#Jurgen is a fucking red herring I am calling it

[houlebubo]

Brennan Lee Mulligan I know your tricks, I Know for sure that Steel is going to betray Suvi and that she was the reason her parents died. Look at me, I was fooled during Calamity when Asmodeus didn't have a character voice, I trusted that fucker, and I will not be fooled again, I know he uses his own voice for the most malicious and manipulating villains, I am smelling it on every word from Steel

[supercasey]

TMA PMV Idea “The Dreamland Archives”

Fuck it, TMA ended so now I’m gonna post my draft sheet for a PMV I desperately wish to make, but don’t have the skills to do so. If anyone wants to use it, go ahead, but I’d like to at least know about it beforehand because I am INVESTED in this idea. (Spoilers for seasons 1-4)

(Credits/intro plays before the vocals begin)

Song: Dreamland by Glass Animals

All characters belong to Rusty Quill

*Insert list of PMV participants*

Supertheodore presents: The Dreamland Archives

Pullin' down backstreets, deep in your head [Camera is focused on the door to the archives, which opens by itself after the word “backstreets”] Slippin' through dreamland like a tourist [Camera shows the archives empty, and then filled with all of Jon's assistants after the word “dreamland” (including OG!Sasha, though her and Tim appear to be ghosts), all of them appearing happy and hard at work] Pullin' down backstreets, deep in your head [A photograph of Jon with all of the S1 assistants + Elias, everyone smiling; after the word “backstreets” it’s the S3 crew, everyone appearing upset/angry, save for Jon, who’s crying and covering his face with his hands, and Elias, who’s still smiling and has his hands on both of Jon’s shoulders] Slippin' through dreamland like a tourist [Jon is on his knees as he looks through a filing cabinet, clearly frustrated; after the word “dreamland” a ghost of Gertrude appears behind him, her arms crossed as she stands behind him, appearing disappointed]

That first friend you had, that worst thing you said [Martin is bringing a very tired Jon, who has his head in his hands, a cup of tea; Jon looks up and snaps at him after the word “had”, causing Martin to startle] That perfect moment, that last tear you shed [Tim, Martin, and even Jon are laughing at a joke that Sasha said, all three of them surrounding her desk; after the word “moment” Sasha is gone, and the others are left crying/upset] All you've done in bed, all on Memorex [Martin is alone in the archive’s storage room bed, wide awake and holding a corkscrew for dear life; after the word “bed” it cuts to Tim, who is angrily throwing a tape recorder against the nearest wall] All 'round-'round your head, all 'round-'round your head [Camera pans down from a single light-bulb to focus on Jon, who's silently crying in his office chair and surrounded by tape recorders splattered with blood (all in the shape of eyes, all staring at him)]

Pullin' down backstreets, deep in your head [Jon is traveling the tunnels alone as he uses a flashlight to light his way; after the word “backstreets” it's a similar shot, but now he's running for his life from Not!Sasha] Slippin’ through dreamland like a tourist [Jon is sitting in front of Jurgen Leitner as Jurgen explains what’s really going on to him; after the word “dreamland” Jurgen is bloodied up and dead, with Jon looking horrified, a bloody pipe rests on the table between them] Pullin' down backstreets, deep in your head [Martin and Tim run into Michael in the tunnels; after the word “backstreets” they find themselves in the realm of the Spiral] Slippin' through dreamland like a tourist [Martin and Tim are both shocked upon finding Jurgen Leitner's body; Tim becomes angry while Martin becomes worried after the word “dreamland”]

