I should."

Mr. Friar regarded him carefully. "I can speak with the Dean on your behalf."

"Dad…"

"I can reason with him."

Lucas shook his head and sighed.

"Lucas—"

His eyes trailed to the streets ahead of him when he suddenly spotted her. Brunette hair curled back behind her ears and cascading over her shoulders, with a radiant smile that reached her brown eyes as she passed by other pedestrians.

Seeing her made him forget everything else. She made him smile and his heart do funny things on his chest. And when they actually became friends, he could only remember how happy he was spending time with her.

"Son, are you even listening to me?"

They were a block away from the high school when Lucas signaled the driver's attention from the rearview mirror. "Andre, pull up here." He demanded.

"Lucas."

He ignored his Dad as the driver pulled up to the side of the road.

"Bye, Mom!…Dad."

Lucas hastily opened the car door and stepped out, not looking back as he rushed towards her down the sidewalk.

"Hey, Riley." He greeted, catching his breath upon reaching her.

She spun around and smiled brightly at him. "Oh hey, Lucas!"

He naturally fell into step with her, both not saying a word for several moments. As soon as their high school building approaches, Lucas peered at her from the corner of his eye and smiled. The sun was shining brightly around her, highlighting the pink patches on her cheeks and making her hair appear lighter. She was utterly beautiful in a white short sleeve blouse and uniform plaid skirt that made her legs look like it can go on for miles. She wore a little make-up; a clear gloss that coated her full, pink lips and a touch of liner that brought out the softness of her brown eyes. Her strawberry vanilla scent was filling the small space between them at an alarming rate, infiltrating his senses as he took a deep breath to calm his racing heart.

"So…are you planning to see Auggie at practice today?" He asked, breaking the comfortable silence as they ascended up the stairs to the school's main building.

"I wish I could be there, but I'm tutoring."

"Tutoring? Since when?"

"Since my Dad found out I went to Missy's party."

Lucas raised a brow at her in surprise. "You lied to him?" He wore a confused expression on his face, which fell slightly when Riley nodded sheepishly. "Why? You're so much better than that."

She shrugged it off and sighed heavily. "I've been following the rules all my life, Lucas. For once, I wanted to let loose and do something that is unexpected of me."

They stopped at the top of the stairs, staring at each other longer than they should. "Look, I get it. We're in our rebellious teen years and we are going to get in all sorts of trouble. But...you're different. You're good. It's what I like about you. And I wouldn't want you to change who you are."

There was a bit of hopefulness in her eyes as the pink hue in her cheeks made him smile wider. "Really?"

He released a short chuckle, amused by her reaction that made her look even more adorable than she already is. "Yes, really."

She pressed her lips together, her brown eyes searching his green ones. Suddenly she was aware that his face was only a few inches away from hers as she drew in a nervous breath. "I wouldn't want you to change who you are too, Lucas."

The softness of her gaze brought a flutter to his stomach. They fell silent, their eyes locked on each other. They were too far off in their own world, they didn't hear anyone approach them.

"Hey, guys." Zay greeted from behind as Lucas and Riley both jumped at the sound of his voice. "Oh um…was I interrupting something?" He asked, staring between the two with a silly grin.

Lucas and Riley exchanged nervous looks, unsure of what was happening—unsure of the warm fuzzy feelings lurking in the pit of their stomachs. "No, we were about to head to class." Lucas answered, clearing his throat to steady his voice. She looked down and smiled shyly, which only served to frazzle his mind even more.

"I'll see you guys around." Riley said cheerfully before walking past them. Zay's curious eyes watched Riley until she was out of sight.

"So…were you guys having a moment?" Zay grinned, looking at Lucas with a slight raise of his eyebrows. "Because it looks like you two were having a moment."

Lucas stared at the ground, trying to hide his smile before he muttered, "Shut up."

It was the first break period and the scorching heat in mid May brought many students outside. With the air conditioning down and maintenance currently working to fix the problem, students found some relief from the ungodly heat. By the time she stepped outside, the shaded areas were already occupied as Riley Matthews sat on the stairs in front of the school, getting more agitated as the sun was beaming down on her relentlessly. She rapidly fanned herself with a notebook when she heard running footsteps rush past her. Riley glanced up ahead of her as the blonde, blue-eyed female she recognized from Missy's party dropped a notepad at the bottom of the stairs with its contents scattered on the steps.

"Shit. Really?!" The blonde cursed under her breath in frustration. Without hesitating, Riley stood up and began picking up the loose papers as she makes her way down the steps, staring at what appears to be beautiful works of art. From sketches of New York's finest landmarks to portraits of people hand drawn in strikingly vivid details, the drawings were really pretty and realistic as Riley stared at them in amazement. "You don't need to do that." She snapped, making Riley jump in fright as she turned to her with a polite smile.

"I know, but I want to." She said cheerily, handing her the pages that fell from the notepad.

"Thanks."

"Maya, is it?" Riley's voice broke through the brief silence as the blonde nodded absently.

"Yep."

"I'm Riley."

"I know who you are." Maya smirked. "We met at the party."

"Did you draw all those?" Riley asked curiously causing Maya to roll her eyes.

"Why? Is it really that hard to believe?"

Riley's gaze widened a bit, realizing she was easily misunderstood. "No, of course not! That's not what I was—" She trailed off nervously and sighed. "I was gonna say...you're a really great artist, Maya."

She was looking at Riley with a thoughtful and surprise expression gracing her features. She then weakly smiled, her tone doubtful and wary. "Thanks…do you draw?"

"Yes. Terribly."

Maya raised a brow at her for a brief moment and chuckled. She could see everything Lucas had said about her. From her over-the-top bubbly persona to her infectious charm—she was the kind of person Maya would normally get annoyed of. But it was not hard to see why Lucas was instantly drawn to her. She was kind, genuine and surprisingly funny with an upbeat personality that was refreshing and sincere. She was unlike most girls in the school who tried their hardest to fit in, and often used their high society status to get by.

"But I do appreciate fine art when I see one." Riley added as Maya could feel a blush creep up underneath her cheeks at the compliment. Even though her best friends often praised her for her artistic talents, hearing it from someone outside of their close-knit group meant so much to her than she'd imagined.

"Thanks..."

Her blue eyes looked at her kindly and Riley smiled. "You're welcome."

Another moment of silence followed before Maya spoke again. "So…um…is your friend Smackle okay? She was pretty tipsy that night."

"Oh yeah, she's fine. She swore never to drink again." Riley said with a giggle. Maya broke into a wide grin when movement from the corner of her eye drew her gaze. She spotted Thor, in his letterman jacket and uniform khaki slacks, heading in their direction as her soft expression turned to one of irritation. 'Great.' She thought.

"Hey, Maya." He approached her with a smile. "How's it going?" She glared at him as his eyes trailed to the invitation that was sitting on top of her artwork. He reached out to grab a copy. "Summer Masquerade Ball…" he read, admiring the calligraphy with raised eyebrows. "Wow…you outdid yourself this time, Hart."

"What do you want?" She asked, his presence already making her nauseous.

"What? I can't say hello?"

Maya skeptically furrowed her eyebrows, studying him carefully. "Hi…?" She didn't know how to answer him as he quietly chuckled at the uncertainty in her tone of voice. He then flickered his gaze over to Riley and she noticed his expression brightening at the sight of her.

"Hey, Riley!"

"Hello, Thor." She beamed.

"Guess who aced their history exam?" He exclaimed, a wide smile breaking across his face as he showed her the test results. Riley briefly scanned the paper before looking back at him with wide eyes.

"That's great! I knew you could it." She praised happily.

"Thanks. I couldn't have done it without you."

Maya fell silent, momentarily puzzled as she stared between the two of them.

"Anyway, just wanted to thank you for all your help. I guess I'll see you after school? Same time?"

"Yep. I'll see ya."

Thor turned his gaze back to Maya, her blue eyes wide and troubled with confusion. "Later."

The blonde nodded mutely as he carried on and walked away.

"Riley, what are you doing with him?" Maya asked with a more serious tone. "He's bad news."

"I'm just tutoring him." She shrugged, a tinge of annoyance coloring her voice.

Maya sighed. "Just be careful, okay? He's not exactly the nicest guy to be around. I mean, I would know."

Riley furrowed her eyebrows in bewilderment. She knew the kind of person she was dealing with, but she still harbored hope in her heart that Thor was an inherently good guy despite the things he had done to make others think otherwise. "Why is everyone telling me to be careful?" She asked. "Does this school really have that bad of a rep of how people treat each other?"

Suddenly, the bell sounded, indicating the end of break. Maya placed her hand on top of Riley's shoulder, moved by her unwavering faith and optimism in others, which would only disappoint her in the end. "Sadly, yes." She said as she turned around and retreated back to her classroom, leaving Riley's curious mind to ponder.

The excitement on the boys' animated faces was enough for Lucas to realize how much fun he was having. Never mind having to miss out on playing for the state championship. If this was Mr. Matthews' idea of a "punishment," he'd be happy to do it all over again.

The sun was beginning to set as the heat of the afternoon sun gradually subsided. It was another successful day of coaching as Lucas, Josh and the entire Little League baseball team headed over to Topanga's to cool off. Tables were joined together as they occupied half of the entire space. The boys chatted amiably as Lucas and Josh discussed the starting line-up and various plays for the little league season opener next week. They waited until their smoothies arrived when Lucas felt the vibration of his phone from his back pocket. He pulled out his phone and glanced at the screen. His mood changed instantly when it was his father checking in for the third time, asking about his whereabouts and demanding him to head on home. Lucas ignored the messages and the missed calls as he threw the phone in his backpack and released a heavy sigh.

"Is everything alright?" Josh asked worriedly, stirring him from his thoughts.

"Yea, man." Lucas forced a smile as he reached forward to grab his drink from the table. His enjoyment faded even further when he suddenly looked up and spotted Riley and his nemesis seated in the corner of the room, buried in textbooks.

His lips were parted and his face remained impassive, but inside, he was seething. "Excuse me, I'll be back." Lucas stood up from the table with clench fists. He mentally prepared himself for what was about to come. He didn't want to let his anger take over his body, especially in front of Riley. And he certainly didn't think it was worth getting in trouble for over a guy like Thor who has tormented him for as long as he could remember. But when it came to his friends, and someone like Riley, who he cared about and grew fond of for the past few weeks, he knew he had to keep her safe, no matter how she felt about it.

"Thor," Lucas said sternly as he approached their table.

"Lucas," Thor replied, expecting to be in this situation. He knew at some point Lucas was going to confront him about the whole thing.

