#spartan saturday

[halopedia]

Spartan Saturday — Olympia Vale

A child prodigy with innate linguistic skill, Olympia Vale became fluent in Sangheili to pass the time on a prolonged trip to Earth. After graduating from university, Vale followed in her mother's footsteps and joined ONI.

Vale became a liaison between the UEG and the Swords of Sanghelios, eventually participating in a joint mission to the Ark where she proved to be a capable soldier as well. Following this, she was recruited as a Spartan-IV and assigned to Fireteam Osiris.

During the Created crisis, Spartan Vale was stationed on Sanghelios, where she worked closely with Arbiter Thel 'Vadam and others within his faction. In late 2559, Vale became involved in a hunt for a weapon that could defeat Cortana's Guardians.

[therealmofamorus]

Ruby: Take a good look at my spartan angel new tattoo on her ass~!

Jaune: Tada!

Jaune turned his startled girlfriend and flipped her skirt up and her underwear down to reveal her tattoo to their individual teammates.

Weiss: How shameless!

Blake: Nice~

Yang: *heartbroken* Ruby used to like Saturday morning cartoons….

Nora: *smirk* To think that we thought you were the wholesome one in our group….

Ren: I owe Nora 500 lien now thanks to you.

Pyrrha face was red in shame as she looked down at the ground as she tried to covered her new tattoo “Invincibutt” on her asscheeks while her two lovers were standing on each side of her.

Pyrrha: S-sorry!

[poisonheadcrabsalesman]

R&R

Chili Cook-Off! This event will be held in Forward Mess Hall. To enter, contract Master Chef Jonathan Lowell. To attend as a taster, pick up your tickets any time before February 25! Miller just wanted to enjoy his morning off, but he's voluntold to attend the Chili Cook-off. There he runs into some familiar faces. Fernando bullies and gets bullied by his coworkers. Linda socializes and reports back to Blue Team.

Technically a sequel to Backup - the other Miller/Esparza fic that takes place during SpOps.

Also posted to ao3

-

February 25th, 2558. A perfectly normal Saturday.

4 days since the invasion. Not even two weeks since Castle was shot down on their way to Copernicus base. So much had gone wrong.

The hole in Miller's Fireteam roster yawned ever wider as the campaign pushed everyone to their limits. He had thought he'd lost Crimson too, but their luck had held out so far. But losses were common, regardless of what the propaganda said. It really was only a matter of time.

Get it together, Miller. He thinks to himself and huffs a sigh. At least he can be dramatic and morose in the privacy of his own bunk.

"Good morning, Spartan Miller!"

Never mind, he's not safe anywhere. Maybe he should be grateful that Roland has the decency to wait until he's awake.

"Roland." He sighs and rolls over, glaring at the ceiling. "It's my morning off."

"Was your morning off. Put some pants on so you don't scare my delivery boy. I hope you're hungry!"

Miller grumbles something about pushy AI and pulls on some sweatpants before there's a knock at his door. It's probably Dalton or someone from Crimson in on Roland's scheme. Miller scowls and opens the door.

It's not Dalton or Crimson. It's Linda. 058. Blue Team Linda. Sharp-green-eyes-that-see-into-your-soul Linda. Linda from the speed dating event, who-acted-like-she-wanted-to-win-it Linda. That Linda. At Miller's door. Where he's standing. Shirtless and half awake. Well, he's fully awake now. He stares at her, frozen as the white hot fear and panic turns him to stone. She stares at him, expression blank as usual, maintaining prolonged eye contact as Miller’s brain both empties and goes into overdrive. He goes for casual seconds too late and aborts a half-motion to cover his chest. Playing it off like he went to scratch his neck, he finally regains his grasp of the English language and manages human-like speech.

"Hi." The greeting creaks out his throat.

Linda nods in lieu of a greeting and opens her palm to reveal comically archaic paper tickets. They look small and childish in her hand - so out of place on a warship. Paper tickets, a novelty on their own, but on the Infinity they mean one thing; Morale boosting events. R&R, hand-delivered and Roland-enforced. Miller is doomed. He’s getting roped in. Roland somehow roped Linda (058, his brain supplies, as if leaving the numbers off is rude) to rope Miller into attending.

Miller blinks. Linda doesn't appear to need to. He holds his arm out robotically and receives them. He's unsure what's happening. Surely he’s still dreaming and this social fumble is just a nightmare.

"What are these for?" He asks.

"Chili cook-off. You're a taster." She says, voice cool and calm. Miller can't tell what she's thinking or feeling. Linda’s the most mysterious member of Blue Team because of her quiet and secretive nature. Beyond being the sniper, Miller isn’t really aware of any aspect of her personality. Even Chief emotes more than Linda. Miller thinks Linda lets people see exactly what she wants them to see, which is none of her, most of the time.

"What? This is what Roland was talking about?" He sighs, "I'm sorry you got dragged into this." He is genuinely apologetic. There was something of a Roland blast zone surrounding Miller and those who got too close were collateral for the AI’s whims. 

Her head tilts a fraction of a millimeter. "I'm going too." She reveals her own ticket. "See you there." And then she's gone.

Miller blinks and Linda is disappearing down the hall while he stands there like an idiot. He knows he only sees her leave because she wants him to. Why did the "see you there" sound so threatening? IIs were such different beasts from IVs, socially at least. He was fine being a handler and helping on Ops with IIs, but without Fred balancing them out, Blue Team was nigh indecipherable outside a combat setting.

Miller groans. He'd been looking forward to laying around in bed for his morning off. Now he's saddled with expectations. If he doesn't go, Roland won't allow him a moment of peace until he decides Miller's suffering has balanced the scales. He's at the mercy of a fickle AI. He knows Roland knows he knows this. He better get on with it, for his own sake.

Gunmetal gray walls and bright lights greet him as he leaves his room and exits S-Deck to the less Spartan-friendly areas of the ship. There’s a dull roar as he approaches the cafeterias and Miller sees more groups congregating than he had expected. The Forward Mess Hall is a hive of activity as Miller steps through the door. Voices drone together in a low buzz as bodies swarm different tables. Crew from every department and rank are rubbing elbows, some for the first time ever. Master Chef Lowell is conducting the competing cooks with a smile on his face. The overall mood is surprisingly light given that just a few days ago the Infinity had been boarded by Covenant and Promethean invaders.

The crew needed this. A small, lighthearted respite in the midst of a messy campaign. Miller needed this too, though he didn't sign up to be a taster for the Chili Cook-Off of his own free will. Roland signing him up looked like it would turn out to be a good thing, not that Miller could voice that where the AI could hear. Roland's ego needed no help.