You've had too much of the digital love [Jon is sitting on the floor of Georgie's apartment, one hand holding a tape recorder, the other holding his head; after the word “much” the Admiral crawls into his lap, making Jon smile slightly] You want everything live, you want things you can touch [Jon is sitting across from Jude Perry at a cafe, looking nervous while she gives him a mischievous grin; after the word “live” it cuts to Jon free falling through the sky with Mike Crew, Mike seemingly unbothered by the whole thing while Jon looks terrified] Make it feel like a movie you saw in your youth [Shows the scene of Jon, at 8 years old, following his childhood bully to Mr. Spider’s house; the door opens and several spiders legs come out and take the bully after the word “movie”, leaving Jon terrified and covering his mouth to keep back a scream] Make it feel like that song that just unopened you [Camera is focused on Jon tied up and gagged in a chair as Nikola Orsinov brags into his tape recorder about having kidnapped him, her back turned to him the entire time; however, Michael and his door appear beside Jon after the word “song”, Jon looking very surprised/scared to see him] You were ten years old, holdin' hands in the classroom [Tim is helping Jon limp through the tunnels under the institute, the two of them looking pretty beat up; their holds tighten on each other after the word “old”, with Jon pressing his face into Tim’s shirt. Even though they’re scared, they still have each other’s backs] He had a gun on the first day of high school [Tim has his back to the camera and is facing a burning circus, triumphantly holding the detonation switch over his head; after the word “the” he presses it, causing the circus to explode, with Tim being lost to the explosion after the word “of”]  ((This line and the one before it are the reasons why this stupid idea exists)) You want something bizarre, old conceptual cars [Helen is standing in the doorway of the Spiral, grinning at the camera; after the word "bizarre” Peter Lukas is standing at the frontmost part of the Tundra, smoking a pipe with one hand while the other is in his coat pocket] You want girls dressed in drag, you want boys with guitars [Melanie slashes at the camera with a knife, her eyes glowing red; after the word “drag” we see Gerry as ghost levitating in the air and lying on his back, his arms behind his head and a content smile on his face while Jon’s panicking right next to him (and wearing a tacky “I <3 NY” t-shirt ‘cus I said so)]

Pullin' down backstreets, deep in your head [Jon is lying in a hospital bed during his coma, fast asleep, with Elias sitting in a chair beside him, reading a statement aloud; Elias lays a hand on Jon’s forehead after the word “backstreets”] Slippin' through dreamland like a tourist [Oliver comes to visit Jon at the hospital, and is leaned over Jon (from Jon’s POV for the camera angle); after the word “dreamland” it cuts to him having his back to Jon, hands up in surrender as he faces a suspicious Georgie] Pullin' down backstreets, deep in your head [Jon looks incredibly stressed in a shot of the archives, looking around for Martin; after the word “backstreets” Martin shows up in a cloud of fog behind him, visibly sad] Slippin' through dreamland like a tourist [Jon is crawling through the Buried, looking for Daisy, who he finds as a disheveled mess after the word “dreamland”]

You see Kodachrome, you see pink and gold [Melanie is laughing while sitting on Jon’s desk facing Basira after recording a statement; after the word “Kodachrome” it’s the same scene, but her and Jon are standing up, and she’s hugging Jon before she’s about to go and blind herself] You see Mulholland glow, you see in airplane mode [Jon and Daisy are sprawled out together on the floor of the archives, listening to the Archers and laughing; after the word “glow” it’s Basira and Daisy kneeling in the same spot, Basira trying to hold onto Daisy and keep her from giving into the Hunt as she begins to change into a werewolf] All 'round-'round your head, all 'round-'round your head [Jon and Basira are interrogating Manuela about the location of the dark sun; after the first use of the word “head” it cuts to Jon seeing the dark sun with his own eyes, tears running down his face as he smiles at it] All 'round-'round your head, all 'round-'round your head [Martin and Peter are navigating the tunnels together, Martin looking frustrated while Peter smiles; after the first use of the word “head” it cuts to Martin discovering the body of Jonah Magnus, his expression one of terror]

You float in the pool where the soundtrack is canned [Jon is searching the Lonely for Martin, calling out for him through the fog; after the word “pool” a smug looking Peter appears behind him, causing Jon to jolt in surprise] You go ask your questions like, “What makes a man?” [Jon confronts Peter, screaming at him from a few feet away; after the word “like” his eyes begin to glow green, and several glowing green eyes surround him and Peter, with Peter bending forward and clutching his head in pain] Oh, it's 2020, so it's time to change that [Jon is facing Martin in the Lonely, pleading with him face to face with his hands on his cheeks; after the word “2020” Martin’s eyes light up as he finally breaks free of the Lonely’s influence] So you go make an album and call it Dreamland [Jon and Martin are seen hugging each other for dear life; after the word “album” the scene cuts to them walking out of the Lonely together, hand in hand with their backs to the camera; the camera zooms in on their hands holding onto each other at the word “Dreamland”]

((I’m open to a few changes, but I will die before I let go of the Tim & Jon scene, which lives in my brain rent free))

[tessatechaitea]

Teen Titans Spotlight #9: Changeling

I feel like this is the first appearance of the Changeling logo.

It's as if General Immortus knew that one day Niles Caulder would be just a head! Or, more probably, Grant Morrison fucking remembered this one panel and thought, "I'll turn The Chief into a disembodied head!" Unless it was Rachel Pollack who did that. What am I? The Doom Patrol wiki?