"May I have a word? Outside, please." He demanded.

"Lucas…"

He glanced over at Riley and saw the concern in her face. He simply smiled at her, hoping to ease her worries.

"Just to talk." He reassured her, putting his hands up calmly. "I promise."

Riley believed him as she nodded her head nervously and watched the two of them exiting the bakery.

"This thing between you and me needs to stop." Lucas spat as soon as they stepped outside, turning his body to face him. "I'm done fighting with you. I'm done trying to reason with you. I'm done being mad at you and I'm done getting in trouble because of you." Lucas finished, his tone revealing just how serious he was.

"I agree."

Lucas gritted his teeth. "Then what the hell are you doing with Riley?"

"Nothing!" Thor almost choked on his own spit as he stared at him in confusion. "Dude, she's tutoring me."

"She's tutoring you?" He scoffed in disbelief.

"Yea…I was assigned to her." Thor responded firmly.

Lucas stared at him with blank eyes. Thor took his silence as a cue to continue.

"Look, I didn't know you two knew each other. So if you think this is just another one of my stupid schemes to get back at you…it's not. I'm done with all that."

Lucas' gaze hardened with a glare. He knew he shouldn't; he knew that he had no reason to trust Thor; after all this time; for the past 2 years, all he's done was make his life a living hell. "Why the sudden change of heart?"

Thor shrugged, letting out a sigh. "I guess…someone made me realize a few things about myself that's all." He answered, remembering what Riley had said to him at the tutor center as her words resonated with him.

They stood in silence for a few moments, both lost in their own thoughts and waiting for the other to speak. "I'm sorry. About everything."

Lucas blinked, not expecting an apology. Thor looked back at him and he could see the guilt in his eyes. Lucas had been expecting to be told off, or to be fed some bullshit line. He never thought he would apologize. And for the first time in a long time, Lucas could see the guy who was once his friend, whose bond he thought would never break, slowly become himself again.

"Look, if it makes you feel any better I'll ask for another tutor."

Lucas shook his head. "No, don't do that. Riley is great. You won't find anyone better." Thor nodded, a small genuine smile forming at his lips. "And I'm sorry too."

Another moment of silence followed as the two stared at the ground.

"Anyway, I should head back inside. Riley is probably in there freaking out."

Lucas quietly chuckled. "Yea."

Thor turned back around to head inside, but stopped halfway before reaching the door.

"Oh and Lucas?"

"Yea?"

"Do yourself a favor and ask her to the dance." Thor smirked, pressing the invitation onto his chest before walking back inside the bakery.

Lucas stared at the invitation in hand, his breathing suddenly going quiet and deep. He looked up and peered at Riley through the window, his mind racing, wondering how the hell he was going to find the courage to ask her to the dance.

To be continued...

A/N: Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think! Next chapter is when a lot of things will go down. Stay tuned!

#rucas #rucas fanfic #rucas fandom #rucas fanfiction #gmw #gmw fanfiction #girl meets world fandom #riley and lucas #lucas and riley #riley matthews #lucas friar #riley x lucas #lucas x riley #liley #liley fanfic #rucas squad

[magnusalec]

Hey do you have any malec fic recs?

*rubs hands together* okay let’s do this!!

please make sure to heed the warnings/tags on the actual summaries. don’t read anything that might upset you!

enjoy!

** = fics i read repeatedly

The Boundless Saga**

A canon divergent Malec AU. 

In the Sin Bin - WIP

As the goalie for the New York City Blazing Angels, Alec Lightwood thinks he’s finally found the team he can go all the way to the championship cup with. Then his agent and financial advisor are arrested for stealing their clients’ money, and Alec is forced to take on a side job doing endorsement deals, plus find a way to trust his new agent–Magnus Bane.

Alec hates Magnus the first time he sets eyes on him.

Magnus hates Alec more.

But they’re going to have to find some way to work together if Alec is going to make it to the championship.

Magnus Bane’s School for Young Warlocks - WIP

Alec had never dreamt he’d be a father by the age of 25, let alone the father of a Warlock. He’s sure he can handle it alone, though. He doesn’t need anyone and neither do his kids.

(Or: Alec takes Max to Warlock School and finds himself falling fast for his teacher).

Strange Love

Alec is in love with Magnus. Magnus needs Alec to be his fake boyfriend. What could possibly go wrong?

A Fighting Chance

When Magnus Bane bought the space for his dance studio, Pandemonium, he had no idea that the wall between it and the MMA Training Gym next door was so thin. Neither did he realize that a dispute over the loud music would lead to him becoming involved in the world of MMA and, more importantly, guide him to the man who would end up changing his life.

Wrong in The Dark

After Magnus crashes Alec’s wedding and Lydia is attacked, the Institute goes on lockdown. Magnus stays the night in Alec’s room.

Once Upon a Time In Brooklyn

Once upon a time, in a faraway land called Brooklyn, an older-than-he-seemed Warlock lived in a fashionable loft apartment…

Magnus Bane angers the wrong warlock and ends up with more than he bargained for. Not only is he cursed to live out fairytales that risk his life in increasingly creative ways, he also has to find his One True Love within the year or face dire consequences.

An AU set in the canon universe.

Setting Fire to a Stone**

There hasn’t been an omega in the Lightwood family for generations, and Alec is intent on making sure that nobody finds out that he’s the first. Then he meets Magnus Bane, who turns his world upside down.

Step Onto My Balcony

Alec did not smoke. He hated smoking. He hated everything about it, from the smell to the taste. Yet, there he was, at ten in the evening, buying cigarettes at the grocery shop down the road for the only purpose of having an excuse to hang on his balcony and talk to his very handsome and very taken neighbor. Alec felt really stupid right now.

The Gray Area

Alec Lightwood lives his life in monochrome. He lacks the color and the vibrancy that he knows he needs- it’s what he longs for everyday. He just doesn’t know how to find it. The first year of college can be a confusing time for anyone, and Alec is no exception. He’s at a point in his life where he begins to question everything about himself.And then he meets Magnus Bane.

And the Oscar goes to…

Working for Magnus isn’t easy. Magnus is out of control and Alec has to yell more often than not to get him to listen to him. He hates everything formal because it means he has to watch his mouth. Most importantly, Magnus is an incorrigible flirt.

Which would be alright if Alec wasn’t utterly, irremediably, unfathomably in love with him.

think of me when you shoot your arrows

Five times Alec gets off thinking about Magnus and one time he doesn’t have to.

AKA a character study of Alec and his thirst throughout season 1.

Bright Lights, Small Town

When Magnus gets to Nashville, Indiana to handle his late mother’s will, he doesn’t expect to be forced to stay there for six months. Six months away from New York and lost in the wildness of the countryside.

It quickly appears that he is going to go through six months of living hell.

The fact that he hates the local veterinarian on sight isn’t helping.

I Won’t Let You Fall - WIP

Alec Lightwood is the most beautiful and talented classically trained ballet dancer at the New York Arts Institute. He’s pressured by everyone in his life to carry the honor of the Lightwood name in the New York performing arts world, he feels trapped in a box. Magnus Bane is the most liked, respected, gorgeous, and innately talented hip-hop freestyle dancer who was accepted to the Institute on scholarship. He puts on the happy face for everyone around him, but inside he is broken and badly scarred by his past. When Alec finds himself wanting to branch out and add free movement to his final senior piece he seeks the help of the one person he’s been secretly drawn to for years. The one person he knows lives very much outside of the box.

Quid Pro Quo**

A What if…? taking off from the “I’ll do you pro bono” scene in 1x11. Alec accepts Magnus’ initial offer; things grow complicated from there.

(Aka the PWP that grew a plot and transformed into a full-on canon remix au. XD)

No Sweeter Innocence

Magnus is Alec’s first kiss, first relationship, first everything. So when they start having sex, he’s a little overwhelmed at first.

(Or: Five times Alec accidentally ‘finished’ early, and the one time he finally outlasted Magnus.)

coax the coals (please heed the tags)

Raphael, in turn, looks at the ginger root Magnus is holding and says, “Díos, this again?”

“What do you mean, again?” Jace asks, looking curious.

“Have we just abandoned all social rules?” Simon asks, going mostly unheard as he follows Raphael into the loft. “Does no one say ‘hi’ anymore?”

One Show Only

It’s hard to stay in the closet when the guy you had a one-night stand with two nights ago turns out to be your new partner … but Alec will be damned if he isn’t going to give it a try.

Magnus, How Long Have You Been Twenty?

Soulmate AU where you age to about 18/21, and then you stay that age until you find your soulmate.

It’s Time To Lose Your Virginity, Brother Dearest

Magnus Bane is a famous stripper, used to pretty boys falling in love with him after one dance. The feeling is hardly ever mutual. But when he meets the freshly turned twenty-one year old Alec lightwood, he can’t take his eyes off him, and they find themselves in love quicker than they expected.

oh, i’ve waited for you

He’d been willing to maybe try messing around with a shadowhunter—his first—but a married one? Hell no. (And he’d been to hell before, so he knew exactly how serious it was).

The Children of Merlin- WIP

Magnus Bane has everything he could have hoped for: a job at Hogwarts, a chaotic made-up family that he loves more than anything and the freedom of doing what he wants whenever he wants.

When his friends manage to drag him to a Quidditch game, he doesn’t expect it to change his life. For better or worse.

They call themselves the Children of Merlin and they are going to make his life a living hell.

The Arrangement

When a meeting with a debt collector at a randomly chosen night club starts to go wrong, Alec meets a man who might just change his life with one unique offer.

Addicted To You

Magnus Bane’s the head of his own company. Alec Lightwood is in his last year of law school. They’ve never met but have one thing in common: neither does relationships. Just one night stands. That is until they find themselves matched on a hookup app and suddenly one night is not enough.

Also known as the one where Magnus and Alec meet and think they can have no strings attached sex and not develop feelings.

Fall Without Wings - WIP

Alec has been told the same stories all his life. He’s been taught the same lines, over and over again. Downworlders are reckless, impulsive, demonic. They’re not to be trusted.

And Magnus Bane is the epitome of everything evil about Downworlders.

At least, that’s what people keep telling him. Alec’s not quite so sure anymore.

Or: In which the Nephilim have wings, are taught to loathe Downworlders, and Alec is presented with a conundrum when Magnus Bane saves his life.

You’re Taking My Heart by Storm

They’d been doing this… thing for weeks now. Actually it was more than that, it was months. Four to be exact. Not that Alec was counting. Except that he totally was.

5 times Alec and Magnus gets interrupted and 1 time they don’t.