Miller finds himself in a swarm of crew vying for the seats at the tables across from the cooks. He's a head taller than most of the people there, sticking out like a sore thumb. There's one Spartan competing which assuages some of his nerves - it's funny seeing Spartan Hedge in an apron that barely makes it to his upper thigh.

He's scouting for a spot to sit, one that will support his augmented weight, when someone calls his name.

"Spartan Miller?"

It's the civilian from the group that huddled in the Op Center during the invasion. The engineering contractor or something, Esparza. He waves at Miller and gestures to the empty seat next to him. Miller raises a hand to wave back and finds himself gravitating towards the table. It wasn't like anyone else was going to wave him down.

"Esparza, right? How have you been?" Miller asks as he takes a seat.

Esparza grins at the fact that Miller remembered his name. Fernando incorporates Miller into his small group near-seamlessly. “Good, good. Nice to see you again, you know, without the danger.”

“I guess that depends on the chili.” Miller laughs awkwardly. He regrets the joke immediately but it makes Esparza smile and his group mates groan goodnaturedly. 

Esparza is kind. He chuckles as Miller gingerly sits, testing to see if the seat will support him. The metal folding chair groans but holds. Esparza laughs outright at how Miller's eyes go wide at the sound and he throws his arms out to brace. It's a nice laugh. They make small talk and Miller learns he doesn’t flub every social interaction he’s a part of.

Esparza introduces him to the other people sitting around their table. Mostly civilian types, contractors and engineers. Egghead types, the commander would say, but they’re good people and Miller finds himself relaxing. He finds himself forgetting how much he sticks out and just enjoys the company. There's some words about him being the Spartan that protected the engineers during the invasion and Miller hates that he feels his face heat up. He knows the tips of his ears are red, but it feels nice to be remembered for something good for once. 

"Did you come here with anyone?" Esparza asks.

He shakes his head. "My 'friend' signed me up for this, even had someone else drop off the ticket. I thought I might see someone here but I'm not sure. She's...good at blending in."

Esparza looks curious. “Your friend made you come? They must have thought you needed a break. I’m glad you made it.” He says while gently nudging Miller’s side.

“Thanks.” Miller says,“Don’t let him hear you say that though. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“Who?”

Miller looks around and lowers his voice before answering. There’s too many people and the noise should prevent him from hearing, but who knows? He’s probably watching and lip reading from some unseen camera angle. “Roland.”

Esparza looks confused for a moment. “The Ship AI?”

“Yes.” Miller says mournfully. Esparza laughs, probably at this tone and the look on his face. He knows he’s pouting.

“I have to know, why? Is it because he’s like your boss?” Esparza leans in.

“I think he just likes picking on me, specifically.”

“So he likes you.” Esparza says grinning and sitting back. He crosses his arms and the easy curve of his posture is relaxed and knowing. He looks smug.

Miller feels himself losing control of his expression. He’s affronted. “I wouldn’t say that. I think he just likes causing problems.”

“Does he pull stunts like this often?” One of the other engineers asks. Miller can’t recall her name.

“He’s always popping up on Ops. I think he thinks he’s helping. Or he gets bored.”

“He rarely talks to us. I think we saw him during onboarding, but he rarely talks to our department directly.”

“He must like you.” 

“He’s pulling your pigtails because he doesn’t know what else to do.” Esparza says with a thoughtful face before he cracks up and laughs at Miller’s bright red face.

“Thanks. A bald joke, never gotten one of those before.” He says snidely.

Esparza waves him off. “No, he likes you and he’s showing his feelings the only way he knows how. By being defensive.”

“Probably picked it up from Command.” Someone at the table whispers. Miller ignores the image of Commander Palmer that pops into his head.

“I don’t know about that.” Miller mutters. “And you guys sure know how to gang up on a guy. What happened to me being the cool Spartan?”

“We started talking to you.”

“Jeez, okay I walked into that one.” Miller sighs, crossing his arms on the table and dropping his head dramatically. Joking aside, he is having a good time. He’s used to jokes at his expense,  but this feels different. Esparza’s including him and the man’s presence is comforting. Still, he’ll play his part and act put out. Maybe he can guilt them into sharing their portions of the taste testing. 

Esparza takes pity on him and pats his arm. “There, there. Look, it’s time for the food.”

In the end, they do share food with Miller when his faster metabolism comes up in conversation. He doesn’t share too much about the augs, but it’s interesting to talk to civilian types with just enough clearance he can clear up some misconceptions. 

“I didn’t know Spartans could be nerds.”

“We’re not all meathead jocks!” Miller laughs and steals a bite of one of Esparza’s samples. “Oh, which one is that? That’s going to be my number 1.”

He tries to swat Miller’s hand and fails. Scowling, Esparza bides his time until Miller starts talking to someone else and goes for the kill. His spoon gets mere inches away from Miller’s plate before the Spartan traps his hand with his own.

“Gotta be faster than that.” He laughs.

It’s Esparza’s turn to be flustered. He wiggles his hand in Miller’s strong grip and can’t get free. Miller yields and releases him, his palm feeling cold now that it’s no longer wrapped around Esparza’s hand and wrist. He was gentle, but Esparza still cradles his hand with wide eyes before coughing and clearing his throat.

Whatever he plans to say is interrupted by an announcement of the winners. Master Chef Lowell beams and introduces the winners. Miller can see Spartan Hedge near the winner’s circle looking pleased. Miller’s favorites didn’t win but they got honorable mentions. 

Then Miller sees her. Linda materializes out of the crowd and goes over to the 4th place winners with a strange intensity. She offers them the most formal handshake Miller's ever observed and must congratulate them on their work. Bobrov beams with pride and Gomez looks a little starry-eyed as Linda 058 of Blue Team fame tells them she liked their chili the best. It honestly looks closer to a medal giving ceremony than something as low stakes as a chili cook-off.

With the event officially over and his shift starting soon, Miller excuses himself with a small smile. “Maybe we’ll run into each other soon!” He says and winces internally. 

Esparza and the others smile and say their goodbyes as well before heading towards their own parts of the ship.

Miller looks around for Linda, but doesn’t see her. He hopes she had fun. He also hopes he will get more warning before she pops up again. All the excitement is keeping him on his toes. The small break over, he still feels lighter than he has in weeks as he preps to send Crimson out into the field.

“So?” Roland asks once Miller’s seated at his station. Ask is too nice a word for it, it’s more of a demand from the AI.

“It was alright. I had fun.” Miller admits. He’s going to keep a closer eye on Roland now. Miller was considering previous conversations with Roland in a new light now. Maybe the AI was more than just bored and Miller was more than just the easiest target.

“So I was correct in making you go.”

“Maybe. If I let you set the waypoints for my Fireteams, will you stop bullying me on comms?”

“Maybe.”

It’s a start.

—

The civilians trail back towards their departments in groups, gossiping about the cook-off and who they thought should have won before the conversation turns around to focus on Fernando. He should have expected it, but honestly, he was too old for this.

