#'one foot in front of the other' true russ

[oxford-garments]

Fallen angel - Wikipedia

Fallen angels are angels who were expelled from Heaven. The literal term "fallen angel" does not appear in any Abrahamic religious texts, but is used to describe angels who sinned. Such angels often tempt humans to sin.

SIN OF THE ANGELS

Lesson: The sin of the angels has been traditionally spoken of as a sin of rebellion. “I will not serve” is the statement attributed to satan and the other fallen angels. “I will not serve God or obey His will.” Recall also the statement that the serpent spoke to Adam and Eve in the Garden when he seduced them to act in disobedience to God by eating the forbidden fruit. The serpent convinced them to eat the forbidden fruit by saying, “For God knows that when you eat of it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil” (Genesis 3:5, RSV-CE). This line also reveals the hidden first sin of the angels. They wanted to be gods. They did not want to serve the one God. They did not want to obey. They rebelled. They wanted to be the masters of their own destiny rather than to humbly submit to the plan of God for their lives.

BELMÔNT'S SIN: STREET IDENTITY MURAL CROWN APOTHEOSIS

In religion, apotheosis was a feature of many religions in the ancient world, and some that are active today. It requires a belief that there is a possibility of newly-created gods, so a polytheistic belief system. The major modern religions of Christianity, Islam, and Judaism do not allow for this. In Hellenistic culture, a mural crown identified tutelary deities such as the goddess Tyche (the embodiment of the fortunes of a city, familiar to Romans as Fortuna), and Hestia (the embodiment of the protection of a city, familiar to Romans as Vesta). The high cylindrical polos of Rhea/Cybele too could be rendered as a mural crown in Hellenistic times, specifically designating the mother goddess as patron of a city. Nightlife entertainment is often more adult-oriented than daytime entertainment. Location theory has become an integral part of economic geography, regional science, and spatial economics.

Example; Mt. Pleasant Road Pluto Effect Invocation Wing Transfer

NOCTU [PLUTO ANGEL/NOCTURNALIS]

(Left-handed Path Apotheosis Pluto-Mural Crown Wing Transfer) Angelology Acrostics Treatise Text: Material World Angels: Spiritual Angelology not Religious (Bible Influence: De Coelesti Hierarchia and Summa Theologica), Left Handed Path Apotheosis, Illusions, Dionysian Mysteries, Black Angel Wings, Sagittarius-Scorpio Sensory Overload Asperger's (Fetus Alcohol Consumption and Prenatal Hormones Vitamin) Birth, Virtue Heavenly Host, Pluto Evening Star Astral Body Planetary Intelligence, Self-Defication Mural Crown Horcrux Oversoul (STREGA), Change Oversoul to New Title (Salesian), Cardinal-Mutable Human Form with Fixed Spirit, Invocation Possession, Angelology Students, and Angel Philosopher), Mural Crown (Tutlery Deity, Civil Heraldy, Heraldy), Salesian Church Enterprises (Real Estate; Liberal Arts Immersion Schools; Gold; Athletics; Fine Arts), Philosophy (CAAB: Culture, Art, Aesthetic, Bohemian; 5 Senses City, Selective Sensory Development, Distorted Sensory Play, Sensory Overload Asperger's, Culture Antagonist Liberal Arts)

RUSSE NOIR (À MA SAUCE) FOOTBALL

À ma sauce Literally: To my sauce, True meaning: Suit my style

VEDETTE: 3-4-1-2 has 4 Pivot Formations so 5 Total: Transition to a 4-4-2 Diamond, Transition to a 4-4-2, Transition to a 4-2-3-1, Transition to a 3-3-1-3

Central African Republic 4-4-2 Diamond Variant: 1-3-4-2 (1) À ma sauce (Sweeper Deep-lying Playmaker Wingback) (4) Diamant (À ma sauce: Counterpressing Pivot Pressing Triggers, Sweeper-Winger Pivots, Overlapping Runs, W; V; I Box Keeping Formations) [Key Stats: Front Foot, Pressing Triggers, Clearance, Aerial Duel, Interceptions, Blocked Shots, Tackles, Final Ball, Key Dribbles, Overlapping Runs, Set Piece Taker] Spacing, Possession, Pass Completion, and Counter Pressing with Pursuit and Ambush Predation One Team Box Touches and Capture the Flag with Analytics-Geometry Total Football Trixie Bet on CNS Drugs (Xanax and Modafinil)

Define a run in one of two ways: (i) as a set of consecutive goals scored by one team, without the other team scoring a goal; (ii) as a set of consecutive scoring events by one team, each event being either a goal or one or more Set Piece. Play aggressive and with counter pressing and run it up on the score board in the first half and after halftime play defense. You get a break at half and it's easier to win when someone plays defense and looks for opportunities instead of Attacking.

Posterior Chain Super Compensation and Speed-Endurance (Elastic-Connective Tissue) Force-Velocity Curve; Crescent Moon Horizontal Plane Vertical Force Sprinting Mechanics.

WM or Diamond Rover Futsal Pivot Formation

Set Piece Stylistic Biomechanics: Shooting Knee at Wall for Curve and Placement Knee for Corner. Follow through with Shot with proper Body Alignment

W, I, M, V; Box Keeping Formation with 3 Centre-Backs

Knee to Feet or Shoulder to Feet Cradling for Touch/Entertainment

UEFA Front Office Curriculum

Museum d'histoire: Broken down into three major section — “A Lineage of Coaches Players and Places,” “Proving Grounds” and “Cultures of Basketball” — City/Game documents how basketball first found its origins in the neighborhoods of NYC and then went on to produce a roster of local legends who played everywhere from Rucker Park and the Cage on West 4th Street to Christ the King High School and St. John’s University.

Agility Ladder Eyes Pocket: Eyes Between Defenders Feet and Ball, Numbered Footwork V-Step (Shifting Defenders with Momentum) et L-Step (Explosive First Step), All moves should form a Triangle or an Incomplete Triangle (Coup de Pied)

*Push-Pull Sprint/Shooting Cycle: Pull Glutes et Hamstring; Push Calf et Quads for Sprints.

Sprint Size Up: A series of feint Karaoké dribble moves with Eye Tricks (Fake Pass) but Sprint Position Finish

Triangle Philosophy: All Dribbling Moves should form a Triangle or an Incomplete Triangle while using V-Step (Shifting Defenders with Momentum) et L-Step (Explosive First Step).

Thé Crescent: In Close Dribbling; Crescent Footwork with L Shapes (Paul Pogba)

On the Run Dribbling Moves: Letters and Shapes; Still Play 1 on 1: Numbered Footwork

Piedi Felici Courts: Drills Side/Box Play with 1 Net; Design Vaporwave Action Painting Angels; Knee for Direction and Sole Drags for Dribbling Touch and Crescent Moon Sprint Mechanics

Gambling Games: 5 Roll (Captain, Ship, Crew); Live-Pool Betting Monopoly

Stylistic Biomechanics: Dribbling Foot To Ball Contact (Balls of Feet and Arch of Feet); Knee for Direction; Foot Drags; & Hip Angle, Crescent Moon Running Mechanics, and Laces Kick.

Diamond Football (15 mins)

Set Up

-Lay out two overlapping sets of 4 flat markers in the positions shown above.

-Ask the players to stand on a flat marker for their teams colour (Red on Red, Yellow on Yellow).

Instruction

-Whenever the ball goes out for a kick in or for the defenders ball, the players must stand on their markers before play begins.

-As soon as the ball has been played in, players are free to move.

-Reset everytime the ball goes out.

Coaching Points, Progressions Ect.

-Ask players to shout out what each position on the park is to devlop understanding of their roles.

-If you decide to go to a normal game , leave the markers out for a visual aid for the players.

-If more than 8 players, Add in Goalkeepers who would then play the ball out to the DF,LM,RM.

-Rotate Positions, Ask Players to stand on a marker they haven't been on before

BELMÔNT'S ACCENT

Full Lips Endings with Vertical Narrow Mouth and Soft Rs

BELMÔNT'S SIN INDEX FUND PORTFOLIO 

Sin stock sectors usually include alcohol, tobacco, gambling, sex-related industries (Cabaret and Burlesque), and weapons manufacturers.

Diageo 

Phillip Morris

Sports Betting Investment Trust

Pharmaceuticals

Business Clusters with Scrum Management and Accelerators to produce Festivals.

Example: Create a Index Fund Portfolio of 15-20 Stocks and using Supply Side Economics to create Decentralized Gambling Economy.

BELMÔNT'S DECENTRALIZED GAMBLING ECONOMY

Corporate-Capital Gains Tax Haven

High Stakes Minimum Buy In

Card Gambling (Signal and President): Top 2 highest bids fight for the Coup d'état and the other two are lesser men, the lesser men are subordinates that aid in playing cards for the warlord, the winning team splits the money, the warlords switches based on the 13 cards dealt and bets placed, the first team to shed all of their cards win.

Domestic Gambling: Boxing

Retirement Gambling: Boat Racing

Residency Program for Tax Benefits

BELMÔNT'S TURF ACCOUNTING MODEL

+EV

Python Programming Gaussian Distribution

Exotic Options Trading Live Betting

Parlays Minimum for Round Robins

Daily Fantasy Sports Rakes

NOUCHI PALACE

Definitions of ballroom. noun. large room used mainly for dancing. synonyms: dance hall, dance palace**. types: disco, discotheque.

Go Go Music Influenced, Eurphoric Trance Chord Progression Melody, Progressive House and Drum n' Bass Percussion-808 Call and Response Staccato Polyrhythm or Layered Kick and Punch 808.

In his 1972 study of French lute music, scholar Wallace Rave compiled a list of features he believed to be characteristic of style brisé. Rave's list included the following: the avoidance of textural pattern and regularity in part writing; arpeggiated chord textures with irregular distribution of individual notes of the chord; ambiguous melodic lines; rhythmic displacement of notes within a melodic line; octave changes within melodic line; irregular phrase lengths.

Have the Snare and Kick say, "Hi, How are you?" And the 808 say, "I am good thanks for asking.”

Use progressive House to push the Drums Conversation to either Fast and Punchy for Happy or Slow and Deep for Sad.

In technical terms, "go-go's essential beat is characterized by a five through four syncopated rhythm that is underscored prominently by the bass drum and snare drum, and the hi-hat... [and] is ornamented by the other percussion instruments, especially by the conga drums, rototoms, and hand-held cowbells."[5]

Polyrhythm: In music, a cross-beat or cross-rhythm is a specific form of polyrhythm. The term cross rhythm was introduced in 1934 by the musicologist Arthur Morris Jones (1889–1980). It refers to a situation where the rhythmic conflict found in polyrhythms is the basis of an entire musical piece.[1]

Four-on-the-floor (or four-to-the-floor) is a rhythm used primarily in dance genres such as disco and electronic dance music. It is a steady, uniformly accented beat in 4. 4 time in which the bass drum is hit on every beat (1, 2, 3, 4).[1] This was popularized in the disco music of the 1970s[2] and the term four-on-the-floor was widely used in that era, since the beat was played with the pedal-operated, drum-kit bass drum.[3][4] (Punch 808-Kick)

Polyrhythm 4 on the Floor examples 2:4 or 5:4

Hard trance is often characterized by strong, hard (or even downpitch) kicks, fully resonant basses and an increased amount of reverberation applied to the main beat. Melodies vary from 140 to 180 BPMs and it can feature plain instrumental sound in early compositions, with the latter ones tending to implement side-chaining techniques of progressive on digital synthesizers.