Appassionato

Alec plays the piano every day, with great talent. One night, a note slips under his door: it’s a request from an anonymous neighbor. Before he knows it, Alec picks up the habit of leaving his window open so his neighbor can listen to him. Requests keep coming. Slowly, two strangers start a conversation without words and let the music do the work for them.

My True Love Gave To Me

Magnus Bane had a plan, a perfect Christmas Eve just like always. Hang out with his friends, bask in the Christmas Spirit. Then everything went wrong.

Now he’s stuck reliving the same day again and again and again. The bright side? Maybe Alec Lightwood isn’t as terrible as Magnus always thought.

Home

A few weeks after the wedding incident, the Clave has Alec arrested and put on trial to have his runes stripped for what seems like no reason. Faced with exile, Alec must come to terms with himself, his feelings for a certain warlock, and the world that he was raised in.

secrets that you keep - WIP

Alec Lightwood wasn’t used to doing things for himself. He had grown up looking after his siblings and learning how to be the perfect Shadowhunter: never had he considered even the idea of falling in love.

For over a century, Magnus Bane had closed himself off to feeling anything for man or woman. After a particularly nasty break up, he worried that opening his heart up again would result in nothing but another heartbreak.

When the two of them meet at a mundane coffee shop, it’s a rush of feelings that Alec has never felt before, and that Magnus had thought he would never feel again.

The only problem? Both think the other is a mundane, and for centuries, Downworlders and Shadowhunters have been forbidden from falling in love.

This Is a Bad Idea

Alec Lightwood had a good life in Columbus, Ohio. He was growing strong as a lawyer in his mother’s law firm and achieving his dream-career step by step. He had a good life, comfortable and steady, if not a little boring.

So, when headhunter Magnus Bane offered him an interview at the prestigious IDRIS LLP in New York, Alec decided that it couldn’t hurt to take a look. After all, one didn’t turn down IDRIS LLP off the hat, even if they weren’t really interested.

Little did he know that New York offered much more than a job in a bigger company. The city was fast, insanely alive, but most of all, it had Magnus. And Magnus changed everything.

It’s a Yes from Me

Reclusive singer Alec Lightwood has been taking some time away from the spotlight for a few years now. He has lost his inspiration, his reason to keep making music.

That is, until his manager, Luke Garroway, asks him to enter the panel of the ridiculous singing competition The Angel’s Voice. Alec only says yes because that means keeping an eye on Clary and Simon. He hates those fixed, degrading TV shows with a burning passion. Hopefully, Alec figures, he’ll get some inspiration back watching new comers try their luck on TV. Some of them are bound to be good.

It isn’t until Magnus Bane walks on stage, however, that Alec realizes just how right he is.

aaand that’s it for now! enjoy!

#Anonymous #malec #fic rec: malec

[sintrovert]

Pirouettes and Personal Bests

Summary: Victor’s wearing the most expensive-looking ballet shoes Yuuri has ever seen, obviously brand new judging by the lack of any smudging. And… they’re gold. Gold slippers? Seems about right, Yuuri thinks, then takes a deep breath and lifts his head.

Word Count: 4514

Chapter: 2/?

Read on Ao3

    As Yuuri stares at the strange man standing in front of him, silver hair flopping over one eye and lips formed into a cheery heart-shaped smile as he bounces impatiently in front of him, he can’t help thinking to himself, This is Victor Nikiforov? Five-time figure skating gold medalist? The most eligible bachelor in the world? Yuuri almost laughs out loud. He’s like a puppy!

    Victor’s gaze turns solemn, and Yuuri realizes he hasn’t actually said anything in reply.

    “Are you, uh, sure you’re looking for me? I don’t think--” Yuuri starts.

    “You’re Yuuri Katsuki, yes?” Victor interrupts, eyes wide with hope.

    “Er, yeah, I mean--”

    “And you’re with the Tokyo Ballet?”

    “I mean, yes, obviously--”

    “And you played the Nutcracker at Mariinsky Theatre in St. Petersburg this past Christmas?”

    “Well, yes, but--”

    “Then you’re exactly who I’m looking for!” Victor says triumphantly, thrusting the roses into Yuuri’s arms. Yuuri scrambles to keep them from dropping, glancing back in case anyone else is exiting the studio. “Here, take them, please! It’s the least I can do to thank you.”

    Yuuri looks down at the flowers, then back up at Victor, face drawn in confusion. “Thank...me?” he says slowly. “Thank me for what?”

    Victor spreads his arms wide, then holds them out towards Yuuri. “For inspiring me, of course!” he says, shooting forward and pulling Yuuri into a hug. Yuuri feels his face flare up with embarrassment, wiggling out of Victor’s tight grip to take a step back.

    “I’m sorry, I’m a little confused,” he says, eyebrows furrowing. “I inspired you?” Victor doesn’t seem upset, smile stuck on his face and holding his arms out again.

    “When I saw you in St. Petersburg, I was mesmerized with the way you move to the music,” Victor says, arms waving in some semblance of a ballet routine. “It’s like...the music isn’t playing around you, but coming from inside you. The way you move in time with it, hitting every count with such ease and grace, dancing like you’re floating across the stage…It’s breathtaking.” At some point during his musings, Victor had taken a few steps closer to Yuuri, now almost chest to chest with him.

    Yuuri tilts his head slightly back to look up at the other man, heart pounding in his chest as he notices Victor’s half-lidded eyes. One of Victor’s hands reaches out to gingerly take Yuuri’s free hand, and Yuuri watches in slow-motion as Victor lifts it to his lips, placing a gentle kiss against his knuckles.

    “I…” Yuuri says, not sure how to continue.

    Then, Victor brightens up, eyes wide and smile beaming as he says, “So I’d like you to teach me to move in the same way!”

    Yuuri releases a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, taking his hand back gently.

    “I-I...Well, I-I’m flattered, Victor, but I don’t know if I could be a teacher...I-I know next to nothing about figure skating,” Yuuri stammers, turning his head in a vain attempt to hide his blush as he takes another step back.

   “And I know nothing about ballet!” Victor laughs, a joyous sound. “We’ll make a great pair!”

    Yuuri laughs nervously, at a loss. Then he sighs. “Victor, I’m really sorry, but--”

    “Please? At least one lesson!” Victor interrupts, lower lip sticking out in a pout. “If you don’t want to after that, I’ll leave and never come back.” Then, Victor suddenly collapses to his knees, head down to the ground in a perfect dogeza as he pleads, “Just one lesson!”

    Yuuri jumps in surprise, squatting down to help Victor up. He flashes an apologetic smile to the few bystanders wandering around on the street, thinking to himself, Great, he’s a drama queen. Once Victor is standing again, Yuuri sighs and, because he just desperately wants to shower, nods.

    “Okay,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “ Meet me here in front of the studio at nine tomorrow morning. We’ll see what happens, I guess.”

    Victor’s eyes go wide, and Yuuri braces when he sees the man launch himself forward. “THANK YOU!!!” he shouts, arms wrapped tight around Yuuri in a hug. Yuuri again smiles apologetically as a fellow dancer exits the studio, a confused look on her face. Victor releases Yuuri, his face beaming. “I promise, you won’t regret this.”

    Let’s hope not, Yuuri thinks absently.

    “I’ll see you tomorrow!” Victor says finally, turning on his heel and heading toward the main intersection. Yuuri remains standing in front of the studio, one arm carrying his practice bag and the other cradling a slightly crushed bouquet of roses.

    Oh god, what had he just agreed to?

    Yuuri unlocks the door to his apartment and drops his bag unceremoniously on the floor as soon as he steps inside. He kicks off his shoes and heads straight for the bathroom, undressing as he goes. He runs a bath, stretching in front of his mirror as the tub fills, wincing as his muscles burn, overused and weary. Yuuri then climbs in, sighing as the scalding water immediately soothes his aching body.

    Almost like the onsen back home, he thinks fondly.

    He sinks beneath the water, humming as his eyelids fall shut. He lets his mind go blank, slipping further down into the cocoon of warm water and deeply inhaling the fruit aroma of the soaps Mari had sent him for his birthday.

    His serenity is broken by the sudden appearance of Victor Nikiforov, his face popping up in Yuuri’s head. He jerks, wincing as he remembers how happy Victor had been when Yuuri had agreed to the lesson. He sits up further in the water, bringing his hands up to his eyes and rubbing at them.

    What the hell have I gotten myself into? he thinks to himself, groaning as he pushes his hair back from his face. Despite having done ballet for as long as he had, Yuuri had never had to teach someone before. Especially not a complete newcomer. He’d helped Minako with instruction in the novice classes from time to time, but even then, he was horrendously awkward and shy. He could barely muster up the courage to ask a waiter to fix a botched order at a restaurant without his face flushing--how the hell was he going to teach someone like Victor Nikiforov?

    Yuuri begrudgingly climbs out of the tub once the water grows tepid, padding over to grab his towel and dry himself off. He drapes the towel over his head, walking back into his room, slipping on a pair of sweatpants, and flopping onto his bed. He grabs his phone off his side table, unlocking it to dozens of notifications--some about new followers on Twitter, some simply direct messages, some text messages, and many, many missed calls.

    Uh oh.

    Yuuri skims over the notifications, eyes slowly widening as he begins to piece together what has happened.

    Every single notification is about Victor Nikiforov.

    When he reaches the end of the list of notifications, Yuuri sees that Minako’s called him ten times and texted him twenty. Yuuri bites his lip as he dials in her number and holds his phone up to his ear.

    He promptly wrenches it away when his speakers explode with the sound of Minako shrieking.

    “Yuuri! Have you been on Twitter?! Everyone is talking about it! Is it true?! Is it true Victor Nikiforov wants you to teach him ballet?” Minako screams, though it’s garbled, and Yuuri thinks she may be crying. Or drunk.

    “What?” Yuuri says, bringing the phone back to his ear. “Minako-sensei, I can barely understand you through your crying.”

    “Did Victor Nikiforov ask you to teach him ballet?” Minako says, her voice clearer, but still high-pitched with excitement.

    “Um. Yeah, he came to the studio today and practically begged that I give him a lesson, so I said yes,” he says, preemptively holding his phone far away from him when Minako screams again. He can imagine her in her house, bottle of sake in front of her, crying like she does after every one of Yuuri’s shows. He tries not to laugh at the image. “God, what’s the big deal?”