"The Spartan's cute, and you guys have a great first meeting story. Why not ask him out?" One of his coworkers titters. His team had been insufferable about The Spartan That Saved Them and the moment Fernando and he had had during the crisis.

"Shhh!" Fernando waves her off and playfully scowls the others grinning at them. "He might hear you!" They were only just past the doorway to the Mess Hall.

He considers it slowly, rotating the image of the Spartan in his head and talking to Miller over the course of the last hour or so. Miller is more human and shy than he expected. Awkward. It was  funny seeing a Spartan off-kilter. He's less intimidating without the armor and he acts like he’s surprised when people like him.

"He is cute." Fernando acquiesces.

"And tall."

"And strong."

"Stop!"

“But he might be taken?”

“Yeah, you might have competition. The AI might pull your pigtails.”

“You guys are the worst. I feel like I’m back in school.”

He waves them off, but he finds his mind lingering on the Spartan as he finishes up his reports. Maybe they would see each other around. His contract on the Infinity was a longer one and there wasn’t any harm in seeing where this went.

—

Linda returns from her outing with a sense of satisfaction evident to the rest of her team. Her shoulders are relaxed and she’s talkative. Rather than return to rest from the strain of the social spotlight often aimed at the IIs, Linda seems satisfied.

Her team perks up when she returns, their body language shifting to welcome her back into their space. She has their attention and they read her posture and gestures like an open book. It went well.

“Have fun?” Kelly asks as her sister enters the room. 

Linda nods and signs the Spartan smile across her face.

John tilts his head and nods in acknowledgement. He doesn’t move off his bunk but he sits up to show he’s listening and starts mirroring her posture. 

“You know it’s not a date if both parties aren’t aware.” Fred points out from his bunk.

“Not a date. Observation.” Linda says.

“What was the speed-dating thing then?”

“Recon.”

Fred sighs. “I guess this counts as socializing. I’m glad you had fun.”

“I got some numbers.” 

“Of course you did.” Fred says and is promptly hit with a pillow. Headshot.

“Are you going to call any of them?” John asks. It’s a genuine question. Linda’s been observing and opening up to new experiences since they’ve been stationed here. If carving out time for socializing and resting in the middle of a campaign was something they did, then she would try it.

“Maybe.”

“No pillow for him? Come on.” Fred complains, but there’s mirth in his voice.

“She likes me better.” John says smugly and dodges the pillow Fred throws at him.

Maybe there was the time and space for them to branch out here. They might not have roots anywhere, not anymore, but they still had this.

Kelly makes eye contact with her and she signals “go.” The pillows fly.

[crepe-of-wrath]

Shouta Sensual Scarf Saturday

for this third offering I present to you sensual touching and bath cuddling; shameless smut returns next week. 💖

Tags: 18+, fem reader

You hummed to yourself as you made the final preparations for the ritual. While, in many ways, your partner Shouta was just as spartan as he appearance suggested, his bathroom was surprisingly well-appointed....

At the proper hour, your started drawing the water. As it gently heated the room, you turned the light fixtures down; lit some candles; placed a new reed in the diffuser; cued up Shouta's favorite woodwind music; and took one last glance to confirm all the laundered towels, mats and clothes were in their appointed places.

You had just finished turning down the sheets and were putting the water pitcher and glasses on the bedroom nightstand when you heard the front door open. After darting your eyes to the bed to ensure that one of Shouta's spare capture weapons was carefully folded there, you dimmed the lights and shed your clothes--kicking them out of sight--before stepping into the bathroom.

The flickering candlelight made the room feel like a secret, the music was calming, and a subtle vetiver and cypress scent further warmed the room. You heard the bedroom door open and the sounds of Shouta removing his own clothes. Your body trembled a bit in anticipation. He entered, briefly making eye contact and then turning away for half a heartbeat as the lightest blush formed on his cheek.

As ever, you were overwhelmed by him: on the one hand, he was fit for a sculpture, so breathtakingly lovely that you sometimes wondered if he could be real, but, on the other, he was so human and exposed that it rent your heart. He was covered in new bruises and cuts. His hair needed a bit of a trim, and there were the ever-present shadows under his eyes.

Those precious eyes upon which so many depended for their safety, even if they didn't know it. Those eyes that still contained an unspoken Why Me? every time you looked at him with barely restrained desire and all the affection you could muster. You had vowed that, if you accomplished nothing else in the rest of your life, you would drive that Why Me? away forever.

Shouta came over to you and gently moved your arms down, because you'd instinctually covered yourself up. Your own Why Me? sounded softly in your own mind, but faded away quickly. His lips turned up in a smile as he took your body in, and he lightly skimmed your curves with his fingertips. He kissed your hand and guided you to the shower head adjacent to the bath. Without words, for there were no words in this ceremony--everywhere else in the world was words words words, so they were banished in this sacred space--you cleansed each other.

He, of course, preferred a more vigorous scrub. You still couldn't bring yourself to move quite as harshly over his worst bruises, but you tried to oblige, tried to erase the most visible signs of the sacrifices of the week. Shouta's favorite moment in this step of the ritual was when you scratched his scalp while you washed his hair. (When it was your turn, you insisted on more delicacy.)

Bodily vessels thus prepared, you stepped into the delightfully warm water first, and then offered Shouta a hand. He climbed in and settled in against your chest. Now, it was just the sound of quiet music, the smell of wood, the shadows of flickering candles, the quiet noises of hands gliding in the water, and your calm breaths and happy sighs.

Shouta's body flexed and responded to your touch, especially when you gently ran your fingers in his hair. He sheltered on your shoulder, idly rubbing your arms, your shoulders, and your breasts. Every now and then, you would lock eyes and lean down to gently kiss him.

Shouta topped the water off twice. Whatever he had been dealing with this week must have been rough: he wanted the two of you to stay in your little grotto for an exceptionally long time tonight. As the bath progressed, so did your bravery. You traced bold words you both struggled to say into one another's skin: your loud, lust-ridden confessions sunk into his back and shoulder and bicep while Shouta's vulnerable declarations of need were mapped into your hip and the softness of your belly.

His hair had started to dry and you were nearly asleep when the first gasps of the draining tub startled you to attention. Shouta stepped out first and offered you his hand to follow him. He gave you one of the soft, white towels from the bench and you gently dried one another off. Swiftly and quietly--always, always quietly--he silenced the music and snuffed the candles. After a quick stop at the sinks to dress for bed and finish your evening routines, he guided you, hands at your hips, into the bedroom.

The ice had started to sweat on the pitcher, but Shouta paid it no mind as he poured water. As your drank deeply, he walked over to the corner of the bed, and your skin heated up again and you felt buzzed with anticipation.