Singles Only Email Raves Blogger then Multi Market Distribution Deal: A distribution deal is a contract to release the music to platforms, but not own the publishing or exclusively lock the artist in. Record Artist Producer Label: Have Polyrhythm Artist earn Streaming Percentage under a Recording Artist Deal. Label has Distribution Above Me and I have Manufacturing over Polyrhythm Artist. Have a end of the Year Album for New Year's Raves!

"ALWAYS WELCOMED" by POPCAAN

No jezebel can't enter di Heaven gates

Angels only

She wan pull up a long time she ah wait

Guyanese girl dem ah heavyweight

Pretty girl always welcomed (Trouble)

Tight pussy gyal always welcome

Gyal yuh body hotter than Kingston

Tight pussy gyal always welcomed

Love when yuh bubble up, mi wan lock you down

Tight pussy gyal always welcomed

Bend it over for me slowly

Tight pussy gyal always welcomed

Baby yuh thick like phone ah

Wan you sit down pon di throne yah

Love when you bend it over

Jump on the first flight to Arizona

Fuck you pon di dresser top slowly

Get yuh pussy wet rub yuh clit, hold me

Sink it in deep dat mi kno yuh love

Mek yuh draws fly weh like a likkle dove

Tight freaky girl wha me singin bout

Love when you put di cocky inna yuh mouth

Turn yuh back way and fuck it up right

Gyal yuh pussy tight, me will pay down

Mek yuh wine pon di body pon di head pon di pine

Underneath yuh nuh big like stadium

Wine fast a way now

Bite up di K now

Skinout and lay down, yeah

Pretty girl always welcome

Big pussy gyal always welcomed (Woioi)

Gyal yuh body hotter than Kingston

Tight pussy gyal always welcomed

Love when yuh bubble up, mi wan lock you down

Tight pussy gyal always welcomed

Bend it over for me slowly

Tight pussy gyal always welcomed

Cock up yuh pussy mi wan see it

Sit down pon di body like ah issa van seat

Pon yuffi gwarn badder although you conceit

Hot gyal ah George Town, hot gyal a Berbice (Trouble)

Love gyaldem freaky an bad yeah

Wine up and den turn it back weh

Open yuh legs dem fi Poppy

Hammer yuh body like Rodney

I'm giving you a rough ride

Love when you ride on me

I'm giving you a rough ride

Love when you ride on me

Baby

Love when you ride on me

Pretty girl always welcomed (Trouble)

Tight pussy gyal always welcomed

Gyal yuh body hotter than Kingston

Tight pussy gyal always welcomed

Love when yuh bubble up, mi wan lock you down

Tight pussy gyal always welcomed

Bend it over for me slowly

Tight pussy gyal always welcomed

Pretty girl always welcomed (Trouble)

Tight pussy gyal always welcomed

Gyal yuh body hotter than Kingston

Tight pussy gyal always welcomed

Love when yuh bubble up, mi wan lock you down

Tight pussy gyal always welcomed

Bend it over for me slowly

Tight pussy gyal always welcomed

BELMÔNT'S SYSTEM: CAPÔI RETAINER AGREEMENT WITH ASSET PROTECTION TRUST

Capo: Describes a ranking made member of a family who leads a crew of soldiers. A capo is similar to a military captain who commands soldiers. Soldier: Also known as a “made man,” soldiers are the lowest members of the crime family but still command respect in the organization.

A capo is a "made member" of an Italian crime family who heads a regime or "crew" of soldiers and has major status and influence in the organization.

Consigliere: Defense and Corporate Lawyers

Head Boss: Ministry of Medicine

Underboss: Pharmaceutical Industry

Capo: CAPÔI RETAINER AGREEMENT

Soliders: Artisans

Commercialism is the application of both manufacturing and consumption towards personal usage, or the practices, methods, aims, and distribution of products in a free market geared toward generating a profit.

Commercial art is art created for advertising or marketing purposes. Commercial artists are hired by clients to create images and logos that sell products. Unlike works of fine art that convey an artist's personal expression, commercial art must address the client's goals.

The word 'Commercial' is defined as follows: Concerned with or engaged in commerce. Commerce is the exchange of goods or services among two or more parties.

Craftsmen are committed to the medium, not to self-expression. Artists are committed to their self-expression, not the medium.

A medium of exchange is an intermediary instrument and system used to facilitate the purchase and sale of goods and services between parties.

Stretch and Micro Goals

Music Medium System: Distribution and Retailers Contract Theory (System) for Music (Instrument)

Football Medium System: Analytics and Geometry for Free Role (System) Trixies (Instrument)

Age 16-19

Bond Funds

Farmland REITS

CFDS

Real Estate Brokerage Trust Account

Age 20-30

Farmland Recession Proof Stocks (Cosmetics, AgTech, Ag ETFS, AgETN)

Incubator and Startup Accelerators

Real Estate Joint Ventures

Age 30-40

Farmland Blue Chip Indexes w/ Credit Spread Options

TUNNEL STRATEGY (OFFSHORE BANKING)

Purpose: Permanent Residency Card

$250k Deposit

$125k: 60/40 portfolio, 60% Fixed Income & REITs and 40% Blue Chip Stocks

$50k: Guaranteed Investment Certificates (GICs) and term deposits are secured investments. This means that you get back the amount you invest at the end of your term. The key difference between a GIC and a term deposit is the length of the term. Term deposits generally have shorter terms than GICs.

$75k: Spending Cash

SIN STOCKS PORTFOLIO

Sin stock sectors usually include alcohol, tobacco, gambling, sex-related industries, and weapons manufacturers.

Sports Betting Investment Trust

Pharmaceuticals

Example: Create a Index Fund Portfolio of 15-20 Stocks and using Supply Side Economics to create Decentralized Gambling Economy.

FESTIVALS DEAL

Singles Only Email Raves Blogger then Multi Market Distribution Deal: A distribution deal is a contract to release the music to platforms, but not own the publishing or exclusively lock the artist in. Record Artist Producer Label: Have Polyrhythm Artist earn Streaming Percentage under a Recording Artist Deal. Label has Distribution Above Me and I have Manufacturing over Polyrhythm Artist. Have a end of the Year Album for New Year's Raves!

NEUROPLASTICITY DRUG-CRIME NEXUS BASED ON TRAFFICKING

CPP, CNS Depressants, et FENTALOGS: Cul-de-sac

Defensive Penalty Capture The Flag Raiding Warfare

Grey-Decentralized Markets

Bastilles: Cul-de-sac Artist Résidences Penthouse Complexes

Polyrhythm Raves

Acid House Art Gallery

International Film Festival

Hôtel Chefs

Seigneurial System/Tableau Economique Raw Material Économics Production Spot

Surautomatism

Discount Networking Acid House Party

Opium Dens and Fragrance Festivals

Pill Pressers

CNS depressants

Upper-tier County System

Defense Lawyers are Traplords (Trafficking P4P and Malicious Prosecution)

Cash Conversion Cycle (CCC)

Brain Receptor Dealing

Neuroplasticity Drug-Crime Nexus

Religious Ecstasy

Entheogens are psychedelic drugs—and sometimes certain other psychoactive substances—used for engendering spiritual development or otherwise in sacred contexts

Live-Pool Betting Monopoly Board Game

Summary Sentencing

Urban Level: Street Culture Art Gallery (Street culture may refer to: Urban culture, the culture of towns and cities, Street market, Children's street culture, Street carnival, Block party, Street identity, Street food, Café culture, Several youth subculture or counterculture topics pertaining to outdoors of urban centers. These can include: Street art, Street photography, Street racing, Street wear, Hip-hop culture, Urban fiction, Street sports, Streetball, Flatland BMX, Freestyling), Art Pedagogy, Artist Residency, Art Schools, and Art Plugs

Art Pedagogy: Arts-based pedagogy is a teaching methodology in which an art form is integrated with another subject matter to impact student learning. 28-30. Arts-based pedagogy results in arts-based learning (ABL),11 which is when a student learns about a subject through arts processes including creating, responding or performing. Aesthetic Teaching: Seeking a Balance between Teaching Arts and Teaching through the Arts. In aesthetic education, learning must be developed especially with the inclusion of sensations and with the help of feelings. Sensations and feelings should lead to movement, representation, and expression. Aesthetic learning often entails learning to distinguish certain qualities or objects aesthetically in different ways depending on the situation and the purpose. Certain things can be experienced in negative ways in one activity and in positive ways in another.

A designer drug is a structural or functional analog of a controlled substance that has been designed to mimic the pharmacological effects of the original drug, while avoiding classification as illegal and/or detection in standard drug tests

Patchwork tattoos are a collection of tattoos collaged together to create an overall design. Each individual 'patch' of the tattoo can be a different design, symbol or element with a little space in between. Patchwork tattoos are a collection of tattoos collaged together to create an overall design. In short, the gun-toting angel was a multifaceted metaphor. “It undoubtedly also reflected the Catholic Counter-Reformation militaristic rhetoric,” wrote Donahue-Wallace, “which promoted the church as an army and heavenly beings as its soldiers.”

DECADENCE AESTHETICS THEORIES

Slogan

J'Cartier, Je cours après les vœux de champagne,

Subjective

Based on or influenced by personal feelings, tastes, or opinions

Gastronomy

Precarious Balance

Precariously: If something is happening or positioned precariously, it's in danger. A glass could be precariously balanced on the edge of a table. If something is on the verge of danger, then the word precariously fits.

Grey & Decentralized Markets

Tableau Économique

Semblance

Semblance is generally used to suggest a contrast between outward appearance and inner reality.

High Socioeconomic Status & Tattoos

Phantasmagorical

Having a fantastic or deceptive appearance

adjective. having a fantastic or deceptive appearance, as something in a dream or created by the imagination. having the appearance of an optical illusion, especially one produced by a magic lantern.

Socioeconomic Status Development Immigration Multilingual Sensory Play

Law of Polarity in Relationships

In any successful relationship that has an intimate connection and sexual attraction, there is polarity. What does this mean exactly? Polarity in relationships is the spark that occurs between two opposing energies: masculine and feminine. Gender does not affect whether you have masculine or feminine energy.

Second Reflection

Burden Aesthetics with Intentions

The Second Reflection lays hold of the Technical Procedures

Tattoos

NOCTU

[refinedbuffoonery]

Looking Through A Window (2)

macriley married undercover au

masterlist.

Oh man. My dudes. I received so much love and support and excited feedback on the first chapter that I thought my heart was going to explode. Y’all are so wonderful. Keep it up. <3

*****

Luckily, Matty lets them take the Phoenix jet to Houston. Flying commercial would make today even more tortuous than it already promises to be, albeit for a different reason. 

No matter how hard he tries to distract himself, Mac cannot stop staring at the diamond ring on Riley’s finger. The princess cut gem is stunning and ridiculously large, but it suits her cover as a lucrative arms dealer. A white gold wedding band sits below it. Riley left her usual assortment of rings at home, and Mac can’t help but think her long, delicate fingers look bare without them. 

He tears his eyes away from the rings again and again, both on the plane and while driving to the safe house. Riley drives with just her left hand, her right elbow resting on the center console. Mac likes driving, but there’s something relaxing about riding shotgun while Riley drives instead. He’s never been able to put a finger on it, but the sense of ease washes over him all the same. Admiring the way sunlight illuminates her engagement ring is simply a bonus. 

He doesn’t let himself imagine what he might give her, in an alternate future where she reciprocates his feelings and one day wants to marry him. 

Harley obediently lays in the backseat, staring out the windshield. She's been on her best behavior the entire twenty four hours Mac's known her, ever the professional. 