    “What’s the big deal?!” Minako screeches, somehow even louder than before. “Do you even know who he is? Five-time gold medalist at the Grand Prix Final, World Championships, and European Championships, not to mention the Russian Nationals--”

    “You know I know nothing about ice skating, Minako-sensei,” Yuuri interrupts. “But yeah, I know who he is. And yes, I’m going to be...teaching him.” It still feels strange to say out loud, and Yuuri rolls over onto his side. “He says he came to The Nutcracker performance in St. Petersburg and that I ‘inspired’ him, or something.” Yuuri shrugs, even though Minako can’t see it. “So now I’m gonna be giving him a ballet lesson.”

    “You inspired him?” Minako asks, her tone incredulous. Then she makes a high-pitched squealing noise. “Oh my god, he’s totally in love with you!”

    Yuuri can feel his face heat up, sitting up suddenly. “Wha--No! N-No, this is just ballet, he wants me to help--”

    “Oh my god, you like him.”

    Yuuri’s the one who shrieks this time. “N-No, I don’t! Why...Why would you even say that?”

    “You liiiike him!” Minako says in a sing-songy voice, laughing when Yuuri practically screeches, “I DO NOT.”

    Yuuri huffs indignantly, crossing his legs beneath him and picking at a loose string from his duvet. “I only just met the guy,” he says, his voice shaking from embarrassment. “A-And this is only supposed to be a one-time thing. He’s coming by for a lesson at the studio in the morning.”

    “You’ll have to bring him home to Hasetsu! He’d love the onsen!” Minako exclaims, seeming to have ignored what Yuuri had just said. “You two can come to my studio, bring me some business!” Yuuri can hear the smugness in her voice.

    Yuuri sighs. “I haven’t even decided if I’m actually going to coach him yet.”

    “Yes, you have. And yes, you will,” Minako says with a tone of finality.

    Yuuri shakes his head. “Minako-sensei--”

    “Yuuri, I know you have trouble with doubting yourself whenever opportunities like this arise, but I am telling you, be Victor’s teacher,” she says, her voice devoid of any sobbing or drunkenness. “Forgetting that you’re practically family to me, and that I only want what’s best for you--as your old teacher, I think teaching him would be the exact thing you need to reignite your love for ballet. You were saying you’d started feeling a bit bored, didn’t you?”

    Yuuri doesn’t respond, biting his lip. She’s right that he’d mentioned he’d begun to feel bored with ballet, having reached his penultimate goal of becoming principal danseur, and was searching for something to get his love back. But...teaching someone else? A figure skater like Victor Nikiforov, at that?

    “We’ll see how things go after the lesson tomorrow,” Yuuri says, exhaling when Minako squeals in response. “Anyway, how are things in Hasetsu?” He closes his eyes and lets Minako’s rambling about her studio, his family, and Victor Nikiforov lull him to sleep.

    Victor arrives at the studio at nine o’clock sharp, already overflowing with energy and cheer, in clear contrast to Yuuri’s hunched shoulders and the giant mug of coffee he’s nursing.

    “Good morning, Yuuri!” he says, beaming happily as Yuuri passes him to enter the studio. Yuuri mumbles something back in response, wiping at the corner of one eye so as to not disturb his contacts. He doesn’t know why he decided to have the lesson so early, especially when his own rehearsal wouldn’t start until at least noon.

    He yawns, pushing open the door to the largest studio with Victor trailing behind him, perhaps a little too close.

    Yuuri points to the row of the dressing room doors, then says, “You can, uh, change in one of the dressing rooms over there, if you need to that is. They should be open.” He nods, then turns on his heels, heading toward the barre and mirror to drop his bag and coat on the ground. As he squats down to slip on his shoes--which are extremely well-worn and in desperate need of replacement--Yuuri happens to look up to see the reflection of Victor’s naked back and ass in the mirror. He’s struggling into a pair of black leggings, and Yuuri quickly flicks his eyes back down, hustling his lace tying.

    “Why are you changing here?!” Yuuri asks, cursing the shake in his voice.

    “Huh?” comes Victor’s voice, laced with confusion.

    “T-The dressing rooms are over there,” he stammers. He points blindly towards the dressing rooms, keeping his eyes down on his shoes instead of braving a look up. “You’re s-supposed to change in the dressing rooms!”

    “Oh,” Victor says. Then he laughs. “I just figured I’d change here, since I only really need to change into these leggings.” Yuuri--stupidly--looks up to see Victor facing forward towards the mirror now, leggings pulled only partially up his thighs and flashing everything. Yuuri yelps, quickly looking back down as Victor says, “Besides, it’s just the two of us right now.”

    “Still,” Yuuri says, busying himself with untying and retying his laces. “From now on, change in the dressing rooms. Please.” Victor makes a noise like a soft hum, and when Yuuri glances back up to the mirror, he’s facing away again, leggings pulled all the way up as he slips a white t-shirt over his head.

    Yuuri stands, turning around, then exhales sharply at the sight of Victor. He’s wearing the absolute tightest white t-shirt Yuuri’s has ever seen, so much so it’s practically see through, and black leggings. Every curve of his body visible, muscles tensing as he stretches his arms above him, looking very relaxed and in his element. He strolls casually forward, Yuuri’s eyes catching on the movement of his leg muscles through black spandex, stopping once he’s about a foot away from Yuuri and smiling that beaming smile. Yuuri gulps, then mentally scolds himself for ogling his student, averting his gaze to the floor. Victor’s wearing the most expensive-looking ballet shoes Yuuri has ever seen, obviously brand new judging by the lack of any smudging. And… they’re gold. Gold slippers? Seems about right, Yuuri thinks, then takes a deep breath and lifts his head.

    “Alright,” Yuuri starts, wincing as his voice cracks at the end. Victor raises an eyebrow amusedly, causing Yuuri’s face to flush with embarrassment. Yuuri clears his throat to regain his composure.“So...S-Since you have no previous ballet experience, we’ll start on the barre.”

    Victor grins, like he knows he’s made Yuuri flustered, and practically skips over to the barre. “So. Yuuri,” he says, drawing out Yuuri’s name lazily, “What’s first? Jumps? Spins?” Victor leans against the barre, one hand resting lightly on top.

    Yuuri laughs. “No, that’s a long way from now. Today we’re doing the five basic positions.”

    Yuuri demonstrates each position and Victor follows along. He’s a fast learner, though he has trouble keeping his arms in the right place, and Yuuri keeps having to lift them or fix his wrist placement, and he’s too close, he can smell Victor’s shampoo and something else distinctly him, and oh, his eyes are so blue... He drops his hands quickly and takes a giant step backward, and Victor looks after him in confusion. “Am I that bad?” he asks, stepping out of position. His eyes are large like he’s about to cry, and Yuuri rushes to shake his head.

    “No, no! You’re looking fine! I mean, great! Y-You’re looking great!” Yuuri squeaks, hoping his face would catch on fire with the rest of his body and he could just burn to a crisp right here right now. “I just, uh...think it’s time for a break!”

    With that, Yuuri hurries out of the room and into the bathroom, where he splashes a generous amount of water on his face. He stares into his face, willing the red across his cheeks to fade. Minako had just gotten into his head, that’s all. He barely knew this guy, and it was extremely inappropriate for a teacher to….Oh god. He so likes him.

    Victor’s lounging on the floor when Yuuri comes back about five minutes later, absentmindedly scrolling through his Instagram feed, and Yuuri takes a minute to just look at him before breaking the silence.

    “Okay, so now I think we should--” Yuuri starts.

    “Actually, Yuuri,” Victor interrupts, straightening up, “I was wondering if you would dance for me?” He smiles, eyebrows raised in question.

    “Ah, you--You want me...What?” Yuuri stammers.

    “I’d like for you to dance for me,” Victor says simply.

    Yuuri opens his mouth to respond, then closes it, unsure how to respond. Sure, his entire life consists of performance after performance, but dancing here, just him and Victor, felt much more...intimate than if he were in front of thousands of people. He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “D-Do you have a dance in mind?”

    Victor puts a finger to his chin in thought. “Ah! The one you did as your first performance for the Tokyo Ballet! That’s my favorite.” Victor smiles warmly. “It reminded me of how I felt when I first started skating.”

    His favorite? Christ, how many performances of mine has he seen?

    “Let me see if I still have the music on my phone,” Yuuri says, moving to grab his phone from his bag. He scrolls through his list of music, stopping on the song when he’s found it. He then moves to plug his phone into the speakers. He then presses play, assuming his starting position. Victor looks on, and if Yuuri didn’t know any better, he’d say Victor looked starstruck.

    The music begins and Yuuri feels the familiar tug in his stomach, and he relinquishes himself to the music, his body moving on its own accord, mind blissfully blank as he glides across the floor. He can feel a smile blossoming on his face, that unbridled joy bubbling up from inside him, heart thumping in his chest to the beat of the track. Before he knows it, he’s spinning, his last pirouette morphing into his final pose, arm outstretched, index finger pointed straight at Victor. He’s breathing heavily, and as soon as the music stops, he can feel his limbs get heavy, and he slumps forward, trying to quell the intense emotion that threatens to spill out of him. He’s not going to cry in front of Victor. He’s already embarrassed himself enough.

    Yuuri’s surprised when a pair of strong arms suddenly wrap around him, and he flicks his gaze upward, meeting Victor’s piercing gaze, and he gets goosebumps. How does he do that with just a look?

    “Yuuri, what you just did right there...that’s what makes you my inspiration,” Victor says, his voice gone soft. He goes to move away but for some reason Yuuri stops him, his arms reaching up to hug Victor back, melting into the embrace. Victor tenses in surprise but then chuckles, and Yuuri can feel his laughter vibrating through his chest where he’s pressed up against him.

    “Thank you,” Yuuri mumbles into Victor’s chest, and Victor hums, giving Yuuri a final squeeze before Yuuri disentangles himself from him. “I’ve just...No one’s ever called me their inspiration before,” he murmurs abashedly, eyes dropping to the floor.

    “Really?” Victor says, sounding truly incredulous. “I find that hard to believe. Who wouldn’t feel inspired after seeing a performance like that?” Yuuri smiles, turning his head away to hide his blush. He busies himself with taking a much needed sip of water, while Victor moves to the center of the room.

    “What is it called, when you stand on the one foot and lift the other up?” Victor asks, readjusting his shoes. Yuuri’s surprised he’s still wearing them; breaking in new shoes isn’t easy, and ballet dancers aren’t known for having pretty feet. Then again, breaking in skates is probably very similar.

    “A passé,” Yuuri responds, replacing the cap on his water bottle. “Or a retiré. They’re basically the same thing.”

    Victor nods. “Show me?”

    Yuuri turns one foot frontward, and the other out, then in one swift movement, brings his right foot up to where it’s formed a triangle shape, arms stretched upward in fifth position. He steps out of it, and watches Victor mimic his foot placement.