He softly traced one finger over the scarf and peered at you through his gorgeous dark hair. You were suddenly aware that it was now you who was overwhelmed and blushing, casting your eyes down. When you looked up again, he had this little smirk on his face that he'd come to realize you really liked, and he crooked his finger at you.

You closed the distance just a little so he could throw his capture weapon over you. He pulled--firmly, because he knew you liked it that way--and you were flush against his bare chest. You began delicately kissing him, causing you both to breathe heavier and your hearts to pound faster.

Your love ceremony reached its culmination when Shouta took you in a deep, possessive kiss that ended in a gentle trail down your neck. Knowing that you were completely in his power, he turned you around and pulled your back to his chest. With his arms encircling you, it was easy to see how he deftly fashioned one end of his scarf into a loop that he carefully slipped over your wrist. He made it secure, sending an intense pleasure throughout your body. He was claiming you, reassuring you, affirming that he wanted you to be his and wouldn't let you go.

Shouta guided you into bed, keeping you connected to him, grounded in him through the lifeline of the scarf. When you were both settled, your back nestled against his chest, he pulled up the covers with his free arm. When he was pleased with their position, he settled his arm over yours and lightly rubbed you as he pressed a kiss into the crook of your neck.

You breathed together.

[helix-enterprises117]

Halo Reloaded - Spartan-II Training Schedule

I've wanted to flesh this out for while, but here we go. Note: this seems impossible... it's because it is.

General Information:

From Monday through Friday (except Wednesday), they start every morning with stretching, then they do 50 jumping jacks; after a quick breather, they do the following routine below.

100 total squats, push-ups, chin-ups, crunches and sit-ups. 50 of these every morning after the jumping jacks, then they do another 50 before bed.

Go to class, listen to a lecture on tactics used by the Spartans of Greece and the Roman Empire. This goes from 1000 to 1200 (Lunch Break), from 1300 to 1500 is recess at the obstacle-course where parkour and acrobatics are to be practiced, then class resumes from 1600 to 1800.

Night-Routine, then bed.

Monday:

After a one hour break from the morning routine, they go on a one kilometer run with small sand-bags tied to every Spartan-cadet's ankles. (A work-out routine inspired by Rocky Marciano.)

They practice swimming for an hour from 1900 to 2000 shortly after class.

Tuesday:

After a one hour break from the morning routine, they step into a VR-simulator that trains them to eject from drop-pods.

At 1900 to 2000, they spar with each other; two per circle (every pair gets an individual circle). The art is a martial-art native only to the Spartans called "Spartan-Kata"; it's heavily influenced by four martial-arts: Krav Maga, Collegiate Wrestling, Judo and Kali. One is armed with tonfas and is on the offensive, the other is unarmed and on the defensive; the unarmed opponent gets a turn to be on the offense while the armed opponent learns to be defensive. They switch offensive/defensive positions at 30 minutes into the sparring session.

Wednesday:

Break on both the morning and evenings. It's just lessons for the entire day. They don't even do the morning/night routines, they just wake up, recover, go to class and return to bed.

Thursday:

In the morning, they play a game of CTF in the Zero-Grav Chamber using laser-guns that respond to their Zero-Grav Suits' sensors. (It's just Ender's Game.)

In the evening, they learn to disassemble, clean and reassemble their guns (don't worry, they're not loaded) for the first 30 minutes; in the last 30 minutes, they go to the targeting range to practice their aim. From ages 8 - 11, they use laser-guns (similar ones seen in the Zero-Grav Chamer); they are taught fire-arm safety and how to properly use guns, then from ages 12 - 16, they're taught to practice with real-gunloaded with live-rounds.

Friday:

They do their usual morning and night routine, though they go to class for the first half of the day; after lunch, they don't go to recess. For the rest of the day onward, they do a group "survival-activity" that they must complete before the day is over. If any Spartan fails to complete the exercise and return to the training-facility, ONI personnel will personally collect them and return them back to base with the usual penalty for failure/coming-in-last being no dinner.

Saturday:

Rest & Recovery Day. No class or training, obstacle-course is always open.

Sunday:

Rest & Recovery Day. No class or training, obstacle-course is always open.

Meal-Time:

Breakfast: Lots of organic-eggs (either scrambled or over-easy, depends on what the cadet wants) and scalloped potatoes, a slice of ham with a side of plain-crackers. Drinks are a glass of water.

Lunch: Fried-Chicken and fish with brown rice and a side of mashed-potatoes slathered in gravy. Drinks are orange-juice.

Dinner: Turkey slathered with gravy and ice-cream covered in hot-fudge syrup. Drinks are a glass of milk.

Class-Snacks: Plain-Crackers with a glass of milk and a side of Vitamin-Gummy packs.

Additional Information:

Every night, the Spartans sleep to white-noise.

After getting themselves in bed, they are first treated with story-time as they fall asleep; Deja, the AI that teaches the Spartans in Halsey's absence, reads them stories from ancient Greece, namely the stories from Classical Mythology, but sometimes real events thay transpired then, too. Deja swaps over to white-noise once everyone has fallen asleep.

All of this was done from ages 8 to 16. In John's case, due to him being the youngest by two years, 6 to 14.

[johnschneiderblog]

Friday night persistence

Yes, the Detroit Lions won on Sunday and the MSU Spartans won Saturday, but the big news in these parts - football-wise - happened on Friday,

Drum roll, please …

Okemos High School, alma mater of my four kids, won its first football game in five years (to the day) with a 35-0 win at home over Clio. Before that the Wolves hadn't scored a victory since Sept. 6, 2019.

In fact, two years ago, after losing its first five games (and being outscored 299 to six), the school suspended the rest of the season - not out of embarrassment, but for safety reasons.

Low participation in the bruising sport of footbal in in Okemos forced coach h Efe Scott-Emuakpor to field younger, smaller, less experienced players more vulnerable to injury. Several left the field in ambulances.

I'm interested in seeing how the rest of the season unfolds.

[norabrice1701]

Twist My Heart - Ch. 1

Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw x Jake “Hangman” Seresin

- A TG:M Twister AU -

Series Main List

Also on AO3

Ch. 1 Warnings: Language; discussion of canon character death

Bradley hates wintertime. Tornadic storm activity drops off to nothing. Winter cold roots in his bones no matter how warmly he dresses. Endless days pass behind a computer screen, blurring together until he’s on the brink of madness.

At least, that's what it feels like. Or maybe it’s just been another long ass day of his forecasting model still not compiling correctly. Objectively, in theory, Bradley's program works. He’s studied enough storms forming on Doppler and watched their evolution during his years of chasing, so something must still be off with the back-end code. Exhaling a long sigh, he swivels in his desk chair as he stares at the horrible tornadic behavior model that loops repeatedly on his computer screen.  