Which puts her completely at odds with Mac and Riley's shenanigans—cracking jokes, dancing on the plane and in the car, doing purposefully bad impersonations of Russ. These are the best parts of going on ops alone with Riley. They can let loose in a way they just couldn’t when anyone else other than Bozer was around. Everyone else is professional all the time; Mac and Riley are only professional when they have to be. 

Riley taps the steering wheel in time to the classic rock song on the radio. “What do you want for dinner?” 

“Dinner? We haven’t even had lunch yet!” 

“True.” Riley chuckles. “Can you tell I’m hungry?” 

Mac gives her a sly look. “Not at all.” 

They settle on Texas barbecue for lunch on their way to the safe house, because that’s what Jack would choose if he was here. If only the old man could see them now, all grown up and getting sent to take down terrorists unsupervised. 

Seated in a booth in the far corner of the restaurant, Mac raises his brisket sandwich in a toast to Jack, in whatever afterlife he found himself in. Hopefully it’s the one with an endless supply of good barbecue. 

“Oh man, Jack would’ve loved this,” Riley says through a mouthful of food. She sneaks Harley a piece of brisket. 

Mac smiles. “Yeah, he would’ve.” 

It’s easier, now, to talk about him. At first, Mac hadn’t been sure he could ever get to a point where talking about Jack didn’t make him want to hit something or just curl up and sob. 

But here he is, on the other side. Him and Riley both. 

Their safe house is another twenty minutes away from the restaurant, in a nice neighborhood full of trees and children playing on the sidewalks. It’s so much greener than a California neighborhood could ever dream of being. There’s even a park across the street from their apartment complex. It’s exactly the sort of place a young, affluent couple would want to live. 

Riley parks in their designated space, and the pair ascend the stairs to apartment number 202. Outside of the car, they don’t dare use each other’s real names until they’re sure the apartment is free of bugs. The place was furnished earlier that week by other Phoenix agents, but Mac and Riley do a thorough sweep of every room just in case. 

It’s a nice apartment. Wood flooring, granite countertops, matching cabinets throughout. There are pictures on the walls, but Mac doesn’t bother to stop and check what they are. 

Riley clears the space from back to front, so Mac does the opposite. He clears the kitchen first, frowning at the absence of any sort of food, before moving on to the living room. 

Mac stops dead in his tracks when he enters the bedroom. The singular bedroom. With a singular, queen-sized bed. 

Oh no. This is not happening. 

Mac shakes his head and rubs his eyes, hoping his mind is just playing tricks on him and that there’s actually two beds. Or a whole other room he missed before. 

The one and only bed seems to mock him. 

He walks back out, finding Riley already sitting at the kitchen table, turning on her laptop. “Uhh, Riles? There’s only—”

“One bed,” she finishes, not bothering to look up. “I know.” 

Oh god. He can’t do this. He can’t. Not with his dignity still intact. Mac stammers, “I’ll, uhh, sleep on the couch. You can have it.”

That gets Riley’s attention. “Don’t be ridiculous. We’re going to be here for weeks. You’ll hurt your back sleeping on the couch that long. Just sleep with me.” Riley’s eyes widen as she realizes what she just said. “In the bed,” she quickly adds. 

Mac ducks his head to hide his blush. 

“What are you working on?” he asks in a feeble attempt to distract himself from their sleeping situation. Because it will definitely be a situation if Mac’s not careful. 

“Connecting to the Wi-Fi,” Riley says in a slow, “What else would I be doing?” sort of way. 

“Right.” Mac silently curses himself. Of course that’s what she’s doing. “Anyway, I’m assuming you already know this, since you probably opened the fridge too, but we have no food.” 

“I saw.” She’s multitasking again, manicured fingers flying faster across her keyboard than Mac can keep track of. “Why don’t you unload our bags while I finish this, and then we can go.” 

Unable to help feeling like he’s been dismissed, Mac complies without protest. 

Soon they’re back in the car, headed to the grocery store, and the whole thing feels ridiculously domestic. Mac’s never been a fan of grocery shopping, but Riley makes it almost...fun. For starters, she’s not methodical about it the way Bozer and Desi are. But more than that, getting to spend time with her doing mundane, non-work stuff is a nice reminder that their relationship is more than just the job. They’re friends too. 

Mac wishes there is a way to tell her all that without it sounding weird. 

They come home, unload the groceries, and take Harley for a long walk, and that feels easy too. It feels normal, even though literally nothing about this situation is normal, and Mac already knows he’ll miss this when the op is over. 

But normalcy ends when Riley beckons Mac to sit beside her at the kitchen table, and together they write an advertisement for their arms dealing business. Once they’re satisfied with it, Riley sends it off into the dark web, and there’s nothing to do but wait, like a spider after spinning her web. 

The waiting is the worst part. 

Mac is contemplating taking Harley for a second walk when Riley asks, “Want to help me make dinner?” He takes one look at her hands on her hips and the “you don’t actually have a choice” look on her face and knows he’ll be left to fend for himself if he doesn’t help now. Mac learned that the hard way back when he and Riley lived together. 

“Sure.” 

They work in comfortable silence. Mac chops vegetables and grates cheese for their quesadillas while Riley does the actual cooking part. Even though they are doing separate tasks, Mac is acutely aware of every move Riley makes, no matter how insignificant. Flexing her long, thin fingers around a knife. Itching the back of her calf with her foot. Dancing in place, spatula in hand, while she waits to flip the quesadillas sizzling in the pan. 

Mac smiles softly. Her random little dances are cute. He’s noticed them more and more since realizing he has feelings for her, but if Mac is being honest, he’s always thought the dances are cute. 

Riley hisses as she peeks under the tortilla, checking to see if it’s browned yet. 

“You good?” Mac asks, frowning. 

“Yeah, I touched the pan by accident.” Riley runs her thumb under cold water. 

Her laptop dings while they eat. Wide-eyed, Mac glances at Riley. That was fast. She grimaces before sliding the laptop closer and checking the notification. 

“Is it them?” he asks tentatively. That’s the hard part about this; in order for their business to look more legit, they had to just put an ad out and hope for a response, rather than target the terrorist organization directly. 

Riley exhales. “No, it’s not them. It’s someone else.” 

Swallowing another bite of quesadilla, Mac says, “I don’t know whether I’m relieved or if that’s worse.” 

“Same.” 

There are no more responses that night.

*****

Mac wakes up in the same position he fell asleep in—on his side, facing outward, with as much space between him and Riley as possible. When they crawled into bed the night before, Riley did the same. 

Harley spent the night on the couch. 

She’s a very guarded dog, Mac is slowly realizing. Tolerating, but not trusting. Mac supposes he would be like that too if he was a dog and he got stuck with a bunch of strangers after his human suddenly disappeared one day. 

He makes coffee, feeds Harley breakfast, and takes a shower, all before Riley loses her battle with the snooze button and finally gets out of bed. While she showers, Mac takes Harley for a walk in hopes that the cool, spring air will ease the anxiety that took root the moment Riley released their ad into the void. 

It doesn’t. 

Dark, puffy clouds loom on the horizon, and the few birds Mac hears shriek at each other in warning. It looks like a storm is coming. 

When Mac returns, he’s met with a grim expression, one he understands without Riley uttering a single word. “They answered,” she confirms. 

“What did they say?” Unclipping Harley’s leash, Mac moves to stand behind Riley, resting his hands on the back of her chair. The scent of her shampoo tickles his nose, and he forces himself to ignore it and focus on what Riley’s saying. 

“They want to meet. Today.” 

“Time or place?” 

Riley points at a small box on her screen. “Just an address.” 

“What’s there?” 

“A warehouse,” Riley says. “Owned by the same shell corporation other Phoenix techs already tied to the organization.” 

“Not very clandestine, are they?” 

“No, they’re not.” Riley looks up at him, her head bumping his sternum, and butterflies ricochet inside Mac’s rib cage. There’s something soft in Riley’s expression that makes Mac want to kiss her. “Are you ready for this?” 

Mac sighs. “As ready as I ever am. Are you?” 

“Yeah,” she says, but her confidence falters. Without thinking, Mac squeezes her shoulders in reassurance before walking away to change.

*****

The warehouse is located on the edge of the city, in an industrial area that has certainly seen better days. Even from a distance, Mac can see cobwebs decorating the warehouse windows and rust creeping up the roller doors. Aside from Riley, there’s not another soul in sight. 

As per the directions the organization sent after Riley confirmed the meeting, Mac parks on the south side of the building, near the only functional-looking door. He doesn’t look at Riley as they get out of the car, instead desperately trying not to cringe at the cold, heavy weight of the gun holstered at his side, hidden beneath his jacket. 

High-end arms dealers couldn’t walk around unarmed, unfortunately. 

Although her hands are occupied with holding Harley’s leash, there’s a gun hidden beneath Riley’s suit jacket as well. Mac’s stomach churns. The second Riley emerged from their bedroom earlier wearing that jet black suit, she was a different person. She was wholly Genevieve Turner, and no matter how hard Mac tried, he couldn’t find even a single trace of his best friend beneath the icy exterior. 

Locking their SUV, Mac smooths the lapels of his own black suit and slips into character as well. 

The dark clouds Mac noticed earlier are directly overhead now. Mac has never believed in omens the way Jack did, but he can’t help hearing Jack’s voice in his head, warning him that black clouds are a sign of certain doom. Or something like that. 

There’s no one inside the warehouse, at least as far as Mac can see. “Hello?” he calls, the word echoing slightly in the open space. Aside from a few random wooden crates, the room is empty. 

A door slams, and then an older man comes into view. He’s probably in his late fifties, with graying hair and a beer belly his shirt doesn’t quite cover. The man swaggers like he owns the place, although Mac doubts the leader of a terrorist cell would deign to play tour guide. 

No doubt there’s a quip on the edge of Riley’s tongue about entitled white men, but she doesn’t share it. 

The man extends a hand to Mac in introduction. “Conrad.” His sneer doesn’t reach his eyes. 

Mac frowns, keeping his hands at his sides. “Last name?” 

“Doesn’t matter.” 

What he’s about to say might screw everything up before it even starts, but Mac says it anyway. In his gut, he knows it’s the right call. “If it doesn’t matter, then we’re done here. My wife and I have no interest in entering a business relationship with someone too inexperienced to understand that trust is integral to any transaction.” Mac spins on his heel and strides toward the door, Riley falling into step beside him. 

“Wait!” the man calls. They pause, turning around slowly. “Deacon. Conrad Deacon.” The man seems to know he’s already lost. Good. “Welcome to the cause.” He gestures for Mac and Riley to follow him. 

Mac stands his ground. In his peripheral, Riley stands utterly still, the perfect mask of cool, collected neutrality. Almost bored, even. It’s scary how easily she becomes her cover. 

“Come on now,” Conrad says, taking a single step forward. “We have much to discuss.” 

That’s enough of the power play, Mac thinks, but just as he’s about to give in and follow Conrad, Riley utters a single, sharp command that rings through the room. “Sit.” 

Harley obeys. 

Riley’s lips curve in a cruel, taunting smile. “Then enlighten us.” Mac suppresses a shiver; he’s seen this side of Riley plenty of times before, watched her hone it over the years, but it’s still unnerving. Admittedly, it’s also kind of hot. 

Conrad ignores her entirely. He croons, “Why don’t we start with your names?” It’s phrased like a question. It sounds like a question, but Mac sees the demand for what it really is. 

Mac gestures to Riley. “This is my wife, Genevieve Turner. And my name is James.” His father’s name tastes like ash on Mac’s tongue. 

“And the dog?” 