    Victor pops his leg up, wobbling for a second...before immediately falling on his ass.

    Yuuri can’t help the giggle that escapes him before he clamps a hand over his mouth.

    Victor glares over at him, his lip jutted out in a pout. “What? Something funny?” he demands, crossing his arms over his chest like a petulant child.

    Yuuri walks over to kneel in front of Victor. “It’s okay. Balance is something that takes a long time to master. Your center of balance on the ice is different than here, so you just have to readjust.” Yuuri straightens back up, and reaches out a hand to help Victor up.

    “Owww,” Victor whines, rubbing his lower back, his pride hurt more than anything else. Yuuri is still smiling as Victor stands, rubbing at his backside like a wounded animal. Before he realizes what he’s doing and can stop himself, he says, “You know if you continued taking lessons, I think you could learn that move easily.”

    Victor’s head snaps up, eyes wide and mouth slightly open. “Taking lessons…” he says, voice slightly quiet. He then smiles fondly, and Yuuri feels like melting. “As in...you’ll teach me?”

    Yuuri realizes the mistake in his words too late, inhaling sharply as his face flushes bright red. “O-Or, you know, from s-some other instructor!” Yuuri rushes to say. “I-I’m sure there are plenty of instructors w-willing to, er...t-to teach--”

    “I don’t want anyone else to teach me,” Victor says plainly, eyebrows drawn. “I want to learn from you.”

    Yuuri bites his lip, then sighs. “Listen, Victor,” he says. “I don’t know if I can be the kind of teacher you’re looking for. I mean, yeah, I can teach you, like, the basics of ballet, but...actual teaching is kind of out of my element.” Victor is silent for a moment, watching Yuuri with a calculated look behind his blue eyes. Then, he smiles again, a warm smile that Yuuri is sure could melt any person’s heart, and takes a step forward, arms raised as if offering a hug.

    “How about a trade?” he says. “You teach me everything you know about ballet, regardless of how good of a teacher you think you are, and I’ll teach you everything I know about figure skating.” He shrugs, his smile morphing into a sort of boyishly cute half-smile. “It’s not much, but I figured we could equally enjoy each other’s terrible teaching.” Yuuri can’t help laughing at that, taking an unconscious step closer to Victor.

    In any other situation, Yuuri would have for sure still said no. But something about the almost desperate look in Victor’s eyes, the outstretched arms, the offer of teaching him to figure skate is enough to make him nod his head.

    “Alright,” he says, surprised by the lack of quiver in his voice. “Alright, I’ll teach you ballet.” Despite having only spent less than a day with him, Yuuri is completely unsurprised when Victor springs forward, arms wrapping tight around Yuuri and practically spinning him around in a circle.

    “Yuuri!” Victor squeals, grabbing his shoulders and hold him back to smile directly at him. “You won’t regret this, I promise!” Yuuri smiles back, slightly dazed and dizzy from the spinning and sudden proximity to Victor. As he does, his eyes catch sight of the clock on the back wall. His eyes shoot open in surprise, and he curses under his breath. Victor’s eyebrows draw together in confusion. “What is it?”

    “I...lost track of time,” Yuuri says, rushing over to where his bag is on the ground. He grabs it quickly, dropping to the ground to begin untying his shoes. “My regular practice starts in ten minutes in a different studio, plus I think this studio is supposed to be used by a class.” He shoves his shoes in his bag, shouldering it once he has his regular tennis shoes back on. He turns to Victor, who’s still standing watching Yuuri with a look of confusion on his face. “Uh, I don’t think that class is supposed to start for at least fifteen minutes, so you can, er--”

    “It’s fine, Yuuri,” Victor says, his face relaxing into another smile. “My hostel isn’t too far from here, so I can just let myself out.” Victor turns and heads for his things, and Yuuri definitely isn’t staring at his ass in those leggings.

    Yuuri’s hand grips his bag strap tightly. “H-Hostel?” he calls after Victor, voice unsure.

    Victor is sitting on the ground now, unlacing and easing his feet out of his shoes. He looks up at Yuuri’s voice, flipping back his bangs. “Yeah,” he says. “I couldn’t stay in any of the hotels nearby, so I chose to stay in the hostel.”

    “Y-You could stay with me,” Yuuri says without realizing. Victor looks just as surprised as Yuuri feels, and it’s with some stuttering that Yuuri manages to say, “I-I have a spare guest room in my apartment. I r-rarely use it, so it’s kind of empty right--”

    “Really?!” Victor says, immediately jumping to his feet. He pads over to Yuuri, looking ready to jump Yuuri with another hug. Yuuri takes a step back in anticipation and Victor stops, a knowing smile on his face. “You’d let me stay with you?”

    Yuuri swallows. “Why not?” he says, smiling sheepishly. Victor doesn’t attack him with another hug, though Yuuri can tell that he wants to, but still beams. Yuuri’s eyes flick up to the clock, and he curses again, quickly scribbling down his address on a crumpled up gum wrapper he finds in the bottom of his bag.

    “There’s a key under the front mat.” He says, running to the door. “I’ll be back around seven.” He turns away before he thinks better of it, and before Victor crushes him in another hug.

    “Amazing!” Victor exclaims, from behind him. “I’ll just have to go get Makkachin, and I’ll make dinner!”

    Yuuri turns around now, eyebrow raised. “Makka-whaa?”

    “My dog!” Victor beams, as if it’s perfectly normal to bring a dog on an international adventure. Yuuri has a sneaking suspicion Victor was never planning on leaving so soon.

    “Oh-okay.” Yuuri stammers, because he really doesn’t have time to digest this right now.

    “Turn the lights off when you leave, please!” He says, and with that, he’s out the door and sprinting through the building.

    He arrives at his rehearsal studio a minute past noon, and though he knows his director is about to give him a tongue-lashing, he can’t help the small smile that passes over his face.

Previous | Next

Special thanks to @toosigoosi for co-authoring!

#victuuri #victuri #fanfiction #viktuuri #vikturi #yuri on ice #yuri!!! on ice #yoi #yuuri katsuki #victor nikiforov #balletdancer!yuuri #ballet on ice #ballet!au #au

[yahia03]

Prevention of injury in any sport and better performance

In the ongoing 2019 NBA finals where the dark horse Toronto Raptors won their solitary NBA Championship, there were other significant features encompassing the 6 game arrangement then the triumphs themselves. I accept that nobody can contend that had these cases not happened then the outcome may have been essentially extraordinary. There were 2 vocation changing and arrangement finishing wounds that happened in Games 5 and 6 that changed the dynamic of the ongoing interaction. One injury happened to a player who most will concur at the time was the best player on earth, Kevin Durant. The other injury was to one of the best 3 point shooters ever Klay Thompson. Wounds to the most noteworthy performing competitors In sports has been a typical event in the course of recent years. On account of this we are seeing the most generously compensated and most gifted b-ball players from different nations quit the world cup coming up toward the finish of August. The reason for players doing this is to make sure about their drawn out future in the NBA and not chance injury in the quest for playing for their nation. To the vast majority these regular stun wounds may appear to be bizarre since innovation and propelled preparing strategies have been at an untouched prevalence. A couple of basic reasons strike a chord with respect to why this is going on. The first is Food. Supplements found in food is at an unequaled low. A little model is cashews. The magnesium content in cashews has dropped 70% since the 1970's. This is all because of business cultivating. The splashing of pesticides and herbicides on yields and soil is influencing the supplements. Leafy foods become out of this dirt are seeing a huge drop in supplement esteem. These synthetic concoctions additionally influence our meats, with the creatures that we devour from either taking care of off vegetation from the harmed soil or getting by off exceptionally prepared grains. Its additionally a subject of conversation with respect to the sum the steroids being utilized to improve creature size for selling, in addition to the utilization of anti-toxins when the creatures are debilitated which is making more trouble the creatures wellbeing than the prior decades them. There has been confirmation that even our natural ranches are not as supplement thick as they once where. The explanation being that the synthetic compounds from neighboring business ranches are being sent through the air and onto the natural homesteads. Strikingly enough, is the way this isn't just influencing our present competitors however how it will influence our future players. Studies have demonstrated that eating exceptionally prepared nourishments influences the second and third ages. The examination which is distributed as Pottengers felines demonstrated instances of distortions, disease, and even visual deficiency in the felines because of eating prepared meats, influencing the job of relatives right down to the third era of felines. You just need to get some information about the expanding pace of sickness in the individuals around you to fathom what is happening in our reality. The second explanation of the continuous and genuine wounds is the preparation programming and activities that are being recommended to competitors nowadays. Preparing has 'as far as anyone knows' taken jumps in improving execution. The utilization of equalization preparing, electric machines and tricks have been actualized to what exactly should be animating the co-appointment and quality of a competitor to prevail in a given game when that aptitude is relied upon. Nonetheless, I am yet to see an investigation where single legged parity preparing for instance can improve speed, dexterity and quality. I will wager all my cash that the competitor turns out to be great at single legged parity preparing yet not really a continue to a development in the game. On the other side you discover various investigations that improving the quality in a squat as another model can improve vertical bounce, run speed and deceleration. Tragically, it might be an additional 10 years before research demonstrates that these made up thus called imaginative approaches to prepare a competitor are not the slightest bit better than old fashioned quality preparing. Preparing that was put on the map by a portion of the universes most grounded men from the 1900's is gradually advancing into confrontational games and is being demonstrated as of now to making competitors more grounded in blended hand to hand fighting just as American football. Competitors are competitors since they are now incredible at what they do. In all likelihood they are as of now exceptionally talented, solid and quick. All they need is a little direction on the most proficient method to forestall injury through improving the supplements they devour and manufacture their capacity to prepare with loads appropriately. This data isn't just going to incredibly improve their quality yet additionally their joint honesty, portability and responsive powers on the ground. Upgrades in these classes will improve a competitors, Strength, Agility and speed alongside injury avoidance and recuperation time. That is an extremely valuable add up to pay towards a competitor's life span in their game. There are a couple of basic strides to follow that will assist you with turning into the best form of yourself. In case you're a competitor or simply need to help shield our people in the future from ailment and injury these progressions can just effectsly affect you, you're youngsters and instructing everyone around you. The first is to eat natural wholefood as much as possible by living by the 80/20 standard. 80% natural and 20% traditional. In the event that you need a definite fire approach to discover which nourishments are the most secure to eat, you should simply Google the spotless 15 for your nation. It is the best 15 nourishments that are the least showered with herbicides and pesticides. In the event that you likewise need to realize the nourishments to remain away from,then Google the messy dozen for your nation. These are 12 of the most synthetically loaded produce in your general vicinity. The seconds tip is to locate an incredible mentor who will show you the right mechanics on the exhibition lifts that will make you more grounded for your particular game. Somebody who additionally has the specialization of some type of muscle discharge procedure will likewise incredibly improve portability and forestall injury. Quest for A.R.T Practitioners in your general vicinity. The consequence of the intense wounds that happened for the current year in the NBA Finals will change the course of the NBA for quite a long time to come and has just begun occurring. The arranging of significantly more burden the executives for its headliners and conceivably more rest days between games is by all accounts a move the correct way for those included. I wonder when they will take a gander at the off field conditions influencing the competitors. Kevin Durant will miss a year of activity and he will expect to restore a similar player that he was before the injury, anyway insights are against him. Most players coming back from an achilles tear never appear to return to their best b-ball. Kobe Bryant, the latest and presumably most popular b-ball player was a casualty to this awful injury and like Kevin Durant, this occurred while playing out of here the court. Kobe was soon to resign a couple of years after the fact when performing at a significant level could never again be accomplished. Klay Thompson will be down and out for a half year with an ACL tear and history of that sort of injury is that it is more than prone to be re-harmed. Upper leg tendon tears are the most widely recognized injury in sports that we see today. We can dare to dream that mentors restrain the influence they have on a competitors body and intend to just make it more solid. For your own data attempt and Google Kevin Durant's shooting warmup schedule. It comprises of twists, turns, single legged bounces and bends noticeable all around. As I would like to think, those developments ought to be put something aside for the game and not be taking up mileage for the body in an exercise or warm up schedule. My outline is that in about quite a while from now there will be examination into the estimating of some degree, the mileage a body can take before its at genuine danger of injury. Ideally we'll check whether making competitors more grounded and looking more into their sustenance become to a greater degree a center point and that they spare the various stuff for developments on the field, court or practice region. On a note I don't have the foggiest idea about the degree of these competitors nourishment however as science has appeared with the Pottenger's felines study, is that it likely began with their predecessors 2 to 3 ages prior. Entertainingly enough that would return us to the hour of the ascent of business cultivating in the U.S. I trust this data has pointed many individuals the correct way to their wellbeing and execution. We are just comparable to the fuel and information that we get.