Scrubbing a hand over his face, he glances at his wristwatch – 10:27 PM. On a Saturday night. His mom’s voice echoes in his mind, and a familiar guilt creeps over him. Of course, he respects her concern. Of course, he doesn’t want her to worry – he’s just fine. He always has been. And of course, he’s not alone – he has plenty of friends. Besides, so long as mother nature keeps whipping up her violent delights, that’s all he’ll ever need.

The sky has always been his number one passion, his number one love. He still remembers the stories from his dad – how Goose’s eyes lit up and his voice warmed with the thrill of exhilaration when he recounted his tales of storm chasing. How he held Bradley in his arms, perched on a hip as they stood in the garage, explaining the cloud formations and tracking the storms' progress as they passed overhead.

Even when the record-breaking tornado outside El Reno, Oklahoma killed his dad, it had done nothing to diminish Bradley’s passion. If anything, it only strengthened his resolve – his determination to study the skies, to improve humanity’s understanding of tornadoes’ destructive patterns, to take up his dad’s charge to help save lives with better, accurate forecasting. And if his mother and godfather had conspired years ago to stop him… well, that’s a different story. One that Bradley doesn’t care to revisit now that everything's out in the open. Now that he’s on speaking terms with Maverick again (even working in the man’s lab), and that hatchet is well and truly buried.

It just leaves him counting down the days until spring storm season starts with nothing but this damn forecasting model taunting him.

The lab door’s hydraulic hinge gives a familiar hiss, cutting through Bradley’s thoughts and drawing his gaze across the large, workstation populated room. His mouth pinches to a thin line of annoyance and he just resists cursing his rotten luck as Hangman breezes in. 

The man looks good. Fuck, Hangman always looks good, even when soaked to the bone or exhausted from driving all night. His dimpled megawatt smile, tanned skin, and toned physique are ripped straight from a Hollywood magazine – and he knows it, too. It doesn’t help that he is actually good at his job, with a keen mind and razor-sharp instincts behind those grass-green eyes… but he doesn’t have to be such a cocky asshole about it.

Doesn’t have to be, but he always is.

Hangman’s gaze runs over Bradley’s seated form and a lazy grin teases his mouth. “Bradshaw,” his Texas drawl combines with his tone to make the name sound like an insult. “As I live and breathe.”

“Hangman,” he acknowledges with cool indifference. “You look… good.” It’s the truth as much as anything else. He hasn’t kept track of exactly how long Hangman’s been away from the lab on some research fellowship for the last three months, but he’s not surprised that the man would return just before spring storm season fires up.

“Well, I am good, Rooster.” Hangman tosses over his shoulder as he deposits his backpack on his spartan desktop. “I’m very good. In fact,” he flashes a sharp, self-indulgent grin and the light catches in his too-perfect dimples. “I am too good to be true.”

Three years ago, that comment would have earned an eye roll, but Bradley’s long since developed thick skin where Hangman is concerned. “How was Tennessee?”

“Well, I prefer Kentucky bourbon over Tennessee whiskey – but they’re developing some incredible data patterns. Up until the last 20 years, nobody went east of I-35 to chase tornadic activity.”

The map of central US states forms in Bradley’s mind, divided by the north-south artery of the interstate expressway that cuts through Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas, Iowa and Minnesota.

“But that’s changing,” Hangman continues, sitting in his desk chair as if testing the fit after being away so long. “Tornado concentrations in Dixie Alley - Tennessee, Kentucky, Alabama, Louisiana - have actually been higher than in Tornado Alley in recent years, and everyone’s trying to understand why. Not least of all so we can get a good jump on real estate prices to relocate the lab.”

This time Bradley does roll his eyes. “Mav won’t relocate the lab. He's not a big fan of Tulsa, but we’re in Tornado Alley for a reason.”

“Not according to what they’re saying.” Hangman swivels towards him with his trademark brand of mischievous intelligence gleaming in his eyes. “They say that the greatest concentration of damaging tornadoes is sliding southeast instead of staying in the Central Plains, and they’re trying to pin it on climate change.”

Bradley cocks his head in consideration. “Seems reasonable," he answers after a beat. "After all, the Gulf of Mexico is warming. The prevailing winds are pushing more moisture over the southeastern states, so the dry line shifts accordingly.”

“But that happens over centuries, not decades.” Hangman counters, folding his arms to rest behind his head. The unfairly tight fit of his Henley highlights the build of his biceps. “You know what else has also changed in the last 20 years?”

Bradley assumes it’s a rhetorical question but as the silence draws out, and Hangman raises his eyebrows in silent expectation, he sighs heavily. He tries to conjure an answer, waving a vague hand. “Too many things to count?”

Hangman snorts indignantly as he dips his head to glare under his brow. “You didn’t even try, Roo. Come on,” he says, shifting his hips and reaching in his pocket to produce his phone. “The prevalence of technology – phones, cameras, social media. Instant access to better storm prediction technology. Add to that the boom in storm spotting created by pop culture, and suddenly, any yahoo with a camera thinks they’re the next Bill Paxton.” He waves his black phone for emphasis. “That’s why it’s my theory that higher concentrations of tornadoes aren’t shifting east, just that the last 20 years have seen increased and better reporting of tornadoes in those states outside traditional Tornado Alley.”

A hint of amusement curls the corner of Bradley's mouth. “Well, that’s quite a theory.” He can't quite restrain the soft chuckle in his throat. “Is that what you did in Tennessee, then? Comb Facebook and Twitter and Instagram to build a correlation to reported tornadoes?”

“Privileged information, I’m afraid.” Hangman's shit-eating grin widens. “S’what you get for sitting around here all winter. In fact,” he sits up straighter, raising his hands to frame Bradley in view. “You’re right where I left you. If your pornstache was any more out of control, I’d think that you hadn’t moved at all.”

Indignation flares in Bradley’s chest and he draws a deep breath to squash it, squaring his jaw to measure his words. “Hangman, not all of us have to chase work nonstop around the country. Some of us can do just fine right here.”

That's also true as anything else. Hangman never sits still. He never lets things slide - he pokes, he prods, he pushes. It makes him a great, if irritating, scientist; but if he's not chasing storms in the plains, he's chasing lab work that keeps him on the move. Hell, for all his cocky attitude, Bradley's never known him to boast about anything that implies a connection to keep him in one place for too long. Not even any romantic or sexual conquest, let alone flaunting some gorgeous partner at company events.

Bradley watches Hangman's face freeze for the space of a breath before his expression sharpens. Suddenly, Hangman pushes to his feet with a telltale clench of his jaw as he threads around the workstation separating them. “Well, that’s just you, ain’t it, Rooster?” He says, approaching Bradley’s desk, leaning against the edge and crossing his arms against his chest. Bradley carefully tilts his head back to meet Hangman’s gaze head-on, refusing to be intimidated as the blonde continues. “You’re snug on that perch, waiting for just the right moment… that never comes.”