“Killer,” Riley sneers. Mac isn’t sure if she’s kidding or not. 

Again, Conrad doesn’t acknowledge her. “James, why don’t I give you the tour and explain what we do here.” 

“We’ll go on the tour, but we are not here to join your cause.” It takes every ounce of Mac’s willpower to maintain his neutral tone. “All we care about is what you’d like us to provide and how much you’ll pay for it.” 

Conrad doesn’t hide his displeasure. “Fine. Follow me.” 

Mac and Riley are led through the open warehouse. The layout is straightforward and nearly impossible to get lost in. But after Conrad shows them a room full of rifles—countless hung on the walls, floor to ceiling, the rest in half-open crates—Mac finds himself counting the number of wooden shipping crates scattered around the building. 

He doesn’t like his final number. 

Arming terrorists doesn’t sit well with Mac, even if it serves a purpose. It makes him sick, knowing he will likely be indirectly responsible for their next attack. 

Especially because those crates are no doubt full of the kind of rifles designed to kill people most effectively. The ones hanging on the wall are military grade, probably cutting-edge. Desi would know exactly what they are and how they work. 

Trusting Riley is paying close attention, Mac only half listens to Conrad babble about the cause. But then the older man says something that stops Mac in his tracks. “Our country is being run into the ground by whiny do-nothings,” Conrad asserts, “who waste our money and spew garbage that some people matter more than others. Well, you know what? Hardworking, everyday Americans matter. But no,” he scoffs, “those damn liberals don’t like it when we remind them of the truth. Once we’re rid of them and the insufferables who elected them, this country will be better off.” 

The ground sways under Mac’s feet. He knows these people believe this, read it in Matty’s extensive briefing notes. But it’s another thing entirely to hear someone say it to his face. 

He can only imagine what Riley must be thinking. 

Clearing his throat, Mac tries to redirect the conversation. “Like I said, we don’t care about your cause. Just tell us what you’re looking for, and we’ll be on our way.” 

Conrad eyes him suspiciously, but complies. “We’re looking for something a little more than what you can get at the store, you know?” 

Mac doesn’t, not exactly. He’ll have to ask Desi later. “I do,” he lies. 

“Good. Here’s what we’re willing to pay for it.” He hands Mac a folded piece of paper, and Mac does a double take when he reads the number. There are a lot of zeroes. “And as a show of good faith, we’d like it delivered tomorrow.” 

“Tomorrow?” Riley splutters. Mac feels it then, the broiling rage slipping through a crack in her persona. He needs to get her out of there. Now. Not just to preserve the op, but for Riley’s wellbeing. Some audacity Matty has making Riley play nice with men like this. 

Mac slides his hands into his pockets, using the movement as a cover to brush his knuckles against Riley’s fist. I know. I’m here. I’m sorry. 

For the first time, Conrad addresses Riley directly. “Yes. Tomorrow. Unless that’s something you can’t do?” 

“We can do that,” she replies calmly, and the difference between her reactions is like night and day. As quickly as that crack appeared, it was gone. 

“Excellent.” Conrad takes another step toward Riley, offering to shake hands, but Harley’s low, menacing growl keeps him at bay. Rewarding the dog with a quick scratch on the head, Riley closes the gap and shakes Conrad’s still-outstretched hand. 

“It’s a deal,” she says. Following suit, Mac shakes Conrad’s hand as well and follows Riley out the door, neither of them uttering another word. 

Mac drives. One look at Riley’s trembling fist decides for him. 

By the time the warehouse disappears from the rearview mirror, he can’t take the silence anymore. “Hey,” Mac starts, but Riley cuts him off with a hand. 

“Not until we’re inside.” 

They hit every single red light between the warehouse and the apartment, and Mac anxiously taps the steering wheel. Raindrops land on the windshield. They’re small at first, but soon the drops are large and numerous enough to refract the streetlights, and Mac struggles to see where he’s going. He adjusts the windshield wipers over and over, never landing on the right speed. 

Too slow. Too fast. Too slow. Too fast. 

Mac settles on a setting that’s slightly too fast, and the squeak of rubber on glass nearly matches his heart thudding in his chest. 

Riley stares straight ahead, unmoving, unblinking. Mac wants to reach out, to let a gentle touch say what he verbally can’t, but the road is slick enough to make him keep two hands on the wheel. We’re almost there, he reassures himself. 

By the time he parks, it’s pouring hard enough that the ten second walk from the car to the door soaks them to the bone. Riley’s hands shake as she unlocks the apartment door. 

Once they’re inside and Mac unclips Harley’s leash, Riley turns to him with pained, pleading eyes. His heart breaking all over again, Mac draws her in for a long, tight hug. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to. 

Mac just cradles the back of her head and sways gently, wishing he could fix the world for her. 

Neither pulls away, even when Riley suddenly says, “If Conrad was smart, he would’ve had someone bug our car while he paraded us around the warehouse. I don’t think he’s actually smart enough to do that, but we should check first, just in case.” 

Mac curses himself for not thinking of that. “Good call.” He rubs Riley’s back, hoping the gesture is soothing. “I hate the way he treated you,” he snarls. “Like you weren’t even worth acknowledging.” 

“Welcome to being a woman.” 

It was more than that. They both know it. But neither say it.

*****

“You need what?” Matty shrieks over the phone. 

Mac winces. “Sorry.” He’d called Desi first, to ask what kind of guns Conrad meant with his innuendo, and received a verbal lashing for not asking any follow-up questions. But she made her best guess anyway. Now on the phone with Matty, it doesn’t take even a single brain cell to know that her reaction will be much, much worse. 

“He wants us to prove ourselves,” Riley adds. “As a show of good faith.” The words come out dripping in venom, but their boss doesn’t comment. Mac takes a second to study her; Riley changed into leggings and an oversized flannel shirt, and there are still remnants of dark makeup smudges under her eyes. Now, she’s sitting on the kitchen counter with her knees tucked into her chest. It’s weird to see her take up so little space. 

Matty sighs, deeply and loudly in a way conveys her annoyance more than words ever could. “Fine. A few weeks ago, Border Control confiscated a huge shipment of smuggled guns near El Paso, so I’ll see if we can borrow those. But next time, Blondie, don’t make promises you can’t keep.” He doesn’t correct Matty in that it was Riley who made the deal. That would only add fuel to the fire. 

“Thank you,” he says, and Matty hangs up. Mac runs a hand through his damp hair. “That went well.” Riley’s lips twitch, but it’s not the amused reaction he hopes for. He’s at a complete loss regarding what to say to her, so Mac gently asks, “What can I do?” 

Riley slides off the counter, and Mac reaches for her automatically, although he doesn’t actually touch her; his hand hovers just beside Riley’s elbow. She doesn’t shrink away, but she makes no move to touch him either. 

“Help me put him and everyone like him in a deep, dark hole where they can’t hurt anybody. And then just…” she trails off, taking a deep breath. “Keep being you.” 

With that, she walks away, leaving Mac alone in the kitchen, racking his brain to figure out what that last part means.

*****

Later that night, Mac tosses and turns, replaying Conrad’s words. Once we’re rid of them and the insufferables who elected them, this country will be better off. They seem off-kilter, like what the man said and what he really meant are misaligned. Mac sighs, rubbing his face. 

Another bolt of lightning illuminates the bedroom, and Mac automatically counts the seconds until he hears thunder rumbling in the distance. The storm is moving closer. 

Beside him, Riley lies on her back with her eyes closed, although her breathing is too light for her to be asleep. Mac wonders if her mind is just as loud and chaotic as his. 

For Riley’s sake, he hopes it’s not.

*****

Sleep never finds Mac. 

The storm rages all through the night, but by the time dawn arrives, the thunder and wind dissipate, leaving just the steady downpour. The clouds are dark enough that Mac can hardly tell the sun even bothered to rise this morning. 

When Riley’s alarm goes off, it’s like the shrill tone is mocking Mac for being awake. Riley groans as she shuts it off. 

“Morning,” he mumbles. His throat hurts. He needs water. “Did you sleep well?”

Another groan. “No.” 

“At least you slept,” Mac mutters.

Riley rolls onto her side, drawing one of the extra pillows into her chest. “Do you always toss and turn that much?”

It was his fault, he realizes, that she didn’t sleep. Mac suddenly feels guilty. “Sorry. And no.” 

He expects Riley to be upset at being kept awake, but she isn’t. With a look that just might be understanding, she softly asks, “What were you thinking about?” 

Mac can’t say that his thoughts whip around his mind like raindrops in last night’s storm. Not without sounding crazy, at least. So instead he says, “I don’t even know. I just have a bad feeling about this.” 

“Me too,” Riley admits. “It feels off.” Her eyes are heavy, and Mac’s had enough early mornings with Riley to know it’s not just the lack of sleep weighing her down. 

“Go back to sleep. I can handle the delivery.” 

Riley rolls her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not letting you do that by yourself.” 

He doesn’t argue. “Okay.” 

A moment passes between them. It’s been happening more and more lately—holding eye contact a little too long, sharing smirks when no one else is looking, stealing moments where it’s just the two of them and nothing else matters. Each one gives him hope that there’s not a wall between them, but instead, a door. Someone just has to be brave enough to open it. 

Sitting up, Riley quipps, “Just don’t make me regret letting you sleep in the bed with me.” Mac snorts. 

“No promises.”

.

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[that-random-chaos-entity]

Nehetari stood opposite this... ..."wolfish" human, regarding him and his extended hand. Then she grasped it firmly. In an old life, the grip in that hand could have crushed her arm like the thresher beetles used to crush the reeds along the Great Oasis. But so could Perturabo's, so she did not feel uneasy. If she even WOULD have felt uneasy.

But when she looked up to meet his gaze, his expression could not have been more different from the Iron titan that she had grown so close to. This "Leman Russ's" face was alight with the fire of excitement. Excitement, and they joy of one who feels they have found a true kindred spirit in the most unlikely of places.

"My history has earned respect from you." Nehetari stated. An observation, quivering on the edge of a question.

"'Tis only a REAL king who will down a keg and throw hands with their people, then be willin teh lead 'em inta battle from the front next day."

"One would think that a necessity for leading any group of individuals effectively."

"Ye'd be surprised. It's not a real common thing in the galaxy nowadays," the wolf-human mused. Then his expression turned serious, and the Mehlrose felt the twinge of psychic scrutiny brush along her psyche. Light as a feather, or more like the long hairs on the hide of some animal.

"If yer willin teh dance on a table drunk with every man, woman, and child, whether it be in a banquet or a roadside tavern, walk through teh maw of Morkai himself, an ice storm or one of yer rough lookin' deserts, to save an old, hobbled raisin of yer people, just because he's yer people... ...If these tales be true, if yer people's planet was as ye say, if ye have truly suffered as much as ye say, yet yeh can still feel such joy; such FIRE as I see in your eyes... ...well, I must admit, I respect teh cut of yer claws, xenos."

The cut of her... ...Nehetari removed her hand from the clasped-arm-goodwill-gesture and examined her claws carefully for a moment; an action that caused the large, furry beast of a human to let out a deep belly laugh, and turned Perturabo's obviously jealous glare into a eye-roll so intense it looked as if his eyes might abandon his skull entirely.