Cliff Steele has just been on another adventure where his body was torn apart. At least I'm assuming it was because whenever he or Red Tornado are in a super hero battle, they usually get torn to pieces. Somebody's got to be and you can't do it to Batman. But Cliff is tired of it and he's ready to retire to a ranch in California. I wonder why Grant Morrison's run didn't take place there? Cliff and Garfield wind up at the New York Zoo because Garfield wants to fuck the lioness and Cliff wants to buy hot dogs that he can't eat.

Based on the repartee between Robotman and Changeling, I don't think the crowd are the only people to mistake Cliff for Cyborg.

The previous caption was a criticism of the writer, Paul Kupperberg. Was it too subtle? I know it wasn't on the level of Ann Nocenti criticism where I once questioned how she survived the surgery that replaced her brain with Jello pudding but sometimes you need a little subtlety in your life. Like when you want to masturbate but all you have on hand are your sandpaper masturbation gloves. I don't know if that final sentence had anything to do with subtlety. I think it had more to do with me introducing the public to my new invention! It, um, needs some work.

I first read Changeling's line as "You're obviously a fat." Not because I often misread the fuzzy text of old comic books but because I saw the kid in the first panel and my brain began thinking, "How do I make a hilarious and inoffensive fat joke about this kid?"

I just realized I should mention the writers and artists of these old issues since they're not on the cover. The artist is Dan Jurgens and I already mentioned the writer. I don't know what inkers do so I don't remember who the inker was. And the one thing I've always refused to do in my comic book reviews over the last eight years is to mention the letterer! Mostly because I always hated reading letters from fans who praise the writing and drawing and then offer a throw away line about how easy the typeface was to read thanks to Costanza or whoever! Oh, and I actually really forgot about the colorist until just now! That was Adrienne Roy! Who better to color some kid green than good old Adrienne! Cliff walks off in a huff when people begin to actually recognize him. He should have thrown in a few "Booyahs" and offered to show off his white noise cannon. Um, wink, wink! I'm not proficient at flirting. Before Robotman can find a quiet bathroom stall to wish he could cry in, Mister 104 attacks! I know. You're thinking the same thing I'm thinking, right? What happened to Misters 1-103? Oh, and probably, who the fuck is Mister 104?! But then I'd be disappointed if a Doom Patrol villain showed up and I recognized that villain. Their villains should get a "What the fuck?!" reaction at least ninety percent of the time. That's another thing the television show got right! How many scenes have Crazy Jane shouting "What the fuck?" and then Cliff responds with "What the fuck?" and then Crazy Jane is all "No, fucking seriously! What the fuck?" and then Cliff is all "What the fucking fuck fuck fucking fuck?!" The show uses the F-word a lot! Luckily Changeling remembers who Mister 104 is and thinks through Mister 104's entire origin for us. It turns out Mister 104 can turn into every known element on the periodic table. He's only Mister 104 because that's how many elements were on the periodic table in 1965 when he first appeared in Doom Patrol #98. Except when he appeared in that issue, he was Mister 103. So either he hadn't looked at a periodic table since 1961 when he first attacked the Doom Patrol in 1965 or Arnold Drake, the original Doom Patrol writer and co-creator, fucked up. Or maybe there was a plot reason for it in the story, like Mister 103 just despised Helium or maybe Superman paid him to never turn into krypton(ite)? Still, this is 1987! He should be Mister 109! I didn't learn all of that from Changeling's thought bubbles! Some of it I learned because Mister 104 mentions that when he last encountered the Doom Patrol, he was left as "a mass of free floating destabilized atoms" and the editor helpfully noted that took place in Doom Patrol #106. In 1987, I would have just thought, "Oh, okay. Whatever." But in 2019, I can use the Internet to find out all about that issue! Suck it, me in 1987 who didn't learn anything new or helpful in any way and who couldn't pretend like you were super smart and knew all about the periodic table because you didn't have Wikipedia like a stupid idiot! Ha ha! Apparently Mister 104 appeared in other comic books I've read (like The Doom Patrol vs. Suicide Squad Special) but it's understandable that I don't remember him. Partly because he may have been going by Atomic Man or Atomic Master and also because he's just kind of stupid. But stupid in just the right way that Doom Patrol villains should be stupid!

Don't read this text if you're trying to avoid spoilers for Teen Titans Spotlight #9: Changeling!