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#Basketball

[celticnoise]

CQN continues its enthralling and EXCLUSIVE extracts from Alex Gordon’s book, ‘That Season In Paradise’, which takes us through the months that were the most momentous in Celtic’s proud history.

Today, we look at another dramatic step along the team’s destination towards the record books.

JOCK STEIN didn’t quite get around to instructing the assembled squad of players to dismiss thoughts of conquering Europe, but he left them in absolutely no doubt that the prime target for season 1966/67 was to retain the First Division championship, annexed in some considerable style the previous term for the first time since 1954. Any status earned on foreign fields would be accepted as a bonus; ultimate victory in the European Cup wasn’t included in anyone’s aspirations.

I interviewed all eight existing European Cup winners when I was writing the book, ‘The Lisbon Lions: 40th Anniversary Celebration’. I allotted a chapter to each member of the historic team to give their unique view on events. Billy McNeill’s thoughts on Celtic’s chances of actually winning the trophy were quite candid. He admitted, ‘The European Cup was a trophy that belonged to other teams, glamorous sides from other parts of Europe. Only Real Madrid, six times, Benfica (twice), Inter Milan (twice) and AC Milan (once), had won the most prestigious prize European football had to offer. British football merely had its nosed pressed up against the window, wanting to get in, but being completely ignored.’

I didn’t discover one player who admitted to having prior knowledge that the European Cup Final for that particular season would be played in the Portuguese capital of Lisbon.

So, the sharp focus for the campaign was the safe delivery of a second successive title. That being the priority, the Celtic manager would have been reasonably satisfied his team were league leaders going into the month of March. After twenty-four games, it was obviously a straight fight between the Parkhead side and their ancient foes Rangers for the crown.

Celtic had won nineteen, drawn four and lost one to rack up forty-two points. Their persistent challengers from Govan had played the same amount of games and had won eighteen, drawn four and lost two to amass forty points, only two adrift of Stein’s team in pole position. Celtic had scored a highly laudable eighty-three goals, eleven more than their pursuers, but had conceded twenty-five, with the Ibrox outfit losing four fewer. There were still ten games remaining, but the two nearest teams to the Old Firm, Aberdeen and Hibs, already knew third top would be their best achievement; both trailed Celtic by ten points.

Jock Stein’s team ushered in the month with their European Cup quarter-final first leg against the Yugoslavian champions Vojvodina in a frosty, cheerless and aptly-named Novi Sad. The manager’s pre-match talk was about the importance of ball retention against a team who knew how to use the object fairly expertly. Jim Craig was introduced at right-back for his European Cup debut with Tommy Gemmell switching wings and Willie O’Neill dropping out.

With twenty-one minutes to go, Stein would have been satisfied. It was goalless and Ronnie Simpson hadn’t been unduly perturbed. And then Gemmell, so often the matchwinner, made a costly mistake. On a difficult, flint-hard surface, the left-back decided to attempt a passback, a movement never encouraged by his boss. Unfortunately, Gemmell’s wayward ball fell between Bobby Murdoch and John Clark and that was all the darting Svemir Djordic needed to intercept the pass, square it to Milan Stanic and the winger expertly placed a low drive away from the advancing Simpson.

The legendary Vujadin Boskov, later to manage some of the biggest teams in Europe including Real Madrid, had ordered his side to get a two-goal advantage and his players did their best to comply with his wishes. However, it is to Celtic’s spirit and credit that they refused to panic or fold in front of such impressive opposition. The Slavs had to be content with Stanic’s solitary effort as the visitors shut up shop with Simpson, Billy McNeill and John Clark repelling some frantic raids for the next twenty minutes.

Gemmell said, ‘I didn’t make any excuses back then and I’m certainly not going to do so now. However, I underestimated two things that night: the dodgy surface and the pace of a player called Djordic. The pass might have looked like a lost cause to the Slav, but he didn’t give it up and his sheer acceleration defied the elements. He got to the ball first, squared it for his team-mate and he thumped it past Faither, who was helpless. I got an earful from my goalkeeper and I put up my hands and said, “Sorry, lads, my fault.” I felt dreadful. One slack pass and we were smack in trouble – all our good work had gone for precisely nothing. I knew we would be up against it in Glasgow.’

THE HANDSHAKES BEFORE THE DRAMA…Billy McNeill meets the Vojvodina skipper.

Bertie Auld recalled, ‘Of course, we were all disappointed afterwards in the dressing room. Tommy had made a mistake and he admitted it. However, a team-mate, who shall remain nameless, was so upset he said, “Why did you have to try something fancy? Why not just hoof it up the pitch?” Big Jock heard the comments and immediately rounded on the player. He practically shouted, “Have you forgotten the amount of times Tommy Gemmell has won games for us?” That was typical of the manager, though. He wouldn’t have anyone abusing any of his players – unless, of course, it was him!’

Ronnie Simpson paid his tribute to the slick Slavs. ‘Vojvodina were undoubtedly the best side we met in the European Cup. They were a disciplined team with a lot of talent and well groomed by Vujadin Boskov, a former international left-half of world class. I thought we paced the game in Novi Sad to perfection and did everything right. Then just as we had the Yugoslav champions on the retreat, we lost a goal – and a daft one at that.

‘In sixty-nine minutes, Tommy Gemmell tried to push the ball back to me from a fair distance and didn’t get enough on the ball. It ended at Stanic, their outside-left, who was onto it in a flash and fairly romped it past me. John Clark almost got there, but, like most of us, didn’t expect Tommy to muff his kick. That changed the pattern of the game a little, giving them fresh heart and we had to be content with a 1-0 defeat, the first time we had lost a leg on our European journey.’

Bobby Murdoch agreed with his keeper about the qualities of the quarter-final opponents. He remembered, ‘Vojvodina were the hardest team we met, no argument. Jock Stein had checked them out prior to the first game and had us mentally prepared. He had warned us we would have a hard match and that they moved like a British side. They were a physical team, not unlike ourselves and the Germans. They wouldn’t panic, they wouldn’t quit. The Boss was right.

‘They came at us so fast and furiously in Novi Sad that we were caught out in those early minutes. Their pace and strength surprised us. But we held them, sometimes having to pull eight players back in defence to combat their energetic attacking waves. In our own breakaways, we found they had a magnificent centre-half in Ivica Brzic, who was built like a tank, and a smart keeper in Ilija Pantelic, who was quite the darling of the crowd.

FIST IN TIME…Billy McNeill is foiled on this occasion as Vojvodina keeper Ilija Pantelic punches clear.

‘They were a hard team, who didn’t shirk a tackle, but they were fair and, though we took a bit of stick from them in the opening part of the game, I must say I thoroughly enjoyed it. We had paced our game so well that by the interval the Yugoslavs were beginning to feel a bit frustrated. I felt that, tactically, we had played as well as we had ever played in Europe. Then just when they were beginning to sag and we were beginning to show more in attack and take a very tight grip on the game, we lost a silly goal. Tommy Gemmell, under a little pressure on the left, decided to turn and push the ball back to Ronnie Simpson. Unfortunately, Tam didn’t hit the ball hard enough. By the time John Clark realised the ball wasn’t going to make it, they had scored. Were we sick? And how do you think Tommy Gemmell felt? This inspired the Yugoslavs to pick up their game and so we finished the first leg a goal down.

‘The crowd were so excited that they ran on to the field and carried their keeper off the ground. I don’t know why they chose Pantelic. They should have carried off their outside-left who was smart enough to take advantage of our one and only boob. When the manager came into the dressing room after the match, he took one look at Tommy Gemmell, who was sitting with his head in his hands, and said, “Get your head up off the floor. You’ve won games for us. It’s not over yet.”‘

As an interesting postscript, the classy midfielder added, ‘Prior to the banquet at the Petrovardin Fortress, which overlooked the River Danube, we saw Inter Milan beat Real Madrid 2-0 on TV in the second leg of their European Cup quarter-final to win 3-0 on aggregate. We figured the great Real Madrid had problems much greater than ours. We were still in the competition!’

Simpson reflected on a meeting with his opposite number at the banquet. ‘The Vojvodina keeper, Ilija Pantelic, who was the No.1 in Yugoslavia, sought me out. He told me he was amazed I was still playing in goal at the age of thirty-six. He told me, “If I’m still playing at thirty or thirty-one, I’ll consider myself lucky.” He made me feel like an old man!’