An outpouring of noise drew all eyes back to the black crystal's display. Two Necrontyr now stood atop the sandstone-like platform; their identical forms and features making it seem as if one was dancing with a full-body mirror. They swirled and stamped and belted out songs in Necrontyr, punctuated every once in a while by a swig from one of the great brown gourd-like containers at their sides. Rhythmic cheers enhanced their steps and arm movements, and Nehetari herself could be seen, looking about the same in the vid as she looked now, clapping in rhythm. She daintily kept time with her hands and was SMILING. Laughing even, when one of the two twin warriors accidentally planted his foot into her plate of food and slipped, narrowly missing landing on her as he tumbled. There was a DEAFENING silence, before the thin bell of her laughter caused a ripple of mirth to hesitantly start, then sweep the hall like a gale. The dancing continued, and more feet began to strike the ground as the drink took hold, and others joined in.

However, before too long, a series of other sounds could be heard; rhythmic metal taps exactly in time to the music, but they did not seem to be coming from the display. They turned to see two of her guard doing the same dance. Metal though they were, corrupted by the flayer virus though they were, their build and features were unmistakable. They were a perfect copy of eachother, and both Leman and Perturabo knew at once that, at one time, these were the same two displayed from the crystal.

"So then those are Kefi and Sefi?" Perturabo said, gesturing to the two fools in the vid, apologizing profusely and near falling over, so hard were trying to get some sort of mashed root vegetable off the one's bare feet. "THAT'S what they used to look like?"

"Kefi and Sefi, is it?" Leman moved from Nehetari's right flank to approach the still-dancing necrons. They detected his advent and stopped, giving a hiss of alarm and diving, but too late as the massive human swept them up into a headlock, laughing. "Aw, C'MON ye boney lot! I like yer style! I'd almost say I'd like to share a drink with ye, if yeh could still drink. It's good to see at least some xenos know how teh have some REAL fun!"

Perturabo was too beside himself to feel irritated at his brother's antics, or relieved that he was no longer holding onto Nehetari's shoulder. Leman. His brother LEMAN, was playing around with two NECRONS. FLAYED ONES no less. Was he that lonely without his sons? Desperate enough to pal around with xenos, just because they reminded him of his space wolves? With some amusement he watched as the two necrons squealed and scrabbled to get away, then seemingly became bemused and looked to Nehetari for approval; like baby animals to their mother.

Nehetari's face was neutral, but her eyes sparkled. She inclined her head in a silent, "Well go on then."

Two metallic heads turned to look at their assailant. And as one, they both spoke. It was in the most GRAVELLY of Necrontyr and thick with the flayer curse, but their translator scarabs intoned:

"Do you enjoy pharos scorpion honey mead?"

The Wolf King laughed so loud it rattled their carapaces.

"Well I don't know what 'pharos scorpion honey,' is, but I know mead and I LOVE IT!" He boomed, and just like that the tension was broken. They began to jabber at eachother about various drinks, about festivals and adventures of grandeur, and foods of exotic and mouth-watering nature.

Nehetari took the opportunity to slink over to where Perturabo stood. She did not speak; she knew he was upset with her, so she stood close and waited for him to give her a piece of his mind.

She did not wait long.

"I thought I told you to stay away from Russ.," he snarled.

Nehetari did not miss a beat. "You did. And I ignored you."

Perturabo whirled on her. "WHY!?"

"Because I must make my own conclusions."

"Tch! Of course, that's right. What I think be damned, you just can't stop yourself from making friends with everyone you can, can't you? Even when they've tormented me for most of my life."

"What better way to stop them tormenting you than to earn their respect, then use that respect to stop their abuse?"

Perturabo snorted. "Oh, is that your plan is it? What, do you think you're going to suddenly solve all my family issues by making friends with everyone?"

For a moment Perturabo thought he'd said the wrong thing, as Nehetari's neutral expression crumpled and she wrinkled her nose in disgust.

"No, your family is irreparable," she stated bluntly. "Also, your father disgusts me, your brother Mortarion disgusts me, your brother Alpharius confuses me, and your brother Rogal Dorn is boring. I have no desire to 'make friends' with them."

The Lord of Iron's next counter-argument died on his lips, and he couldn't help barking out a laugh.

"Fair enough I suppose. Wait, when did you meet Alpharius?"

"In the hallway. He bowed, said 'I am Alpharius,' shushed me, then vanished behind a painting."

"That's... ...concerning..." Perturabo muttered. "In any case, I don't want you getting chummy with my other brother's either. Nothing good can come of it."

Jealousy was all but dripping off that statement, but Nehetari did not comment on it. "Do not worry," she rubbed her head affectionately against his shoulder in a very cat-like manner, "I will not trade you for any of them."

"Quit it," The primarch growled, covering his face, but he did not move away. "...even Sanguinius?"

"Of course not. He smells like wet poultry. Also, despite what my father says, I'm certain he fancies him. He's certainly his 'type,' at least when it comes to-"

Perturabo's eyes flashed wide and he clapped a hand over her mouth.

"Do you want to fucking die!? You don't just say shit about Sanguinius!" But he couldn't help the faintest smile. At least he didn't have to feel jealous about ONE of his brothers.

...but still, the mental image of the Lanky Llama and Leman clasping arms made his gorge rise.

"Come, we are going back to the promethium forge," he growled with a finality that left no room for argument.

Nehetari nodded once. "As you wish." Then she followed him out of the hall.

The crystal, having been left behind in the rush, clattered to the floor, just before it was picked up by the Lord of Wolves.

[thewhumperinwhite]

Café: Clinic

Pax gets carried. Kent gets held. Sol catches his breath.

Previous: Teaser 1 / Teaser 2 / Hospital/Squad Car / No More Squad Car / Empty Bar / Used Car Lot 1 / Used Car Lot 2 / Gas Station / Roadside 1 / Roadside 2 / Forest / Treetops / Cottage (1) / Cottage (2) / Interlude: Police Station / Cottage (3) / Cottage/Car Ride

TW for: self-loathing, needles, poor gun safety practices.

@whumpitywhumpwhump

I did some cursory research but i’m also an idiot so please forgive any medical inaccuracies.

Sol has lived in the suburbs and he’s lived in the city, but apparently this here is the actual sticks, because he’s never seen a clinic like this one. It’s obviously just an old house that’s been converted, with a sign on the lawn that says “O’Brian Polyclinic.” He doesn’t know what that means exactly, but he does know that there’s a big handwritten sign on the door that says “CLOSED,” and though it’s a pretty big house only a single light is on, on the first floor, near the door.

Sol rolls the Jeep to a stop and looks up at the clinic, chewing his lip.

“This is the closest place,” Sam says beside him in a low voice. “You’d have to go into town to go to a regular doctor and the hospital’s even farther than that.”

Sol turns in his seat. Pax has their eyes squeezed shut and their jaw clenched. Kent is carding a hand through their mess of fire-engine curls; he gives Sol a scared look and doesn’t say anything.

“Okay,” Sol says, and gets out of the car.

“Wait, I’ll— I’ll come with you,” Sam says, scrambling down out of the Jeep and trailing Sol up onto the porch. 

Sol raps on the outer screen door, loud. The single light is either in the same room as the door or the next room over, so it should be easy to hear. When no one comes to the door, he knocks again, harder. Then he hammers on the door, not stopping, and yells, “Hey! Is anybody in there? We need help!”

After almost a minute of pounding, a scratchy voice calls from inside, “Yeah, we all need help, these days. Fuck off.”

Sol blinks, and looks down at Sam, who is fidgeting next to him in a way that looks, frankly, guilty. 

“We— I at least need bandages, man,” Sol says, which isn’t even true, they probably need fucking antibiotics at the very least, but he’s got Pax’s blood all over his hands and that’s kind of all he can think about. “Just— will you at least take a look?”

“Can’t you read?” the voice says, not a step closer than before. “We’re closed.”

Sol glares at the door. Then he glares down at Sam, too, for good measure. “You got any bright ideas, or are you just here for fucking— moral support?”

Sam bites her lip in a way that Sol finds kind of worrying, not meeting his eyes. 

“Dr. O’Brien?” she calls after a second, sounding highly reluctant. “It’s, um— I-it’s Samantha Rochester. I— There’s been an accident.”

Sol raises his eyebrows at her. Oh, there’s been an accident, has there?

The inside door opens. 

Through the screen door Sol can see— a cartoon hillbilly, basically, or a sheriff from an old Western. He doesn’t have a cowboy hat on but he does have comically broad shoulders and a huge fluffy mustache, and also a tumbler of brown liquid in his hand.

“A Rochester,” the Sheriff says, looking down at Sam and not even really seeing Sol next to her. “Even more my pleasure to say this, then, kid: fuck off.” And he slams the door so hard the windows shake.

“What the fuck,” Sol says.

“Dr. O’Brien went to high school with my dad,” Sam says in a small voice.

Sol realizes this is the angriest he’s ever been. He feels himself turn around and start marching back toward the Jeep without even fully deciding to do so, and he doesn’t try to stop.

——

Russ O’Brien is just settling back down in his chair to really savor this awful bathtub-grade whisky, when Dan Rochester’s daughter hammers on the door again, and he slams the tumbler down and gets to his feet, ready to tell her exactly what she can do with her little “accident.”

When he yanks the door open this time there is a shotgun pointed at his face.

Russ didn’t even really see the guy before. He’s short, dark-haired, and clearly furious. The screen door is the only thing between Russ and the barrel of the gun the guy is holding. The Rochester girl is hovering over his shoulder, looking almost embarrassed.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” the guy says in a low, dangerous voice. “My friends are in the car. One of them has a shoulder wound. It’s bad. I think the other one’s got an infection. No,” he says over Russ’s immediate objection, “he isn’t bitten. If you’re a doctor, you’re going to help them.” The guy pumps the shotgun. He looks like he only kind of knows how to do it, and like he means every word he’s saying, which is the worst kind of person to be pointing a gun at you. “Or else I’m going to shoot you in your stupid mustache. Got it?”

Russ squints at him.

The guy is small, and he looks like just a kid himself, probably not out of his teens. Russ has done his share of fighting— and more than, probably. There’s a chance he could take him, especially if he’s as bad with that gun as it looks like he is.

...It isn’t a chance he’s committed to taking just outta spite, though. Not yet, anyway. He frowns at Dan’s girl, over the kid’s shoulder.

“Where’s your dad? Too busy poaching chickens to know his daughter’s running around in the dark at the end of the world?”

Sam Rochester mutters something, down at the porch and not up at him. “What’s that?”

“I said I killed him,” she says, sticking out her chin and shooting him an impressive glare. “He’s dead. I shot him.”

Russ stares at her. Then to his own surprise, he bursts out laughing, so hard he has to grab the door frame to stay upright. “Well shit, why didn’t you say so?” he says. “Come right the fuck in, then!”

——

“Don’t you have stretchers?” Pax says, raising their foot like they’re gonna kick the doctor in the face when they’ve just got him to agree to help. “I don’t let strangers carry me.”

“I assume the gun means I’m not getting paid for this,” the doctor says drily, “and for free you get one trip in. Take it or don’t.”

Pax is still in the car, which means Kent is too, because Pax’s head is still in his lap. And Sol probably can’t carry Pax; and obviously he can’t carry both at the same time.

“Going once,” the doctor says, waiting at the car door with his eyebrows raised. “It’s sure as hell no skin off my nose if you’d rather stay here and lose your fuckin’ arm.”

Pax squints at him, and then growls and sits up; Kent rushes to help them. “Fine. Help me out of here, then.”

Under different circumstances watching Pax’s angry-cat reluctance to get arranged in Dr. Sheriff’s huge arms would probably be hilarious. As it is Sol let’s them work that shit out for themselves and jogs around to get Kent out of the car. 

Kent is leaning back against the seat with his eyes closed, breathing kind of hard. His face is the color of cottage cheese. Sol hates this so much.