It looks like Mister 103 first takes on the name Mister 104 here. But what's odd is that he tells Cliff, "You might remember me: Mister 104!" And Changeling thinks, "That's Mister 104!" I guess Paul Kupperberg couldn't abide the fact that Arnold Drake fucked up and he had to correct him. I bet he was fuming for over twenty years! He probably got a job as a comic book writer simply to fix this mistake from his childhood! But then, I suppose everything can be explained away by simply invoking Crisis on Infinite Earths. That probably changed things somehow.

That's your argument for why you'r going to win this fight?

During the battle, Mister 104 turns into a lot of different chemical compounds, proving that he was indeed a molecular engineer. But Robotman manages to thwart each of his different shapes with punches, proving that nerds just can't win in physical combat. Eventually, Mister 104 sets a fire that traps the fat kid from earlier who didn't have enough sense to get the fuck out of the way. Interrupting the battle is a scene where Mento plots the downfall of the Teen Titans with the help of his captive, the star of the next issue of Spotlight, Aqualad! Back to the fight, Changeling saves the kid and drops him off by the hot dog stand. He sees some canisters and the fat kid says, "Those? But that's just soda gas!" Who the fuck calls it soda gas? I lived through 1987 and I don't remember ever saying, "The soda gas in this soda really hits the spot!" Maybe calling it carbonated water or carbon dioxide or carbonation would have given the game away too early! Changeling appears as a giant ape wielding cans of carbon dioxide to smother Mister 104's flaming fury. And this time instead of transforming into some other element, he's knocked out cold! Way to go, soda gas! Teen Titans Spotlight #9: Changeling Rating: C+. The entire point of the story was to show that Robotman's estimation of Garfield Logan has grown and that he now sees him as a real hero. I guess the reader is suppose to think, "Yeah! If Robotman can admit that Garfield is now a real hero and not some jerk off jokester who causes more problems than he solves, I should probably think that too!" And since I'm a totally average comic book reader, I'm totally a Garfield Logan fan now! He isn't obnoxious and annoying at all in the way I thought! He's a real hero! Not as big a hero as soda gas but still pretty great!

[theviewfromthebooth]

Unbearable

Hey everyone. I've not written anything in a while, or had much motivation to, but everything is all over the shop right now, and a couple of weeks ago, something just came out of me. Back in those quaint times when we all still hoped this wouldn't be as bad as it is now (roughly three weeks ago), I made a joke in The Anfield Wrap office about making a disaster movie involving the Coronavirus and Liverpool's title party - the two biggest things in all of our worlds at the time. 

Well, I did it. It's a short story, but I've dreamt it as a movie, and hopefully the words will turn into images for you too. It was meant to be funny, but halfway through I realised that it isn't. It's also a bit too niche for most football or literary fiction sites (apparently), so I'm putting it up here. In the absence of any kind of appetite for the usual April Fools shenanigans, this is a good time to drop it. 

 It became a way for my mind to deal with everything – by laying out the worst case scenario, our situation becomes more bearable by comparison. Also worth noting that this was written before the government backed away (publicly at least) from herd immunity.... 

 Dedicated to my two biggest creative inspirations – Matt Groening & John Gibbons. 

                                                           -x-

UNBEARABLE:

A short story from the brain of a trying-not-to-panic Liverpool fan "For years Evertonians have been saying that the world will end if Liverpool ever win the league again......what if they were right?”

Ronnie has been planning his title party for years.  In the pub, in bed, at work, on the toilet. While his beloved Liverpool drifted nearer, then further from their holy grail, he has never wavered from what he calls his life's work. Torture is what Jan calls it. He still doesn't know how close she came to leaving after the open top bus fiasco in 2014,  but he knows he never wants to see that look in her eyes again.  She'll come around once she sees it, and feels it.

That day in 1990, when he was the same age as little Dirk is now.....the street party. The last time he remembers his parents happy. All he wants is that same unlimited joy for Dirk... and to keep him in Red. Kev was  a stubborn little so-and-so, but that won't happen again.

Back then he only had Roy Evans and his sporadically brilliant Spice Boys as ammo – now he's got Jurgen Klopp and his mentality monsters. Even Jan is changing her tune.  Ronnie couldn't believe his luck when she agreed to let him dress Dirk up as the Premier League trophy, complete with silver paint & ribbons. They won't need a bus – Adam down the road will bring his flat-bed truck. What better memory for the lad than to be paraded through the streets of Anfield, held aloft by thousands of jubilant Kopites? Just 2 wins away. He can almost taste it. Nothing can stop them now....

“It has been confirmed....all football in Britain is suspended until at least April 30th, as a result of the coronavirus. BBC Sport understands FA chairman Greg Clarke expressed his fear at Friday's emergency meeting that the season may have to be abandoned....”

