New Orleans Saints

This is a map from The Blaze that shows what NFL team dominates your region by county. This map shows America says fuck the New York Jets because they didn’t win even one county.

And The Oscar Goes To
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Being publicly in the closet means Stiles can’t go to the Academy Awards with who he really wants, but it’s not like he’s going to win so he doesn’t have to worry about slipping up and thanking Derek in his speech… right?

This one is for my OSA (one sentence anon) who keeps cheering me on and motivating me. I wouldn’t have finished this WIP if it wasn’t for you, so thanks dude, whoever you are!

Earlier in his career, Stiles Stilinski had thought that walking one red carpet meant he had walked them all, but this award season had proved that assumption to be totally false. Walking a red carpet when you’ve been nominated for an award at the show was an entirely new experience. Sure, he had been nominated for People’s Choice Awards and more fan-driven ones before, but this year he had finally broken out of the rom-com and buddy comedy genres and into roles that challenged him. And this year, he was walking the red carpet at the Oscar with the chance to win not just one, but two once he entered the building.

Some had called 2016 his breakout year, others had said they knew that he could do it all along, and others still had questioned his ability to take on some of the more serious roles until they saw the films he was starring in. So here he was, at his third Academy Awards, but this time he was nominated instead of just attending. It had been a nerve-wracking award season that had left Stiles with a Golden Globe, a SAG award, and two Critic’s Choice awards, but none of that would hold a candle to this.

“Stiles, you have to move,” Lydia Martin–his agent and manager–said to him, pushing him toward the final reporter along the carpet. “Smile more.”

Stiles resisted the eyeroll that he could feel building; he didn’t want to be on the cover of some trashy tabloid with his eyes rolled back in his head and a caption commenting on his mental instability or an attitude problem. “Stiles! You look great,” Erica Reyes from Access Hollywood said, her voice sweet as syrup and her lips fire-engine red.  

“So do you, Ms. Reyes. Are you sure I can’t convince you to leave your husband and run away with me?” Stiles said with a charming smile. He had gone to UCLA with Erica’s husband Vernon Boyd and they had been, and still were, good friends. Boyd was currently the star wide receiver for the New Orleans Saints and would kick his ass if he were here in that moment.

“Ah ah ah, you know that I’m loyal,” Erica said with a smile. “But what about you? Who are you here with? Have a hot date that you’re hiding somewhere?”

“Of course I do,” Stiles told her. “My dad’s right over there.”

“Oh! Of course he is; he’s your permanent date during award season.” Erica said and then waved. “Hi, Sheriff.”

John Stilinski waved back with a smile, “Aren’t you going to ask me who I’m wearing?”

“I would, but that’s Laura Hale and I need to catch her before she gets inside. She and that hunky artist brother of hers skipped half the reporters already; I can’t let them skip me,” Erica said, giving Stiles a little smile. “It was lovely talking to you Stiles; good luck!”

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