"You turned too soon," Mav shook his head, evaluating Bradley's performance as the vehicle GPS signals played out in relation to the tornado's position.

Bradley sighed. "If I'd stayed on that road, I would have missed it altogether."

"No, you would have been able to track it north," Mav replied, motioning back at the conference room TV screen showing the data replay of Bradley's last chase. "The twister's already made her turn and the rope on the ground was fully developed. You had everything you needed to know and still, you didn't get there in time."

Bradley ground his teeth. "I was right on target-" 

"Which is always ever-changing." Mav countered, sharp eyes scanning the room. "And that goes for all of you," he pointed a finger at the other chasers assembled around the table. "The numbers will only help you so much, but you can't rely solely on them… you can't think out there. If you think, it could cost you - you could be dead." 

Fire burned in Bradley's veins. Sharp, accusatory words clawed up his throat - is that what happened to my dad? Aren't you just a fucking hypocrite? - but he swallowed them down. He refused to give anybody else in the room the goddamn satisfaction of turning this debriefing into an episode of his personal family soap opera. 

Mav turned back to the screen as the video replayed, displaying the satellite proof of Bradley’s failure for everyone to see once again. “You were on path to intercept,” Mav said, again motioning at the animated GPS tracking signal of Bradley’s SUV. “But with those wind shears and the updraft angle of that twister,” he paused to point at the tornado symbol tracking northeast of Bradley’s position. “You were a minute too late.” 

“Mav,” Phoenix spoke up, cutting through the tension in the room. “He was the only one close enough.” 

“But it still wasn’t enough.” Mav shook his head, fixing Bradley with a hard stare. “You want to capture the data you need for your model, you’re going to have to get much closer than that.” 

Bradley worked a tight swallow down his throat. “We were on course. It was dead ahead.” 

Hangman tipped his head back against the conference chair. “You’re not driving fast enough," he interjected. "You don’t have a second to waste.” 

Bradley’s blood pressure ratcheted higher, teeth grinding together. He refused to dignify Hangman with a response, instead keeping his fury focused on his lousy excuse for a godfather at the front of the room. “It’s not the chase,” he said, steel in his voice. “It’s the chaser.” 

Fire blazed in Mav’s eyes as he hissed. “Exactly!” 

Silence deafened the conference room as Bradley’s heart stopped. The words pierced him straight through and tears stung his eyes but he refused to let any of them fall. His throat tightened as he held his ground. “There’s more than one way to read a storm and get close.” 

Hangman swiveled his head around. “You really don’t get it,” his sharp green eyes pinned Bradley in place, rubbing further salt in the wound. “I don’t mean to criticize - you’re conservative, that’s all. We’re up against the elements that none of us can always predict. Not even him.” He turned to nod towards Mav in reference to his point before turning back to Bradley as a smug - perhaps even pitying - smirk tugged at his lips. “That’s no time to be thinking about the past.” 

Bradley’s spine stiffened with indignation. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

Hangman settled back against the conference chair like a cat with a canary. “I can’t be the only one that knows that Mav used to chase with Rooster’s old man. Or that Mav was driving when his old man-”

Bradley's blood reached boiling point and he lunged across the table. His hands connected with the solid plane of Hangman's chest - and despite the restraining hands of his teammates, the cacophony of voices around him, and Mav's incessant demands to calm down - those damnable green eyes held his all the while, burning straight to the core of Bradley's being. 

The memory still burns two years later, and while Bradley's put his past with Mav to rest, he's never been able to heal the wound that Jake Seresin rubs raw. On reflex, Bradley's jaw tightens and his gaze narrows. He's learned to swallow the urge to punch a few of Hangman's too-white teeth from his too-perfect mouth, but the fire that blazes in his eyes should be enough of a warning for Hangman to stand down. 

Unfortunately, those sharp green eyes study his face in relentless pursuit, searching for a crack, for any opening to press his advantage. But then the calculating assessment abruptly ends, and an obnoxious smirk brightens Hangman’s face instead. “So," he says with a jovial tone. "How is that dangerous behavior prediction model coming along, hmm? Figured out yet how to tell if an EF2 tornado will behave more like an EF1 or EF3?” He turns his head to stare at the computer, and Bradly can’t move fast enough to minimize the software screen.

Red and green particles still swirl in their chaotic spirals, but there’s no sense to be made of it. Bradley tries not to think of it as failure – scientific discovery is often marked by what the answer isn’t versus what the answer is, and he’s just on his own journey… but it still stings when a man like Hangman studies his progress.

A man with cunning instincts that never fail when the heat of chase bears down. A man with the uncanny ability to outmaneuver the storm as quickly as it develops – to drive, to position, to take the shot without hesitation. In truth, Hangman’s photography is just as beautiful as he is. 

The torturous truth has gnawed at Bradley for years now. And in the lingering silence, he chews his bottom lip to distract from it as he stares at the computer model. It doesn't help that he can almost hear the red and green particles laughing at him, taunting him.

A hum pitches low in Hangman’s throat before he turns back towards Bradley. “Looks like you still have some work to do. Is that why you’re here so late on a Saturday? All work and no play, hmm?”

Bradley arches an unimpressed brow. “And is this the part where you say that you’re all play and offer to loosen me up?”

“Only if you insist.” Hangman darts a sly look from under his brow. “It’s all about consent, you know.”

"Then, I consent to you getting your ass off my desk.”

Hangman's shoulders move with a breathy, quiet chuckle before he leans in as if to impart a secret even though there’s no one else in the lab. Hints of his intoxicating, subtle, day-worn cologne reach Bradley’s nose. “Just don’t pretend that you don’t like watching it go.” Hangman says, winking with a devastating edge as he stands and walks back to his desk.

Bradley resolutely refuses to look, but he doesn’t miss the extra sashay in Hangman’s hips. 

Series Main List

Tag List: @redfurrycat

[chyirly]

Does everyone have a favorite Greek Myth, I do and it's the tale of Apollo and Hyacinthus!

Here's one of my favorite songs that just so happens to be about the myth.

The Myth goes Apollo falls in Love with the Spartan Prince Hyacinthus, but another god, Zephyrus god of the West Wind, also loves Hyacinthus. One day Apollo and Hyacinthus are playing the discus, when Zephyrus changes the direction of the wind so that the disc hits Hyacinthus in the temple, killing him. Apollo weeps for his love and turns him into a patch of Hyacinths. (this a really rough summary)

Now change it so that Apollo is Miles, Hyacinthus is Mikey, a kappa yokai, and Zephyrus is Miguel O’hara.