The blood drains from Ronnie's face as he stares through the TV screen. The phone buzzing in his pocket snaps him back to reality, as news reaches the Whatsapp group:

Within the  walls of Whitehall, Clarke almost slips as he gets up from his chair. His head is so scrambled he offers Hancock his sweaty hand, before quickly whipping it away much to the amusement of Hancock and Johnson, and eventually Scudamore. Their laughter sends a chill through his bones. They think they've cracked it, but he KNOWS football fans. Closed doors aren't enough to keep away fans who've been waiting 30 years. And Liverpool have a LOT of fans.

As the chauffeur moves away, he takes out his phone to Google 'Herd immunity'.........

Ronnie's phone is red hot. Plans are moving at pace. Everton have been squashed and Operation Palace is full steam ahead. Dirk is bouncing off the walls in excitement and it's not even 10 am. Luckily a cuddle from cousin Danny always calms him down. Danny's dad is no such help. Kev has always been the bitterest of Blues, but claiming Dirk's life is at risk feels pretty low, even for him.

Ronnie plants a kiss just above the paint line, before pulling the woolly crown tight over the boy's ears, and hoisting him onto his shoulders. Dirk's laughter vibrates through his back as he shouts “You better get in that bunker of yours if you're that worried”, turning his snarl to a smile.  Jan takes a picture of her glassy eyed husband with the Premier league trophy, which goes down a treat in the Whatsapp group, followed by the obligatory joke about 'going viral'.

Only this time it's no joke. By the time they get to Adam's garage the streets are packed. Half of Liverpool have descended onto the estate. And they've all come to lift the trophy.

Johnson's brow furrows ever deeper as his aide lays out the situation - hiding his eyes from the mess he's created. Liverpool Council can't control the crowds. Reports suggesting as many as 3 million people are on the streets. Budget cuts sanctioned by his hand have left emergency services at breaking point, even before the 600% increase in population. Suspending public transport has caused queues of 10 miles and counting in every direction. Vaccines are running out fast, with nowhere near enough immune patients to protect the vulnerable.

His hands tighten on each other, as if the answer can be wrung from them. With the pleading eyes of his aide boring through his thinning scalp, the spell is broken. A menacing silence hangs between them.  He knows the whole country hangs on what he says next.

He knows he needs a miracle.

As the clock hits 90 minutes, so do Crystal Palace. Liverpool have roared back from an early setback to lead by 4 goals to 1. From the swaying throng in the garden of  Hotel TIA, Ronnie can feel himself let go of 30 year's worth of tension. 30 years of balls hitting posts and staying out. 30 years of penalties not given. 30 years of “should've saved that”. 30 years of “should've been us”.  All gone.

The final whistle is met with a guttural roar.  A roar 3 million strong, a roar so full of electricity that it creates a mushroom cloud over Anfield skies. Dirk reaches for his father, who doesn't miss a beat with his mock trophy lift, complete with the Henderson stutter step. Silver tears stain his face as he watches his son surfing the sea of hands.

A moment like no other.

It's only the thought of sharing the moment with Jan that causes Ronnie to reach for his phone. 34 missed calls. 55 unread on Whatsapp. “The Reds are still massive!” he thinks to himself as he opens Jan's most recent message:

“It's too late. I'm sorry. Good luck. I love you both.”

“With their country now stabilised, this new Chinese study into the Coronavirus will become the template for the rest of the world to follow. There has been some surprise at the results.  It appears children under 8 are the biggest carriers, while the fatal age threshold is only 40 years old, and could be even lower for those with a higher than normal blood alcohol level. The bad news for us here in Britain is the government's controversial 'Herd Immunity' strategy has been completely discredited”.

“FOR GOD'S SAKE TURN IT OFF!”

Anxious limbs fumble at the remote for what feels like hours, before finally, silence. Three pairs of eyes dart from George Alagaih's worried face to that of the Prime Minister.  Hancock musters the courage to meet his glare.

“At the current rate of infection, Liverpool will be at 90% by 7pm this evening. Considering what we now know about their vaccine levels, and....alcohol consumption....”

“HOW ON EARTH HAVE YOU FUCKED THIS UP? YOU TOLD ME THE SCIENCE WAS WATERTIGHT!”

“It was as watertight as could be in such an unprecedented scenario. The goalposts kept moving...” “I DON'T CARE ABOUT YOUR FUCKING GOALPOSTS! ALL I NEED TO HEAR FROM YOU IS HOW WE STOP IT SPREADING!”