Pantelic, in fact, had caught the eye of Jock Stein when he watched the third-game play-off against Atletico Madrid. The 6ft 2in Slav looked the perfect sporting specimen, an ideal prototype for a goalkeeper. He was agile, possessed good hands and, generally, controlled his penalty area. The Celtic manager would also have noted he took his team’s penalty-kicks and had actually scored from the spot against the Spaniards in Vojvodina’s 3-1 win in the first game. There was talk of Stein surreptitiously making enquires about the availability of the shotstopper, but he received no encouragement from the Slavs. Pantelic, though, left Vojvodina for French football in 1969 and finished his career at Paris Saint German. He was thirty-five years old when he decided to hang up his gloves.

On matchdays, Celtic fans arriving early for the best places at which to stand and view the game from the terracing or enclosure would often witness the lone and thoughtful figure of Jock Stein pacing out the playing surface. The management and players would normally arrive at the ground by coach an hour-and-a-half before kick-off and one of the Celtic manager’s first tasks was to inspect the pitch. Big Jock, unlike other team bosses, used to irritate the Press by refusing to name a line-up until thirty minutes or so before a game. ‘Who would be expected to pay good money to go and see a film if they didn’t know who is starring in it?’ the reporters would often point out, with a reasonable amount of logic. They required the team for the Saturday editions of their newspapers, but, of course, their observations meant little to Stein. He never saw the point of making his selection public the day before a game when overnight conditions could see him making sweeping changes. As a gambler, he had no intention of showing his hand to a rival manager, either.

NUMBER ONE…Stevie Chalmers strikes from close range after Ilija Pantelic had failed to cut out a Tommy Gemmell left-wing cross.

On March 4, only three days after competing on the rock-solid pitch of Novi Sad, the Celtic manager was meticulously scrutinising the conditions of Love Street before putting his eleven together for the game against a St Mirren outfit who had, quite remarkably, taken a point from Parkhead in November, still the only team to manage the achievement at that stage of the season. On the odd occasion, Stein would call upon the services of trainer Neilly Mochan to bring a couple of balls out with him to roll along the top layer. Only when he was totally satisfied, did Stein announce his formation to his players and have the team lines delivered to the match officials, the opposing manager and directors of both clubs. On this particular afternoon, the heavy going meant an unwanted day off for Jimmy Johnstone with John Hughes getting the green light to play on the right wing.

Once again, Stein’s scrupulous, diligent eye for the most minute of detail worked in Celtic’s favour. Hughes powered through the stamina-sapping Paisley sludge as the champions stormed to a 5-0 victory. Goalkeeper Denis Connaghan, his side’s hero in their 1-1 draw in Glasgow, had already given the impression he would be picking up where he left off against his favourite team four months earlier. For half-an-hour, with Hughes running amok on the right touchline, Celtic subjected the Saints defence to a fearful battering without any substantial reward.

In the thirty-first minute, however, Tommy Gemmell embarked on another lung-bursting overlapping expedition on the left wing before bending in an inviting centre. Willie Wallace read the intentions of his team-mate with flawless timing and arrived on the scene at the precise moment to inflict maximum damage and tuck the ball beyond the helpless Connaghan. It remained that way until three minutes after the turnaround when Bobby Lennox doubled the advantage and, within minutes, Hughes repaid his manager for his decision-making, by blasting in the third. With the exhausted Paisley rearguard on the point of collapse, Gemmell zipped in a penalty-kick in the eighty-third minute and Wallace grabbed another in the dying embers of the encounter.

Near the end, Bertie Auld signalled to the bench he couldn’t continue after taking a dull one from a frustrated Saints opponent. Remarkably, Big Jock waved him off, but then refused to replace him. Johnstone was on the substitute’s bench and eager to get into the thick of things. However, Stein decided, with the team already so far ahead and the points assured, he would not take a chance with his little winger getting injured as the match neared its end. He wanted Johnstone fit and raring to go for the European Cup return against Vojvodina in midweek and, thus, Celtic finished the game with only ten men.

NUMBER TWO…Billy McNeill’s header soars high past Vojvodina defender Stevan Nesticki with keeper Ilija Pantelic stranded.

Celtic Park rocked like never before at the dramatic conclusion of the game against the champions of old Yugoslavia. The aggregate score was locked at 1-1 with less than a minute on the clock and a replay in the Dutch city of Rotterdam the following Wednesday the likely outcome. Celtic forced a corner-kick on the right and Charlie Gallagher, taking the place of the injured Bertie Auld, raced over to take it. On a savagely cold evening, the fans could see their breath plume in front of them. No-one complained, though. Collectively, 69,372 individuals came together for one last roar of encouragement. A crescendo of noise enveloped the east end of Glasgow.

Gallagher appraised the situation as bodies jostled for position, elbows visiting opponents’ ribs, jerseys being held in desperate grips. Billy McNeill took up his usual post at the edge of the eighteen-yard box. Gallagher shaped to take a short kick, but changed his mind and carefully swung the ball into the middle of the goal. Ilija Pantelic made a move to come off his line. McNeill, surging forward into the throng, was precision itself in his timing. The ball floated in the air as the Celtic captain climbed the highest. There was a thump as it smacked off his forehead. Pantelic looked back in utter anguish, defender Stevan Nesticki tried to perform heroic acrobatics on the line, but it was to no avail. McNeill’s header swished straight into the net with glorious meticulousness. Swedish referee Hans Carlsson blew for time-up exactly TWO SECONDS later and Celtic, extraordinarily, were in the European Cup semi-final.

Celebrated London Times sports journalist Geoffrey Green observed, ‘The last half-hour produced unbroken heartburn as Celtic thundered forward for the decider. In that space of time, Johnstone, who all through had been a thorn in the side of the Slav’s left flank, grew to even higher stature; and on the left wing Hughes, at last, began to use his pace and weight to add a second dangerous sector. The Vojvodina defence suddenly found itself the nut between the crackers. As the minutes unwound, there came great saves from the Slav goalkeeper Pantelic from Gallagher, Hughes, Johnstone, Hughes again, and even Gemmell and Chalmers.

‘All were looking at their watches as Gallagher clearly was taking the last corner-kick of the night. Over it came; up went a forest of heads, but there, the tallest of them, was the fair head of McNeill , who nodded the ball home to the top corner. That was victory at the last gasp and Parkhead, and its great swirling concourse, took wings.’

Celtic had levelled the tie just before the hour mark when Tommy Gemmell made amends for his first leg loss of concentration that may have cost so dear. He used John Hughes as decoy as he dashed down the left wing and pitched over an inviting cross. Pantelic sprang from his line, but the courageous Steve Chalmers was even faster off the mark and he got there just ahead of the keeper to knock the ball into the gaping net.

The hero of the hour, Billy McNeill, recalled, ‘I didn’t score a single league goal that season, but the one in the European Cup was a wee bit special, even if I do say so myself. I couldn’t have timed it better. I know Big Jock and all the lads rated Vojvodina as by far the best team we met that year, including Inter Milan. The Yugoslavs were superb technically, but were also fairly adept in possibly the not-so-finer points in the game. There was also some memorable mind-games going off the pitch between the Boss and their manager Vujadin Boskov.

‘Even before the first game, Big Jock clearly wasn’t impressed by Boskov’s pre-match prediction. The Slav boss stated emphatically he believed Vojvodina would be victorious by “at least two goals”. Jock thought, “Oh, really? We’ll see about that.” When they won by a solitary effort from Stanic, Boskov came out again and declared he hadn’t been too impressed by Celtic and his team would win again in Glasgow. Now if Boskov was trying to get Jock fired up for the return he couldn’t have done a better job. The Big Man spoke to the Yugoslav Press and went on record as saying, “Vojvodina are a very good team, but we are better and we will win in Glasgow.” It was sheer bravado because we all realised just how difficult the Slavs would be in the return leg.

‘Boskov and his players turned up at Celtic Park the night before the game and they wanted a work-out on the pitch under the floodlights. It was normal practice for teams to go through this routine as it made a lot of sense for them to get a feel for the conditions they are going to encounter twenty-four hours later.

ALL SMILES…Jock Stein and Tommy Gemmell soak up the atmosphere at the end of a dramatic evening.

‘The Vojvodina boss wasn’t best pleased, then, when Big Jock gave him the news neither he nor his players would be placing a foot on the pitch at Celtic Park. “Sorry, there’s been too much rain in Glasgow recently,” Jock informed him. “We can’t take the chance of the pitch cutting up.” He did have a point, but Boskov was far from convinced. He made all sorts of protestations; he would take it up with the Celtic chairman, he threatened. Jock waved it away in his usual fashion. “You can train at Barrowfield and I’ll make sure the lights are switched on. Off you go.”

‘To say the Slavs were not amused would be putting it rather mildly. They were fizzing, but, at least, Boskov and his boys got the drift that Jock Stein was, indeed, the man in charge at Celtic. As far as football matters went, there was no higher power. Vojvodina, though, were determined to have the last word during the game in Glasgow. As I said, they were an extremely talented and resilient outfit and they weren’t slow to hand out a wee bit of punishment every now and then. We had to endure close to an hour of frustration before we got our own back when Stevie Chalmers made it 1-1 on aggregate after a typically unselfish run and cross from the left by Tommy Gemmell.

‘I have been told the referee blew for time-up two seconds after the restart following my goal. Now that is a late, late goal. We won a corner-kick on the right and I’ll always recall Big Jock waving us all up for one last assault on their goal. Charlie Gallagher, who had a sublime touch, raced over to take it. Actually, I think Charlie was about to take a short one, but a Slav defender raced to cut it off and Charlie changed his mind. Thank God!

‘Charlie was left with no option but to put the ball into the mix. There was the usual barging and jostling as I made my way forward. The Slavs had marked me very well at set-pieces and I hadn’t really had a sniff at goal. On this occasion, though, my timing was just absolutely spot-on. Charlie swung it in, I kept my run going, the ball hung in the air, I got a good leap, made superb contact and the next thing I saw was the effort soaring high into the net. Pantelic had strayed a bit from his line and they had a defender on the goal-line who did a fair impersonation of a goalkeeper as he leapt up with his left arm to try to keep the ball out. He was wasting his time – that was a goal all the way as soon as it came off my napper.

CHEERS…Billy McNeill is congratulated by Jimmy Johnstone and Bobby Lennox with John Hughes on his way to join in.