The reason Miguel kills Mikey is that he doesn't want Miles to have a happy ending/love life when he didn't get to have one despite everything he did for the others.

And Miles, wanting to be with Mikey in the afterlife, even willing to give up his godhood for mortality, but is unable to follow him or save him, watches Mikey turn into mystic energy and return to the Hidden City.

His family and friends feel Mikey's energy return and blame Miles for his death, even though they warned Mikey that getting involved with a god only results in tragedy.

Not even letting Miles join in his funeral, which involves the deceased loved ones. Where Mikeys Mystic energy gathers to form an apparition of him, the last look of his soul before it is returned to the earth.

This is a very specific thing. But I love it.

I'm sure you saw this coming when I randomly mentioned Shellshocked on a Mutant Mayhem post. But honestly this is my actual last Shellshocked post. The END.

I really got to start posting my regular ROTTMNT-centric drafts, because I have ones that are weeks old that have been held back by me wanting to release all of my shellshocked drafts.

Anyways, I'm now going to ignore everyone till Saturday. Peace out!

Note: Rosa, I hope what you commented on that last post didn't have a darker meaning behind it, other than not being able to interact with each other till Saturday because of the movie. Otherwise, know that I am panicking and worrying for you, I don't want to stop having conversations with you. Please be okay!

[halopedia]

Spartan Saturday — Frank Kodiak

Serving as a foot soldier in the Human-Covenant War, Frank Kodiak lost his right arm to N'tho 'Sraom's energy sword during a battle in the 2540s. He received a battle-grade prosthetic and became Spartan-IV after the war.

In 2555, an urgent joint UNSC-Swords of Sanghelios mission to Installation 00 led to Kodiak's reunion with the very same Sangheili who had maimed him. However, Kodiak came to forgive 'Sraom over the course of the mission's harrowing events.

[jnthem]

Did this Spartan race on Saturday 08/3/24 (first time) and it was awesome! Cant wait to do it again! 💪🏽

[kalevalakryze]

snippet saturday !

@balenciagaaaaaaaa tagged me without knowing what they were unleashing onto the world

and bc you're my one bookmark on welcome to the family, this snippet is for you

Bo-Katan should have seen this coming, really. No one helped someone for free, and she hadn’t felt right about anything since Gideon trashed her contract just twenty four hours before.

The tour of the useable parts of their building had been quick. Din Djarin, Cobb Vanth, and Boba Fett shared a room, Paz slept in a room practically right off of the front door, his walls decorated with enough weapons to leave her on edge. The Armorer’s room was spartan in comparison to the personalities she’d seen across the other rooms. It was the smallest, though also seemed to have less of the mold and water damage that the rest of the rooms seemed to deal with.

“None of the other rooms are habitable,” The Armorer said as she opened the door for Bo-Katan. “Therefore, I will offer to share my space with you,” Bo-Katan stepped into the room, hands fidgeting in the large pockets of her borrowed pants. Skira entered behind her, the door creaking as it shut. “You may familiarize yourself with the space as much as you would like,-“

Skira was cut off as Bo-Katan turned towards her. “So what is it you really want?” Her voice was accusing, brows pulling together in scrutiny as she tried to figure out the motives. “No one does shit like this unless they want something, you want me to fuck you? Because that’s all I have,” It wouldn’t be the first time. Kriff, that was part of how she’d gotten so close to Pre Vizsla, first she fell into his bed, then she fell into his terrorist cell. Hell, it was how she got acquainted with Ursa and Alrich, too, though the couple hadn’t requested sex in return for a place to sleep, she’d given that more than willingly.

When she’d removed her helmet, Bo caught the surprise and mild hurt on the woman’s features, though they were quickly smoothed away. “I assure you, that is not what this is,” Her hands raised, palms facing out as the wild look in the redheads eyes grew.

No pressure tag: @stellanslashgeode , @machinerismsx

[beardedmrbean]

At least three suspects were in custody Monday after an online threat against schools in four New Jersey districts led two to close, canceling classes for almost 6,000 students.

Threats were made against specific schools in the Woodbury, Deptford, Glassboro and Haddon Heights districts in southern New Jersey. Woodbury and Deptford closed all schools while Glassoro and Haddon Heights schools were open but with an increased police presence.

Glassboro police said in a statement that two youths from Woodbury and one from Glassboro had been arrested. The statement, citing a threat directed at Bowe Middle School, credited members of the community with aiding in identification of the suspects.

"The children that attend school in our district may not biologically be ours, but we look after them as if they are our own," the statement said, adding that police "will never stop taking whatever measures necessary to ensure they are protected from the evil that tries to instill fear and cause chaos."

The threat comes days after a 14-year-old student is accused of fatally shooting two students and two teachers at his high school in Winder, Georgia.

Screen shots from TikTok posted in community Facebook pages showed the threats and list of schools.

The Woodbury City district, with more than 1,700 students, posted a statement from Superintendent Andrew T. Bell Sr. on its website saying its schools would be closed Monday. Bell said the threat was not believed to be credible but that the district "exercising extreme caution to ensure the safety of our students, staff and families. Please be assured that school safety remains our top priority, and we are taking every precaution necessary to maintain a secure environment."

Bell said the district was working closely with police investigating the source of this threat. He urged families to "remain vigilant" and report any information that might be relevant to the investigation to law enforcement or school district officials.

Kevin Kanauss, superintendent of schools for more than 4,000 students in Deptford Township, said that "after carefully reviewing the progress of the investigation with our security team and law enforcement this evening, I have decided to close schools for Monday, September 9, 2024, out of an abundance of caution and for the safety and security of our entire Deptford Spartan Community."

Arrests made in Florida school threats

In Florida, arrests were made over the weekend in two school threat cases. A 13-year-old boy was arrested Sunday, accused of making a social media threats against Madison County schools on Instagram. The sheriff's department said late Sunday the investigation will remain active until it is determined that the juvenile acted alone.

In Broward Sheriff’s Office said it arrested a 14-year-old high school student late Saturday for making written threats to kill or conduct a mass shooting. She posted multiple stories on Instagram on Saturday afternoon that contained threats, including one post that listed several schools across Broward County that would be targeted with violence. Other posts contained additional threats of a school shooting or other violence. 

[ionlymadethissoicouldleaveanask]

The dawn on Reach was as artificial as the concept of a normal childhood for its Spartan-II candidates. Yet, under this simulated morning light, Fred-104 was proving himself to be as real and gritty as they come. At eight years old, he was a compact bundle of determination, tearing through the obstacle course with the focus of someone who had never known cartoons and cereal Saturdays.

His next challenge? The zipline. A wire stretched between two points, seemingly innocent, but today, it was the stage for an unexpected encounter. Fred grabbed the handle and pushed off, feeling the familiar thrill of the wind against his face, the controlled fear of hurtling through the air. It was going smoothly until it wasn't.