“W-we do have a plan”.

Hancock hands over the proposal, and takes three deliberate steps back. He allows himself to exhale once he sees Johnson's eyebrows rise, and then settle, from behind the folder.

“I've run the numbers, with Sunny & Wallace. It's tight, but we can afford it.”

The Chancellor  nods slowly as Johnson looks in his direction.  A nervous head appears through the crack in the door, like a tortoise unsure of Spring.

“We need a decision, sir.”

Ronnie pants hard, darting for space like Mo Salah in a forest of defenders. He can't bring himself to believe it. Not yet. Not like this. No time. Just keep running. Half a mile from home. She'll come around once she sees us.

Dirk lets out a yelp as they're brought to an abrupt halt by Breck road traffic. Ronnie looks deeper into the faces around him. What was once drunken ecstasy is now something very different. All he sees is agony, smudged with silver. Doors have been bolted, windows shut. Songs are now screams. Visible waves of panic ripple through the crowds, as infection and information sow their seeds in real time. It takes him a while to recognize the hard thudding against his spine isn't his own heartbeat – it's his son coughing. He whips Dirk off his back and holds him in front of his face.

“Don't cry mate, it's gonna be okay” he croaks, barely able to say it let alone believe it.  Suddenly a cheer rises up ahead.  Ronnie instinctively moves towards the sound. That sound he thought he would feast on forever. Before he can pinpoint it, a larger sound fills the space. Less a sound than a NOISE. A long, buzzing noise, that prickles the neck and causes everyone to look up.

Bright white foam boxes with big red crosses fall from the sky.  More and more. Hundreds. Thousands. Cheers break out all over as boxes are ripped open, and the hugging of strangers resumes.  Ronnie releases Dirk's hand as he catches the box thrown at him, and pulls off the top.  He takes out the tablets and the bottle of water, and rubs his boy's back as he swallows them down. Overcome with relief he takes the trophy for one last spin, before placing him back on his shoulders. Home time.

“We shall not, we shall not be moved! We shall not we shall not be moved! Just like the team, that won, the football league...”

“WE SHALL NOT BE MOVED!”

Dirk waves to the little planes in the sky that saved the day.  He continues waving at the much bigger planes looming, and the giant glass bowl they're carrying.

[footbaliimagines]

official (a julian brandt imagine)

Summary: the press finds out that Julian is linked to Liverpool, his kind-of-almost-girlfriend isn’t very happy

She mindlessly scrolled through her Twitter timeline, lying on her back on the sofa. Cute picture of a dog, photo of Kylie Jenner and Tyga, Pinterest-worthy outfits and countless videos of some dance craze she couldn’t be bothered catching up with. Same old, same old.

Then her attention flickered to a tweet from The Independent. Jurgen Klopp will move for £20m ace winger Julian Brandt in the summer. And then another, from the Daily Mail. Liverpool FC tracking exciting Bayer Leverkusen winger Julian Brandt and eyeing a potential summer move. Could the 20-year-old be just what Klopp’s side need?

Then, it was if she had hit an infinite fountain of shitty tweets about Julian leaving the Bundesliga for the Premier League. It’s been pretty much confirmed that Brandt will be joining in the summer. Thoughts? reads a tweet from the Empire of the Kop. “Fuck off, Liverpool. Fuck you and fuck the fucking Premier League.” She groans, pressing the lock button, and tossing her phone onto the carpeted floor.

As soon as she had told her friends that was kind-of-friends-with-kind-of-seeing-kind-of-just-sleeping-with a footballer, this kind of discussion had cropped up frequently.

“What are you going to do if he leaves?”

“Have you guys discussed your future? Like, are you going to make it official”

“Would you be willing to move for him?”

And, as if following a routine, she would roll her eyes, shrug and insist that “they just hadn’t got to that bit yet”. It’s not like they were dating. Yes, they were basically exclusive and yes, they had been rather open about their feelings for each other, but it had only a few months. They were still finding their feet and most definitely weren’t at the stage where certain discussions needed to be had.

So, it didn’t make sense to talk about the future. What was the point, she would often tell herself, in hypothesising and planning for something that they hadn’t even discussed yet?

They were just seeing each other, after all. An occasional hook-up, if you will. Who she sometimes went out for dinner with, whose friends had quickly become her own (Julian often complained to her that they liked her more than him now), and who she would think about whenever she saw the colour red (fuck you, Bayer Leverkusen).