“Hey,” he says quietly, and when Kent doesn’t answer he reaches out and squeezes his shoulder gently. “Hey. Kent, we’re here, we’re gonna get you looked at.”

Kent’s eyes drift open slowly, and focus on Sol’s face even more slowly. “‘sss... Pax okay?” he mumbles.

“They’ll be fine,” Sol says. “C’mon.” And he tucks an arm under Kent’s knees and the other behind his back and eases him up into a princess carry.

“God,” Sol says quietly. “After this I’m gonna feed you a million hamburgers, dude, you are way too light.” 

Kent’s eyelids flutter, and he rests his head against Sol’s chest. “Not hungry,” he mutters in a pouty voice. Then he sighs, long and dramatic. “This is... you shouldn’t.”

“Shouldn’t what, man?” Sol says, making his way around the car back up toward the house.

Kent sighs again, sounding distressed, and raises a hand to his forehead to poke at his face-scar. “Shouldn’t— like me. You should— stop. Stop it.”

Sol looks down at his face. He looks genuinely distressed. Sol can see him working himself up. “Hey,” he says. “I get to pick who I like, C.K. I’m a grown man.”

Kent shakes his head, his breathing speeding up. “No. No. You don’t— you don’t know what I really—”

Kent’s chest hitches slightly. His eyes go very wide.

Sol freezes. “Kent?” he says. Kent stares straight ahead. His chest is making tiny juddering movements but Sol can’t hear him actually breathing. “Kent— Baby, what’s—”

Kent grabs for the front of Sol’s shirt, his eyes wide and scared. “Can’t—” he gasps sharply. “Sol— I— can’t—” And he cuts off, making terrible short gasps, his whole body spasming with them.

“Fuck,” Sol says and then he’s running to catch up with Dr. Sheriff. “Doc— Doc! Something bad is happening!”

The doctor turns, and he and Pax both give Sol a look that is annoyed for about a half a second before it shifts into something else.

“Put me down,” Pax says. “I can stand.”

“Shit. Rochester.” Dr. Sheriff half-dumps Pax back on their feet, where they stand for about a second before they sink down on their knees; the Dr. grabs Sam’s arm when she appears at his side. “There’s a med supply kit on my desk, right of the door. Get it now.” Then, to Sol: “Put him down here. Careful.”

Sol’s never been more careful in his life.

Kent writhes on the grass, his spine arching with the effort of trying to get air in his lungs. In the porch lights Sol can see that his lips are tinted blue.

“What’s happening?” Sol yells, and the doctor doesn’t say anything, just lowers his head to Kent’s chest and listens, face unreadable. He sits back up, sighing.

“Yeah. Fuck. Think his lung’s collapsing.”

Sol feels the bottom drop out of his stomach. “It’s what?”

The doctor is saved from responding by Sam’s running footsteps on the porch. Dr. Sheriff holds his hand out behind him and snaps his fingers, and she shoves the big metal box at him and drops to her knees too, panting.

The doctor throws the box open next to him, grabs a stethoscope, sucks in air when he listens to whatever’s wrong inside Kent’s chest. The sound makes Sol very aware of the air Kent is not getting; the sounds he’s making are fucking unbearable. 

“Yeah, you’re not gonna love this,” Dr. Sheriff says, though Sol isn’t sure who he’s talking to. Then he nods at Sol, reaching for more stuff in his bag. “Hold him still.”

Sol stares at him, but then he grabs for Kent’s shoulder and pushes it down, leaning down to talk into his ear. 

“Kent,” Sol says, and he thinks, I never want to have to talk to him like this again. “Baby, you gotta hold still, okay? We got a doctor, and he’s gonna help you, but you gotta— um—”

Dr. Sheriff is swabbing a place on Kent’s chest below his collarbone, on the bruised and broken side. At least he can see what he’s doing, since Kent’s shirt is currently holding Pax’s shoulder together. The doc pulls a big needle out of his bag and gives Sol a ‘keep doing what you're doing’ kind of nod.

“Oh, god, okay,” Sol says. He puts his hand in Kent’s hair, tries to massage his scalp like he did before, in the bedroom, when Kent was just panicking instead of actively dying. “God, fuck, okay. We’re gonna help you, we’re gonna get you air, but it’s gonna hurt so I need you to just stay still, okay, baby, just stay still and it’ll be—”

Dr. Sheriff jabs the needle into Kent’s chest. Kent twitches. Dr. Sheriff messes with the needle somehow— there’s a puff and a hiss— and Kent takes a huge gulp of air, collapsing back against the grass.

“Bhhuh, fuck,” Sol says, dropping his head down to Kent’s shoulder. Dr. Sheriff exhales too, sounding shaky now that the emergency is over— for a given value of ‘over’. 

“Okay, come on,” the doc says to Pax, but Pax swats him away.

“I can walk,” they snap, and they scoot closer to Kent, half-crawling on knees and one hand, to kneel next to his head and reach out to touch his forehead.

“Hah. Okay. Good,” they say, quietly. They lean over Kent, who looks up at them with half-lidded eyes, panting. “For the record, sunshine, if you die I got shot for nothing, so keep that in mind.”

Kent looks at them, catching his breath, and then he closes his eyes and nods.

“Get ‘im inside,” Dr. Sheriff says, waving an arm without turning back. “I’ll see what I can do about sewing you idiots back together.”

Sol gathers Kent back up, and brings him in for a second before he stands up, to give himself a chance to catch his own breath, too.

[techcrunchappcom]

New Post has been published on https://techcrunchapp.com/seahawks-must-solve-offensive-identity-crisis/

Seahawks Must Solve Offensive Identity Crisis

2020 was weird. For a start, I don’t like how the numbers matched. Twenty-Twenty. Imagine that in a British accent. Ewwww. Oh, yes, we also experienced the start of a global pandemic that halted worldwide convention. The distracter-in-chief from the horrible reality – sports – was also impacted and the surreal year of 2020 extended to the Seahawks. The first half of the season was riddled with defensive struggles, while the offense deafened silent stadiums. Then it flipped.

Travel back to the darkest of times. The embarrassing Seahawks suffered an embarrassing defensive performance versus the Bills. In Week 9 of 2020, Seattle allowed 44 points to Buffalo. They looked even worse than the point total suggests. This was not what a blockbuster trade for Jamal Adams was supposed to achieve.

I wrote after the horrid Seattle display that the defense was outcoached by Buffalo’s offensive staff. One area I highlighted was a lack of clear defensive identify, with play-caller Ken Norton Jr trying to solve various issues by throwing new calls at the issue. The result was the opposite of improvement: disaster.

At this darkest of Carroll defensive periods, Matt Bowen – seven-year NFL veteran and ESPN analyst – tweeted out charting numbers that confirmed the Seahawks lacked a defensive identity. Carroll’s Seattle defense didn’t place in the top five highest 2020 percentage for Cover 1, Cover 2, Cover 3, Cover 4, 2 Man, Cover 0, or highest blitz rate (5 or more rushers). This was a stark contrast to the peak years of “Legion of Boom” defense, where Carroll was league-renowned for Cover 3 and a change-up of Cover 1. The past, the glorious identity, had vanished.

In the face of job-threatening adversity, Seattle’s defense managed to recover to an excellent level of play. Asked, following the NFC West-clinching win over the LA Rams, about the reasons for the remarkable transformation on 710 ESPN Seattle, Pete Carroll responded, “We’re playing the stuff that we know how to play.”

“We put our heads together and did some really important things. We were so uncharacteristic and so off and all that. That was like the final straw. We had to make sure that we adjusted and figured it out and tweaked it and all of that.”

Evidently, a firm discussion took place amongst the defensive coaches regarding Seattle’s schematic approach down the stretch. It therefore makes sense that the unit improved, given they reduced the number of play calls and instead focused on emphasizing the fundamentals of core defensive families.

Yes, Seattle based out of bear fronts – a revolution evolution for 2020. However, the Seahawks kept the coverage recipe to a 3-course tasting menu and only delved into the Petits Fours on clear passing downs. Amuse Bouche was off the menu. Buzz off you fancy Michelin toff.

So, while the Seahawks defense experienced Carroll salvation, what happened to Seattle’s offense? The opposite is true. “Let Russ Cook,” Zach Whitman’s famous Twitter campaign, started with multiple Michelin stars. It ended with a Wilson trademark, a kitchen up in flames, and a rack of Spitzenklasse knives stabbed through the heart of every Seattle fan. A lot of “doing the dishes” is now required.

Jim Nagy summarized the challenge of fixing the Seahawks offense last month. Nagy, current Senior Bowl Executive Director, served for five years as Seattle’s Southeast area scout under John Schneider. On January 23, he raised and highlighted the issue of identity as a way of fixing the Seahawks’ offense – the same concern that impacted the Seahawks’ defense in the first half of 2020.

Asked by Rob Staton of Seahawks Draft Blog what the issue was with the Seahawks offense, Nagy responded:

“I think that they need to figure out their identity. I think they lost that identity a little bit this year. They came out, you know, gangbusters on offense – when I say their identity, really on offense. They came out chucking it around, ‘Let Russ Cook’ was on the tip of everyone’s tongue, and then, over the course of the year, they just spluttered. And they’ve got to figure out: do they want to be that physical run team still? You know, having Chris Carson banged up and things of that nature hurt them. But what do they want to be? You know? And can they find that balance? Can they find that balance between having the power run game and really wearing teams down and dictating things that way and then taking shots down the field? What do they want to be? And I think that that’s what they’re trying to answer right now with this offensive coordinator hire, that I know they’re in the middle of right now.”

When Nagy spoke to Staton, his comments came before Seattle hired Shane Waldron as its new offensive coordinator. Andy Dickerson was also added as run game coordinator following Brennan Carroll’s departure to the Arizona Wildcats as offensive coordinator.

Brian Schottenheimer’s third year as Seahawks offensive coordinator looked to be ending in a glorious coronation. There was diverse schematic evolution in both the run and pass game. Sadly, this all ended with misery and Carroll fired him. The PR department referenced “philosophical differences.”

Remember how happy Carroll was after Seattle’s Week 15, 40-3 victory over the New York Jets? Our own Colby Patnode questioned if the Seahawks had been able to “rediscover their true identity.” Carroll was delighted at the high scoring, the dominant defense, the efficient passing, and the volume running.

Nagy talked “balance between having the power run game and really wearing teams down and dictating things that way and then taking shots down the field.” The Jets game is what felt like Pete-ball, even if it was against a bad opponent. Perhaps these game plans are the one thing the 5-foot-10 Wilson can consistently execute – especially behind patchy offensive lines.

Seattle’s head coach believes the Seahawks’ 2020 offensive philosophy was not correct under Schottenheimer – in other words, the identity. In his opening press conference, Waldron emphasized the importance of “balance.” This is a clear Carroll absolute when it comes to the 2021 Seattle offense. It may also be something that, particularly after recent comments in the media, wrangles with Wilson. 

Finding a matching Seattle offensive identity is the key to 2021. Even before Wilson’s newfound-level of public expression, this was obvious. With Wilson now open in the media yet his true motive still murky, it’s absolutely vital for the Seahawks to get this right. Maybe they can learn from their 2020 defensive remedies? Can they get the offensive identity done right? 