‘Vojvodina went crazy when the referee awarded the goal. They were convinced I had fouled Pantelic. I can hold my hands up all these years down the line and tell the world I didn’t even touch their goalkeeper. I was nowhere near him, as a matter of fact. However, you might ask Stevie Chalmers if he had blocked Pantelic! He may have taken a half-yard step in front of the big goalie when he was leaving his line in an effort to cut out the cross. So what? It was all part of the game back then as it still is today. Believe me, the Slavs weren’t slow in getting in front of me any time I came forward. But, thanks to Charlie’s deadball accuracy, there was nothing anyone could do to prevent me from making contact on that occasion and managing to do some damage.

‘I knew it was late in the game, but, honestly, I had no idea that it was quite as late as that. As I ran back to take my position in the heart of the defence, I shouted over at John Clark, “Keep concentrating, Luggy. We’re not going to lose a goal now.” Luggy just looked at me and said, “What are you talking about, Caesar? The game’s finished. It’s over and we’re through.” Seconds later it was, indeed, well and truly over and our great adventure was still on track.

‘I remember the Vojvodina players cracking up as they kicked off and the ref blew for time-up. Actually, one of their own players raced into the melee and started shoving his team-mates all over the place to get them to calm down. He was a big lad, too, and, thankfully, they did as they were told. It could have been very interesting going up the tunnel that evening. That tunnel could tell a tale or two, that’s for sure. These were the days before TV cameras seemed to spring up everywhere and sometimes there could be some “sorting-out” done in the darkness of that tight, little area that led to the dressing rooms. Not that I ever got involved myself, you understand!’

Stevie Chalmers recollected, ‘Scoring the most historic goal in Celtic’s history in Lisbon is something I will always treasure, but I would like to think I also played my part in beating Vojvodina in the quarter-final. And I am not talking about my goal that made it 1-1 on aggregate and set up the grand finale for Big Billy to head in the last-minute winner. Our skipper was accused of fouling their goalkeeper Ilija Pantelic, but I can now confess he didn’t come close to touching him – because I did!

‘It wasn’t a foul, though, I hasten to add. It was something that happened all the time in penalty boxes and I was blocked off a few times myself. However, on this occasion, I took a wee step in front of the keeper as he left his line in order to cut out Charlie Gallagher’s right-wing corner-kick. It was only a half-yard or so, but it managed to put Pantelic off his stride. He couldn’t get anywhere near the swirling ball and Big Billy, as he did so often, got his head to Charlie’s cross to bullet an effort high into the net. Celtic Park erupted! The Yugoslavs were pointing fingers at everyone. They shouted at the referee, but he was having none of it. The goal was good and he pointed to the centre circle.’

Chalmers was another convinced of the qualities of dangerous foes. He added, ‘Yes, like all the other Lisbon Lions, I really rated Vojvodina. You know I couldn’t name any of their outfield players although Pantelic was gathering a bit of a reputation throughout Europe as being a top goalkeeper. He was class alright although, to be fair, he wasn’t exactly overworked in the opening game when they won 1-0. It was an entirely different story in Glasgow, though, as you might expect. The atmosphere at Celtic Park was electrifying that night. The fans were in great voice and they did become our twelfth man.

‘Again, I was fortunate enough to score and it was all down to Big Tommy belting down that left wing. Both Tommy and Jim Craig would run all day up and down their wings. Tommy, on the left, swung in an inviting cross and I tried to get between the goalkeeper and a defender. It was one of those crossballs that just needed a touch to knock it over the line. Pantelic threw himself at it, but got caught up with his own defender – nothing to do with me this time, honest! – and the ball dropped right in front of me. I couldn’t miss and I just fired it over the line. That set up the big finish and Billy duly provided us with our semi-final passport – with a little assistance from yours truly.’

Bobby Lennox said, ‘People often ask me what was my favourite goal in that European Cup run. Well, it wasn’t one of mine! As it happens, I only scored two, in both legs of our 6-2 aggregate win over Nantes in the Second Round. Neither, I have to say, was particularly spectacular. However, Big Billy’s winner against Vojvodina was something special altogether. Naturally, I was overjoyed for all the obvious reasons, but I was also doubly pleased because we had stuck two past their goalkeeper, Ilija Pantelic.

‘I would like to believe I am a fairly easy-going type of bloke, but I really hated that guy. I know making a comment like that is way out of character for me, so please let me explain why I disliked the Vojvodina No.1 so much. In the first leg in Yugoslavia, I made a challenge for a 50/50 ball as I was quite entitled to do. I did it every week in Scottish football and no-one complained. Pantelic didn’t like being disturbed, though. I slid in, my momentum took me forward and the goalkeeper collapsed on top of me as he collected the ball.

‘It certainly wasn’t a foul, but Pantelic wasn’t too happy. He got to his feet and motioned to help me get up, too. It was all very sporting, but if anyone had bothered to take a closer look they would have seen the Slav had a handful of my hair as he ‘helped’ me back up off the ground. I’ve got a sense of humour, but that was no laughing matter. We were also fairly satisfied with the first leg result although, of course, it’s never ideal to lose by any margin in Europe against first-rate opposition. However, as we travelled back, we were all convinced we would overturn their one-goal advantage. Me? I just wanted to stick one or two behind a certain Mr.Pantelic to welcome him to Glasgow in no uncertain fashion. Alas, I didn’t get my wish, but we still beat them and that was the main objective all along.

CROSSBAR CHALLENGE…Ronnie Simpson celebrates in unsual fashion at full-time.

‘However, if you see footage of our first goal by Stevie Chalmers have a look at what I’m getting up to. I’m right in the goalkeeper’s face and giving it  “Yahoo!”. Normally, I would run to the goalscorer to offer my congrats and give him a pat on the head, but I just couldn’t help myself for making a beeline to their crestfallen keeper and letting him know exactly how I felt. I’m sorry, I had to do it. If I was happy then, you can imagine my feeling of sheer elation a minute from time when Big Billy sauntered forward in that manner of his and got his head to Charlie Gallagher’s beautifully-flighted right-wing corner-kick. My friend Pantelic was caught in no-man’s land as the ball soared high into the net. I kept away from him that time, I didn’t want to push my luck! He was a big guy, after all, and his side had just been sent reeling out of Europe. I must say in his favour, though, we shook hands at the end of the game and he wished me all the best for the rest of the competition. I appreciated that.’

Jim Craig, who had missed the earlier rounds against Zurich and Nantes,  reflected, ‘The guy who gave me most bother was Vojvodina’s Milan Stanic, who got their goal in the first leg in Novi Sad. He was skilful and tricky, but I remembered Big Jock’s words. He said, “Lean on him and see if he has a heart that size of a pea”. So, dutifully, I “leaned” on Stanic at one point. Lo and behold, he suddenly thought it was a better idea to go and play somewhere else on the field. Problem solved. Vojvodina were a fabulous team, though. They played in a typical, controlled Eastern European fashion and were superb at keeping possession. You can run for miles with the ball at your feet, but it’s not so easy when you are chasing around trying to get it back. That can be exhausting and the Slavs put a lot of emphasis on retaining possession. We may have lost the first game 1-0, but we weren’t disheartened. Simply put, we believed we could overturn their advantage in Glasgow. And so it proved, but we did leave it a bit late, didn’t we?

‘I thought we played well that night and, unfortunately for yours truly, I was next to Big Jock in the dug-out on the right touchline throughout a dramatic second-half that was fraught with anxiety. All I could hear above the din of almost 70,000 fans was “Cairney, do this” or “Cairney, do that”. It wasn’t easy playing right-back when Big Jock was in full flow. I used to look round every now and again and shout, “Why don’t you have a go at Bobby Murdoch or Wee Jinky?” Luckily for them, they were probably out of earshot and were spared the verbal volleys from the manager. Big Jock would also yell at you to pass on instructions. Aye, right! I simply concentrated on my own game – that was enough to be going on with.’

CELTIC TRIUMPHANT…Bobby Murdoch raises his right arm in salute amid his team-mates’ celebrations.

Bobby Murdoch said, ‘We were told during the preparation for the match that we had not to panic if we didn’t score early. We had to be patient. The game ran ninety minutes and we would just have to wait until we got our chances. We knew it would be a fight. Vojvodina were a big, powerful side and, unlike our previous European Cup opponents, they had something to hold onto. They didn’t have to come at us. We had to go at them and get the goals.

‘At the interval, we still hadn’t scored. And neither had they. We had gone at them hard from the whistle and pushed them from every angle, but we couldn’t break them down. Into the second-half, we were beginning to despair a little. Then came a break down the left from Tommy Gemmell, so desperate to make up for his slip the previous week. Tam hit the ball hard across goal and Panetlic came out to meet it, let it slip onto his shoulder and the ball dropped to the ground. This was the kind of chance Stevie Chalmers lapped up. He was on to it like a hawk and hammered the ball into the net. Vojvodina were a different side now. Earlier, they had been deliberately slowing the pace of the game with their keeper bouncing the ball about and taking a long time to kick it out. Their centre-half was also regularly knocking the ball back to his keeper when he could have found a man upfield.

‘Celtic were pushing hard now with the crowd whipping us on. Seventy minutes…eighty minutes…eighty-five minutes…and we were beginning to think of a play-off in Rotterdam. An extra match we didn’t want as we were involved in so many games at home. Then in the final minute of the game, we got a corner-kick on the right hand side of the field. Charlie Gallagher ran out to take the kick and obviously meant to take a short one, when Jimmy Johnstone ran out with him. Dimitri Radovic, the Yugoslav full-back, raced out when he saw Charlie’s intentions.

‘As always, Billy McNeill moved up to the edge of the Vojvodina penalty area. Smartly, Charlie decided on a long kick. Over it came and there to meet it was the head of Billy McNeill to hammer the ball high into the Vojvodina net. What a goal! What a winner! The Slavs were beaten, they just couldn’t come back after that. There wasn’t time. I’ve never seen the Boss so excited. He didn’t want to wait for the final whistle. He wanted to race onto the pitch there and then and smother us in congratulations. The crowd scenes were indescribable. We had made it by seconds.’

Even veteran Ronnie Simpson was almost swept off his feet by the euphoric wave hurtling around the ground at the end. He said, ‘Celtic Park was a mad-house with me as mad as a hatter. Afterwards, I remember what the Boss had told us at half-time. “Get a grip of the middle of the field. You’re giving Vojvodina too much space to work in. I want you to stay in constant attack.” It worked.’ Pictures in the Press the following day showed the thirty-six-year-old goalkeeper swinging from his crossbar like an overgrown kid. ‘I couldn’t help myself,’ he said by way of explanation.

TOMORROW: MARCH CONTINUED: CELTIC FACE STRAIN GAME

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