Enter Kelly-087. If speed had a form, it would look like her—another eight-year-old missile with a mane of blue-dyed hair that seemed to mock physics itself. She was fast, faster than anyone had a right to be, and her control of the course up to this point had been impeccable. That is, until she decided that Fred's zipline ride looked too lonely to pass up.

With a whoop that was all enthusiasm and zero caution, Kelly launched herself onto the zipline, colliding with Fred in a spectacular fashion that sent them both careening off course and into the welcoming arms of a mud pit below.

The world turned into a slow-motion ballet of flailing limbs and surprised shouts before they hit the mud with a splat that would've made any cartoon proud.

"I'm so sorry!" Fred exclaimed, momentarily forgetting his Spartan-II stoicism. He scrambled to his feet, mud sliding off him in gloopy rivulets, offering a hand to Kelly. Kelly, for her part, lay in the mud, laughter bubbling out of her like a natural spring. "What for!? That was awesome!" she managed to say between giggles, her grin wide and infectious.

Fred blinked, the situation's absurdity finally hitting him. "You're not mad? I thought... Well, I thought you'd be mad."

"Why would I be mad at a free mud bath? Best part of the day!" Kelly said, accepting his hand and pulling herself up with an ease that spoke of her agility. She was a mess, covered in mud from head to toe, but she seemed to wear it like a badge of honor.

Fred couldn't help the laugh that escaped him, a sound so rare it felt foreign. "We're definitely going to pay for this, you know. Mendez is going to have our heads."

Kelly shrugged, her spirits undampened. "So we'll run extra laps. Big deal. It'll be worth it to see the look on his face when we show up like two swamp monsters."

That image, Mendez's face trying to maintain its usual stern composure at the sight of them, had Fred chuckling. "Alright, you're on. But let's make it fun. First one back to the starting line gets the other's dessert for a week."

"You're on, slowpoke!" Kelly shot back, her competitive fire ignited. They shook hands, sealing the deal in mud and spirit.

Off they sprinted, leaving behind footprints that were more sludge than sole...

Yesssss

This was adorable. Just little dorks playing in mud, going full-gremlin-mode. I loved it!

[aestheticvoyage2024]

Day 258: Saturday September 14, 2024 - "Spartan Saturday"

I have a cherished chiseled corner in my brain set aside for Spartan history and facts from fall Saturdays spent listening to the games on the radio, studying old programs from games I was taken to, and old cards of the old heroes. Its neat then when I get a chance to witness a little bit of Spartan history that we can all say "remember that one?" - Chuck Brantley ran one back from end zone to end zone in front of my parents who were at the game like old times. We ate Green Ice Cream as Sparty pitched a shutout on the day the old 65-66 teams went into the Hall of Fame. Im 43 now and still a Spartan Football Fan boy at heart and while I am not yet convinced of this new team there is definitely a buzz about this coaching staff and a fun change in the marketing celebrating lineman and scout players.... I was convinced enough to introduce him to William before the game... this is "our coach" - we set the bar high for them to do more than just call the plays; I sure hope 10 years from now we can be so proud of Coach Smith doing it the right way, still right there, back home. 3-0 start will be really up against it the next few weeks as we enter the deep waters of the best of the new Big Ten. We'll really know what we've got a month from now when they get their bye week.

Song: Spartan Marching Band - Pregame Fight Song

Quote: "I don't believe in higher walls, I believe in longer tables…" ~Chef Jose Andres

[its-to-the-death]

Glasses Swag Tournament Round 1

Now that preliminary rounds are over, we can begin! So ready your propaganda!

This is the bracket we're working with:

The winners of the two brackets will go head to head at the end.

Every round will last one week and Round 1 will begin tomorrow, Saturday May 13, at 12:00PM EST.

The pictures are a little small since we have a lot of contestants so all the matchups are also below the cut. They will link to the polls once they begin.

Tulip Olsen (Infinity Train) vs Rupert Giles (Buffy the Vampire Slayer)

Matt Murdock/Daredevil (Marvel) vs Crowley (Good Omens)

Gregor (Limbus Company) vs Megane Kakeru/William Glass (Inazuma Eleven)

Scott Summers (X-Men) vs Louis James Moriarty (Moriarty the Patriot)

Raine Whispers (The Owl House) vs Grell Sutcliff (Black Butler)

Valentino (Harbin Hotel) vs Morpheus (The Matrix)

Penny (Pokemon) vs Kyoya Ootori (Ouran High School Host Club)

Misty Quigley (Yellowjackets) vs Conan Edogawa (Detective Conan)

Ryan Aka (Infinity Train) vs Maes Hughes (Fullmetal Alchemist)

Shimura Shinpachi (Gintama) vs Velma Dinkley (Scooby Doo)

Alexandra Garcia (Kuroko no Basket) vs Spartan (Deltarune)

Chidi Anagonye (The Good Place) Lotte Jansson (Little Witch Academia)

Milo Thatch (Atlantis: The Lost Empire) vs 707/Seven/Luciel Choi/Saeyoung Choi (Mystic Messenger)

The Professor (Puppet History) vs Jade Harley (Homestuck)

Donquixote Doflamingo (One Piece) vs Linda Belcher (Bob's Burgers)

Tina Belcher (Bob's Burgers) vs Mirabel Madrigal (Encanto)

Saiki Kusuo (The Disastrous Life of Saiki K) vs Clark Kent (DC)

Sticky Washington (The Mysterious Benedict Society) vs Patton Sanders (Sanders Sides)

Willow Park (The Owl House) vs Jade Curtiss (Tales of the Abyss)

Badyah Hassan (Dead End Paranormal Park) vs Arthur Read (Arthur)

Gary the Gadget Guy (Club Penguin) vs Ralsei (Deltarune)

Daniel Jackson (Stargate) vs Joker/Ren Amamiya (Persona 5)

Percy de Rolo (Critical Role) vs Hiyama Kiyoteru (Vocaloid)

Bayonetta (Bayonetta) vs Vash the Stampede (Trigun 1998)

Ghoul Yelps (Monster High) vs Evelyn Carnahan (The Mummy)

Anthy Himemiya (Revolutionary Girl Utena) vs Dib (Invader Zim)

Roz (Monsters Inc.) vs Ignatz Victor (Fire Emblem: Three Houses)

Simon (Alvin and the Chipmunks) vs The Corinthian (The Sandman)

Logan Sanders (Sanders Sides) vs Uryu Ishida (Bleach)

Gordon Freeman (Half-Life) vs Michael (The Good Place)

Nino Lahiffe (Miraculous Ladybug) vs Edna Mode (The Incredibles)

Alya Cesaire (Miraculous Ladybug) vs Vriska Serket (Homestuck)