[exoticcal]

1-150 on the get to know you ask......I DARE YOU

Challenge accepted. 1. Who was the last person you held hands with? My friend, whos a dude, only cause we was crying together lol2. Are you outgoing or shy? Even though it seems like I'm 'outgoing', I'm really shy.3. Who are you looking forward to seeing? I don't really have many friends so... no one?4. Are you easy to get along with? If you're an asshole, no I'm the worst to get along with. If you're just kind and respond to me, I'm pretty easy to get along with lol.5. If you were drunk would the person you like take care of you? Since I really don't have a crush on anyone atm, no?6. What kind of people are you attracted to? Nice people who arent cocky and aren't mean to family (depends lol), animals or kids lol?7. Do you think you’ll be in a relationship two months from now? Probably not, knowing myself.8. Who from the opposite gender is on your mind? Ben Cook9. Does talking about sex make you uncomfortable? Depends. I can talk about it online easily, in person I can talk about it but it overwhelms me quicker 10. Who was the last person you had a deep conversation with? My dude friend from the first question 11. What does the most recent text that you sent say? "Dont lol itll be fine"12. What are your 5 favorite songs right now? I cant pick aaaahhhh13. Do you like it when people play with your hair? YES OH MY GOSH14. Do you believe in luck and miracles? Kinda?15. What good thing happened this summer? I lived in Hawaii for a month!!16. Would you kiss the last person you kissed again? I've never been kissed soooo17. Do you think there is life on other planets? YES.18. Do you still talk to your first crush? My first crush dates back to 1st grade, I've moved away since then so no.19. Do you like bubble baths? L O V E20. Do you like your neighbors? In my dorm, HELL NAH. In my home home? Eh. I love my neighbors across the street cause they're too nice to us and bring us tamales and blueberries because we lend them our lawn mower 21. What are you bad habits? I chew the insides of my cheeks and my lips, I ruin the cuffs of crewnecks, I tap my foot often22. Where would you like to travel? I'd love to go back to Hawaii tbh23. Do you have trust issues? Yes.24. Favorite part of your daily routine? Sleeping25. What part of your body are you most uncomfortable with? My body26. What do you do when you wake up? Go on my phone27. Do you wish your skin was lighter or darker? lighter so my expensive foundation will match28. Who are you most comfortable around? I don't even know anymore29. Have any of your ex’s told you they regret breaking up? I've never been in a relationship.30. Do you ever want to get married? Yess31. Is your hair long enough for a pony tail? hahahaha no32. Which celebrities would you have a threesome with? No comment.33. Spell your name with your chin. ashlynn ----- oh shit whaddup boi i got skilll34. Do you play sports? What sports? Played sports. Basketbacl for 6 years and volleyball for 3.35. Would you rather live without TV or music? TV.36. Have you ever liked someone and never told them? ALL. THE. TIME.37. What do you say during awkward silences? "weeeelll then," or "anyyywayyy"38. Describe your dream girl/guy? Don't really have one tbh39. What are your favorite stores to shop in? Forever 21, Charlotte Russe, Rue 21, H&M 40. What do you want to do after high school? I'm in college lol,,,, Act.41. Do you believe everyone deserves a second chance? Depends tbh42. If your being extremely quiet what does it mean? I'm usually quiet, but extremely? I'm sad, mentally beating myself up or something43. Do you smile at strangers? Yes!!!44. Trip to outer space or bottom of the ocean? Bottom of ocean 45. What makes you get out of bed in the morning? Hunger46. What are you paranoid about? Every. Thing. (((Hi im constantly paranoid about anything and everything!!1!)47. Have you ever been high? Yes.48. Have you ever been drunk? Tipsy.49. Have you done anything recently that you hope nobody finds out about? No?50. What was the colour of the last hoodie you wore? Black51. Ever wished you were someone else? All the time.52. One thing you wish you could change about yourself? Everytime.53. Favourite makeup brand? Benefit or ABH orrrr NYX54. Favourite store? Target55. Favourite blog? I love all the blogs I follow.56. Favourite colour? Lavender 57. Favourite food? Sushi58. Last thing you ate? KitKat59. First thing you ate this morning? A chocolate peppermint muffin top from DB60. Ever won a competition? For what? Nooope61. Been suspended/expelled? For what? I'm a child of god62. Been arrested? For what? Nooo63. Ever been in love? Noope64. Tell us the story of your first kiss? Never been kissed65. Are you hungry right now? Of course66. Do you like your tumblr friends more than your real friends? I love them all equally.67. Facebook or Twitter? Twitter68. Twitter or Tumblr? Tumblr69. Are you watching tv right now? Nope,,, I'm watching youtube?70. Names of your bestfriends? Court, Vero and Mads (alll nicknames lol)71. Craving something? What? That sweet sweet NUT(ty buddy)72. What colour are your towels? They're all different colors72. How many pillows do you sleep with? A big body pillow and then one normal pillow73. Do you sleep with stuffed animals? A little hedgehog named Douglas74. How many stuffed animals do you think you have? Over 5 (packed away)75. Favourite animal? Panda or fox76. What colour is your underwear? baby blue, coral and white77. Chocolate or Vanilla? Vanilla78. Favourite ice cream flavour? Cookie Dough or strawberry cheesecake79. What colour shirt are you wearing? White long sleeved turtleneck with mistletoes scattered all over. 80. What colour pants? blue jean81. Favourite tv show? Don't have any82. Favourite movie? Pitch Perfect movies83. Mean Girls or Mean Girls 2? OG Mean Girls84. Mean Girls or 21 Jump Street? 21JS85. Favourite character from Mean Girls? Janis86. Favourite character from Finding Nemo? The one who screams bubbles87. First person you talked to today? My brother88. Last person you talked to today? Probs my dad89. Name a person you hate? I don't hate anyone----- DONALD TRUMP90. Name a person you love? My momma91. Is there anyone you want to punch in the face right now? DONALD TRUMP92. In a fight with someone? No?93. How many sweatpants do you have? 2.94. How many sweaters/hoodies do you have? too many95. Last movie you watched? Newsies96. Favourite actress? Oh fuk,,, I really like A.J Cook for TV. Then for theatre I genuinely love Rachel Bay Jones 97. Favourite actor? Soft spot for Tom Holland and all the ST boys98. Do you tan a lot? Rarely.99. Have any pets? yes, 3. All dogs.100. How are you feeling? Eh.101. Do you type fast? I guess.102. Do you regret anything from your past? Yes. Everything103. Can you spell well? Sometimes104. Do you miss anyone from your past? Yes.105. Ever been to a bonfire party? I wish106. Ever broken someone’s heart? Don't know107. Have you ever been on a horse? No.108. What should you be doing? Sleeping maybe lol109. Is something irritating you right now? My hip.110. Have you ever liked someone so much it hurt? Fuck,,,, yeah111. Do you have trust issues? this was already asked, but yes.112. Who was the last person you cried in front of? The dude from question number 1 113. What was your childhood nickname? Ash or ashiipooh114. Have you ever been out of your province/state? Yes.115. Do you play the Wii? Nope.116. Are you listening to music right now? Nah,,117. Do you like chicken noodle soup? I don't eat meat.118. Do you like Chinese food? I'm a pescatarian so the seafood option chinese food i love119. Favourite book? Milk and Honey120. Are you afraid of the dark? No.121. Are you mean? Sometimes122. Is cheating ever okay? Hell. No.123. Can you keep white shoes clean? hahaha no124. Do you believe in love at first sight? no idea tbh125. Do you believe in true love? I'd like to.126. Are you currently bored? Yeah.127. What makes you happy? Acting128. Would you change your name? No.129. What your zodiac sign? Aries130. Do you like subway? Use to.131. Your bestfriend of the opposite sex likes you, what do you do? Yikes lol stay friends132. Who’s the last person you had a deep conversation with? Same dude from #1133. Favourite lyrics right now? Dont have any134. Can you count to one million? Yeah?135. Dumbest lie you ever told? i don't remember136. Do you sleep with your doors open or closed? Closed137. How tall are you? 5'4''138. Curly or Straight hair? Wavey139. Brunette or Blonde? Blonde140. Summer or Winter? Winter141. Night or Day? Night142. Favourite month? April143. Are you a vegetarian? Technically yeah cause fish options arent always avaliable.144. Dark, milk or white chocolate? Dark145. Tea or Coffee? Sweeet coffee146. Was today a good day? I guess147. Mars or Snickers? Snickers148. What’s your favourite quote? Don't have any149. Do you believe in ghosts? Eh.150. Get the closest book next to you, open it to page 42, what’s the first line on that page? Literally no books are in site.

[summerfitzy]

the world stops

Fandom: SKAM Ship: Noora x William Summary: An alternate ending to 2x08 in which William comes home early. Notes: Soooo I rewatched 2x08 last night and had to try writing this? Very self-indulgent. ao3

William had a headache, a lost phone, and an insane taxi bill by the time he climbed the stairs to his penthouse. Muffled music greeted him, pulsing straight through the door. He rolled his eyes towards the ceiling. Of course. Of course Nikko would choose tonight to throw a party in his apartment.

(Fine. Their apartment. But Nikko had an apartment of his own in Stockholm where he could do anything he liked without messing with William’s life. With his relationship with Noora. With his multiple-stab-wound-level headache. Fuck.)

He stood there for a moment longer, rubbing his fingers against his forehead. Best to prepare himself for all the shit Nikko was about to say—about William taking a taxi from Lillehammer to Oslo when he should have been enjoying his time as a russ, about why William could possibly be so distracted. Smirking as he said it too, always, like he knew every damn thing in the universe.

(But not Noora. William wouldn’t let his psychopath of an older brother know Noora, not ever. Bad enough that he knew about Noora.)

Noora.

Muscle memory sent William’s hand into his pocket. He grabbed for his phone, for some sign of a message from her, only to slump when he remembered that it had disappeared somewhere on the bus. Hence the taxi, in place of an Uber. Hence the headache that had finally pushed him into leaving his own bus party. Hence his inability to know whether Noora was calling or texting him. Whether she felt as tired of all the space between them as he did.

If Chris hadn’t bought the extent of William’s feelings for her before, he did now. It might have taken the secondhand-experience of William’s dark, sulking misery over the last week for Chris to realize that Noora wasn’t just a chase and wasn't going anywhere. That she was going to be a permanent fucking fixture in his life—if she ever called.

Twisting the door open, finally, a hard breath in his lungs, William took in the empty glasses and buzzed chatter. He had just shaken his head, resigned himself to the fact that his temples weren’t going to stop aching anytime soon, and stepped into the living room, when the world halted. He halted too. Not because of the couple hooking up against the wall or the strangers doing shots in the corner. All that fit the party well enough.

Noora sitting on his couch, her eyes half-closed, her head lulling down towards one shoulder, his brother’s hand on her knee and his mouth by her ear—that didn’t.

When the world started moving again, William felt like someone had pressed a fast-forward button on his feet. One second he was by the threshold, the next he was at the couch, kneeling in front of Noora, gritting out “What the fuck, Nikko?”

“William!” Nikko grinned and clapped a palm—the same one that had just touched Noora’s thigh—on his tense shoulder. “You’re back early. We thought you’d be staying out tonight.”

We thought.

William’s eyes clenched shut for one harsh inhale, putting everything into focus. He could see it—Noora coming by to look for him after he didn't answer his phone, Nikko opening the door, Nikko spinning some bullshit story about how he was off spending the night with another girl and then putting a drink in her hand.

“What the fuck, Nikko,” he repeated. “She can barely sit up.”

If he looked at his brother for another half-a-second, he was going to punch him. So William scanned Noora instead, even as Nikko started in how oh, she’s fine and it’s a party, William and we were having a good time.

Noora blinked at him, her green eyes glazed with whatever alcohol Nikko had given her. William pushed the hair out of her face and ran the pad of his thumb along her temple.

“William,” she said finally, softly, slowly. “You’re here?”