Plus, it was never meant to get to this stage. It was meant to be a one night thing. Sex, maybe breakfast the morning after if he was especially nice. He wasn’t meant to nervously ask for her phone number and she wasn’t meant to give it to him willingly. She wasn’t meant to meet him a few days later for dinner and he certainly wasn’t supposed to kiss her outside her front porch and clumsily tell her that he really, really liked her.

Her phone buzzes from the floor beside her and when she spots his name, she’s ready to launch first her phone out of the window and then herself to the fucking moon.

Hey. Training ran a bit late so thinking I should pick up a takeaway on the way to yours instead. What do you want? X

(I want you to not move to fucking Liverpool, she’s close to typing.)

Chinese would be good. :-) x

(This has a much better ring to it, she decides.)

-

“Are you okay?” He nudges her knee with his and looks at her earnestly.

She’s forced to look at him in the eyes properly for the first time that night, and quickly realises why she’s been avoiding eye contact for the better part of the last hour and a half.

Damn you, Julian Brandt, she thinks. Damn you and your stupid smile and your pretty blue eyes and that stupid puppy dog look on your face, and damn that pizza crust crumb on the corner of your mouth that if the circumstances had been any different, would have been gotten rid of with a kiss.

“Yeah. Why do you ask?” She speaks far too quickly and he raises an eyebrow.

“You’re not usually this quiet. It’s weird. And I miss your funny little sarcastic remarks every 15 seconds.” He says fondly and it forces a smile.

“I’m fine. I promise.”

“You know you can talk to me about anything, right?”

She nods adamantly. “I know.”

“So, if you want to say something, please just do it. You’re not secretly seeing another man, are you?” He teases and she giggles.

“As a matter of fact, I am.” She mock gasps and he laughs. “I don’t know why you’re laughing, Ju. He’s an investment banker, and even though he’s old enough to be my Dad we’ve got a pretty hefty prenup lined up so I’m just going with the flow.”

Julian lets out a hearty laugh and she feels his shoulders shake next to her, and she’s pretty convinced it’s the best sound she’s ever heard. “Seriously though. I’m all ears.”

“You do have quite big ears, don’t you?” She teases, putting down her fork to tug on his right ear.

“You’re such a bully.” He whines, letting his head fall back onto the cushion behind him.

“I did want to talk about something, though. Not your Dumbo ears or my fiancé who could possibly be fictional.” She states after a few moments of peaceful silence.

She sits up and looks at his face, determined to remain composed and address the matter at hand, instead of skirting the topic and skilfully avoiding the talk that she had, in her typical commitment-phobic ways, hoped would never ever ever come. “Hm?”

“I saw some stuff on Twitter.”

“Ah.”

“About you leaving. Going to Liverpool.”

Julian refuses to make eye contact, and plays with a noodle on his plate instead of looking up. “Ah.”

Ah. What information did he possibly think that short, monosyllabic noise could give her?

“You know, sitting there and just mumbling ‘ah’ is really not giving me much to go off.”

“They’re transfer rumours. Nothing more, nothing less.” He nods determinedly and offers her a tight-lipped smile, but she’s spent too much time with him, too many nights watching Grey’s Anatomy reruns and forcing him to listen to cheesy noughties R&B, to be able to see through his façade.

He’s lying. And she wants to reach forward, knock the plate off his lap and pull him towards her with the front of his shirt and demand a proper, coherent answer. She feels her stomach churn and by habit, begins to fidget with the hem of her shirt, which is, in fact, his Bayer Leverkusen jersey. It’s so awfully ironic, so hideously embarrassing that she wants to rip it off right there but then the possibility of them having sex instead of discussing the matter at hand would be far too high. And she can’t do that again.

Maybe ending things there and then would be more beneficial, anywhere. She was young, outgoing and, providing she made an effort, attractive. Julian could go and run rampant at Anfield and go out with a pretty English girl and drink tea and eat crumpets (her annoyance made her awfully reliant on stereotypes) while she would finish her degree, get a high-flying job and soon his smile and the way his eyes would crinkle up as he laughed would be a mere memory.

“Jurgen Klopp talked about you in a press conference. Saying that you would be a great addition to the side. He wouldn’t say that unless there was a real possibility of you going.”

He sighs and places his food on the coffee table. “Please don’t read these tabloids. They chat so much shit.”

“Fucking hell, Julian. Can’t you just tell me if it’s true?” Her voice heightens and continues to become more high-pitched.

“Hypothetically, if Liverpool were to make an offer, then yes, I would have to think about it. But that’s not until summer. I’d rather just concentrate on what’s happening now.” He says adamantly, running a hand through his tousled blonde hair and chewing his bottom lip anxiously.

“As would I.”

“So, we’re good?” He attempts to smile and lifts her chin slightly to get her to look at him.

She pulls back and shrugs. “I don’t know.”

Julian sighs defeatedly. “We can’t discuss this like mature adults if you’re just going to shrug, be moody, refuse to talk and go into a strop.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “Choose your words carefully, Julian.”

“No, I’m being completely valid.”

“I’d rather not get accused of acting immaturely and going into a ‘strop’, whatever the fuck that means, but you know. You do you.”

“God, I’m so sick of you acting so passive aggressive all the god damn time.” He huffs, shaking his head and sucking his teeth in disdain.

“And I’m so sick of you being so fucking patronising to me!” She fires back.

“I’m not being patronising.” He scoffs, rolling his eyes and getting to his feet. “I don’t owe you anything. You know what football is like, how stressful the transfer window is and how shitty the press can be. Please just wait it out with me.”

“I’m not going to sit around and wait for a guy who might or might not call me. I’m not your girlfriend.”

And with that, she turns on her heel and pads to the kitchen, emptying the contents of her Chinese takeaway into the food bin and then gripping the counter to take a breath. This is why guys are shitty, she realises. This is why I’m going to just have to embrace being single forever and adopting another cat. 

She would have to tell her friends that her thing with Julian had ended, would have to face endless ‘i-told-you-so’s’ and countless ‘see-what-did-we-say’s’. And her stubbornness would most definitely not respond well to that.

“Can we talk? Properly, this time?” His voice pipes up behind her.

She turns around and crosses her arms self-protectively. “Go on.”

“I’d want you to move to Liverpool with me, you know. Because, believe it or not, I actually have a lot of faith in us, regardless of whatever you want to call it. And I know my future is so uncertain and I hate that I have to ask you to wait. But I love spending time with you and I love you, and I- shit.”

I love you. So much for keeping things casual. His face flushes red, and she’s pretty sure hers has done the exact same. “You, uh, what?”

“Fuck.” Julian mumbles.

“Um-“

“I wasn’t planning on saying that for a while. Or ever, actually.”

“Then, why did you?” she word-vomits out.

“Because, uh, I do? Love you, I mean?”

“Fuck.”

“I know.” He groans and lets his face fall into his hands. “Listen, let’s just forget I ever said that. We can go back to normal, how things were before.”

It’s strange that with those three stupid words he manages to change her mood entirely. That literally three seconds ago, she was planning her life without him as a perpetually single cat lady, prepared to delete his number and any lingering hints of his existence, and now, she’s walking towards him and can’t quite fight the grin tugging on her lips. She clasps her hands loosely around his neck. “It’s cool if you don’t feel the same way. I just, uh, needed you to know.” He babbles.

“You and your stupid verbal diarrhoea.” She teases, finding it increasingly difficult to fight the smile playing on her lips.

His hands drop to her waist. “Uh, do you feel the same way then? If not, it’s cool, obviously. But like, if you don’t and you’re just leading me on then I think it’s best if we re-think our whole deal-“

“God, you talk far, far too much.”

He cranes his neck to look at her, flicking up her chin with his forefinger and telling her, “I know we’ve never discussed labels, or what we really mean or what’s going to happen in the future. I never wanted to tell you how I felt because to be honest, I was fucking terrified about what would happen if you rejected me. But I want you to know that I want to give us a shot. I’m all in. What do you think?”

“I think you’re annoying, Brandt. But, uh, I feel the same. And I want to give us a shot too.”

“Good. Because, regardless of whether we’re in Liverpool, or Germany, or fucking Antarctica, you’re pretty much stuck with me. And I really would like to kiss you right now.”

He leans in and, with his left hand cupping her cheek, presses their lips together. He’s delicate, gentle and maybe even nervous, and she feels herself falling into a state of blissful relaxation as her hands move down his back and his hands grip her waist more tightly.

She smiles as they pull away and their fingers entwine, and can’t quite stop herself from grinning when she tells him that she kind-of-loves him back. 

(And she guesses the cat-lady lifestyle can wait.)

(Until the summer, at least.)

—–

A.N.: for the anon who requested a Julian Brandt imagine…I kind of played with your request a bit so while its not precisely what you requested I hope you still like it!!!

please send in requests or come and say hello, I promise I’ll get around to them all eventually!! xxxx