William nodded and cupped the other side of her face to keep her eyes on his. To get a better grip on her, because she was here, she came back. “It’s my apartment.” He found a smile for her. “Where else would I be?” Because he could have still been miles and hours away, missing her in fucking Lillehammer, but somehow wasn’t.

When Noora opened her mouth again, a sigh slipped out. “Nikko said…” she paused, leaning into his palm-lines. “I thought you’d found someone else. Someone who doesn’t care whether you smash bottles on people’s heads and—and will have sex with you.” Her arms encircled his shoulders a breath later, hugging him as close as she could. “But you’re here.”

He hugged her right back, burying his face into her neck and her hair. “No girls,” he murmured. “Just a lame party and a lost phone.” William inhaled her, then tensed another notch when he smelled the tequila on her exhale.

“You lost your phone?” Noora eased back to wrinkle her forehead at him. “But Nikko said that you texted him.”

“Is that what I said?”

William turned his head. There was Nikko, grinning at them, undisturbed by the fact that he’d been caught, as if this were all nothing more than a grand game of poker.

The glare that covered William’s face when he met Nikko’s eyes felt sharp enough, hard enough to do bodily harm. “You need to leave.”

Nikko's teeth gleamed white. "Excuse me?"

William ground his teeth. “I mean it. If I wake up and you’re here, I'll kill you, Nikko. Brother or not.” And since he did mean it, since he really might kill him if he stayed there for a minute longer, since Noora felt so limp against him and her arms so loose around him, William adjusted his own arms so that he could pick her up when he stood. Walking straight to his room, he secured one elbow beneath her legs and the other at her back, until he had her tucked against his chest.

(Proof that she had to be incredibly drunk. Noora would never let him carry her through a roomful of people otherwise, with only a faint what are you doing? in protest.)

He didn’t want to let go of her, even after he kicked his bedroom door shut behind them, but forced himself to set Noora down on his comforter, if only so he could hunt for a bottle of water. 

When he turned back to hand her the plastic bottle he'd found in his school bag, Noora was sitting on the edge of his mattress, stumbling through the process of unbuttoning her striped shirt. “Noora.” Somehow, she reached the last button in a matter of seconds, compromised motor skills notwithstanding. William might have been impressed by that if his heart weren’t still beating through his chest, screaming about how easily he could have opted not to come home tonight. How easily Noora could still be wavering on that couch with his brother’s hand on her knee. “What are you doing?”

“Undressing?” she said, her voice wobbly enough that it sounded like a question. (It really wasn’t at this point. She already had her jeans tugged past her ankles.)

William faced the wall when he saw her start with the clasp of her bra, and let his head slump back for a beat. Jesus.

“No,” Noora said once she saw him picking through his shirts. “No clothes.”

William’s head throbbed. “When you’re sober, you can strip as much as you want. I’ll encourage it. Now”—he looked up at the ceiling and tossed one of his white t-shirts to her—“you’re drunk.”

“But you said…” Noora sounded very serious as she tripped through the words. “You said that I’d be naked in your bed in two weeks.” He heard the sheets rustle.

Fucking hell.

He didn’t know whether to laugh or groan, so settled for running a hand over his face. “Yes. And you said it wasn’t going to happen.”

Finally, he deemed it safe to glance at her. There she was, her shoulders bare, his white sheets tucked around her chest. The shape of her curled up beneath the linens. “I wanted it to be true,” she said, nestling her head into his pillow. “Even though I shouldn’t.” His t-shirt remained crumpled at the foot of the bed. The water bottle, at least, was near empty on his bedside table now.

William lay down beside her on the bed, above the covers, on his side, facing her. “Shouldn’t?”

Noora shook her head, but didn’t protest when William threaded his fingers through the ends of her short hair. “Shouldn’t,” she affirmed, sighed. “I shouldn’t be this in love with you either.”

William’s heart, breath, headache—they all stopped. He wanted to kiss her. Every single inch of her. He wanted to forget the psychopath in his living room, the alcohol in Noora's breath.

He traced his fingertips along her cheek instead, the one that hadn’t blurred into his pillow. “That’s convenient, actually.” He molded his lips to her forehead. “Because I’m in love you.” So fucking in love with her. Starved for her. Miserable without her. He could say all of that later.

Noora lost her hands in his hair and pulled his face down to hers for a slow, soft kiss. Then she fell back, mussing her hair against the pillowcase all over again. “Your brother doesn’t think so,” she mumbled.

There was his headache. “Nikko wouldn’t have done all this if he didn’t think so.” Fucked with her, with them, like this if he didn't know how much William would care.

Noora’s eyelids fluttered. “He said horrible things about you.”

William could only imagine. “Forget about him, Noora. Sleep for now.”

She nodded into his palm. Nodded off. He kept stroking her light hair and pale skin as the party’s music knocked and knocked on his door.

They would sort out whatever Nikko had said about him, whatever she had thought about it, tomorrow. Now—

Still resting on top of his sheets, William let his eyes whisper closed.

For now, they would just lie here.

[itsworn]

Petty’s ’70 Superbird Is The Ultimate Mope & You Can Win It!

What people think they want and what they really want aren’t always one in the same. Everyone says they want the best, but history is chock full of class-of-the-field products that sank to the bottom of the barrel. After the passage of time bestows the gift of clarity upon the misguided masses, it’s then and only then that consumers finally appreciate what they missed out on. It happened with Betamax. It happened with Paul’s Boutique. And most outrageously of all, it happened with one of the most coveted muscle cars of all time, the Plymouth Superbird.

To this day, audio/video nerds praise the picture quality advantages of Betamax over its peers, lamenting the fact that a technically inferior product like VHS won the home video cassette war. Likewise, music executives considered the Beastie Boys’ second studio record, Paul’s Boutique, a commercial flop in 1989, but nearly three decades later it’s considered one of the most innovative hip-hop albums of all-time thanks to its multi-layered sampling and hypnotic beats. Most alarming of all, while Plymouth dealers in the ’70s had to deconstruct Superbirds back to their Road Runner roots to move them off the lot, today’s hot rodders dream of reconstructing Superbirds from ordinary B-Bodies. With online forums running amok with questions on how to build a Superbird clone, isn’t it about time someone showed everyone how it’s done?

We think so, but more importantly, so does Smithfield Foods. As luck would have it, there are some real-deal car guys calling the shots at Smithfield, and the company knows that having a NASCAR driver make a cameo in one of your commercials isn’t the most effective way to plug a product. That’s why Smithfield Foods teamed up with Petty’s Garage to build the ultimate giveaway car for one lucky race fan. “NASCAR fans eat a lot of pork, so the sport has always been a good fit for our brand. At the same time, we’re a pork company that’s in the same space as Goodyear and Sonoco, so we had to come up with a creative way to help fans enjoy the sport even more,” says Bob Weber of Smithfield Foods. “You can’t be a huckster. You have to engage with fans by giving them something they really want.”

Most race fans would unanimously agree that a Pro Touring rendition of a ’70 Plymouth Superbird tribute car is definitely something they really want. For practical purposes, Smithfield wanted to deviate from the script a bit instead of building a bone stock clone. “We can’t give away a real Superbird, because whoever won it wouldn’t be able to afford the tax on it. We decided to build a clone from a Road Runner instead,” Weber recounts. “Our goal was to build an all-around performance car that you can throw your wife the keys to, and have her drive it to Albertsons. For this build, we wanted to send the message of how to build a car the right way, not like on reality TV. It’s turned out so nice that I want to keep it for myself!”

While many of the cast of characters who built original Superbird race cars for Richard Petty have long since retired from NASCAR, many of them still work for The King at Petty’s Garage. Naturally, there’s no one better qualified to transform plain-Jane B-Bodies into Superbirds, and this is actually the second time Smithfield Foods has executed this brilliant strategy. “Last year, we had Petty’s Garage build a replica of The King’s Hemi Belvedere to commemorate the 50th anniversary of his unbelievable 1967 season. It was by far the most dominant performance of any driver in NASCAR history, with Richard Petty winning 27 races total, including 10-consecutive races during the summer,” says Weber.

Smithfield Foods and Petty’s Garage conspired to build the Superbird as a follow-up to the ’67 Hemi Belvedere giveaway car, but with a slight twist. While the Belvedere proved to be a bit rowdy by design—with a lumpity 650hp motor, lots of roll cage, and no carpet in sight—the Superbird’s intent is to encourage its new owner to rack up lots of miles on the street. “The Belvedere was a very successful car, but this time around we wanted to build something that looks like a race car, but can be driven comfortably on the street. You could kinda-sorta drive the Belvedere on the street, but the Superbird had to have a nostalgic look as well as modern drivability,” Russ Stellfox of Petty’s Garage explains.

Before giving the finished car away at the season-finale 2017 Monster Energy NASCAR Cup event of year at Homestead-Miami Speedway, plans call for showing it off on race weekends to whet people’s appetites.

That’s great news for fans, but it gave Smithfield Foods and Petty’s Garage an incredibly tight five-month window to finish the entire build. Undeterred by the immense challenge at hand, Petty’s Garage tracked down a solid 1970 Road Runner in December 2016. Although the ex-street racer appeared structurally sound by cruise night standards, a trip to the sandblaster revealed substantial sections of rotted-out sheetmetal. Over the next four weeks, the crew worked overtime replacing the floor plan, quarter-panels, rockers, trunk pan, and sections of the framerails with all-new AMD sheetmetal.

By the time late January 2017 rolled around, Petty’s Garage was elbow-deep transforming the ordinary B-Body into a modern winged warrior. Janak Repros provided all the fiberglass pieces necessary for the conversion, but building a Superbird is far more involved that slapping on a nosecone and wing, then calling it a day. “A Superbird conversion is not for the faint of heart. There is a lot of fabrication work involved with panel-bonding all the fiberglass pieces to the steel body, then getting everything to line up,” Doug Murph of Petty’s Garage recalls. “We spent 80-100 hours on the conversion process alone. It took three full days to modify the hood. If you expect to just bolt these parts on and go, you’re in for a big surprise.”

With the clock ticking down in late February, the “aero-fied” Road Runner made its way to the paint shop. While final prep work is incredibly important to the quality of any paint and body project, it’s particularly challenging when that body mixes in substantial chunks of fiberglass. Cutting, welding, and gentle nudges with a hammer aren’t an option. Instead, tweaking fiberglass panels for proper alignment involves many, many hours of cutting, filling, sanding, and waiting for resins to dry. After finishing up the prep work, the Superbird was sprayed with three coats of R-M Petty Blue paint. In total, final prep work and paint consumed another 200 to 250 hours.

As soon as the last coat of paint dried, it was off to final assembly. At this stage in the game, there was only one month to go until the mid-May deadline. Like the last four-tire pit stop before the white flag, the Petty’s Garage crew hunkered down in an impressive feat of masterfully orchestrated chaos. In went a 392ci Mopar Performance Gen III Hemi, a Silver Sport Transmissions A41 overdrive, and a rebuilt Chrysler 8.75-inch rearend. On the underside of the chassis, the front and rear suspension received a simple yet effective blend of stock and aftermarket components. Factory torsion bars and Super Stock leaf springs team up with QA1 double-adjustable shocks and sway bars for an excellent balance of ride quality, stance, and handling. Reigning in the propulsion potential of the 505hp Hemi are big Wilwood brakes with six-piston clamps up front and four-piston units out back. Sticking everything to the pavement are General Tire’s all-new G-Max AS-05 tires.

While one team tackled the major mechanical hardware, other crew members circumnavigated the melee, hopping in and out of the cabin to button up the interior. Like the suspension, it’s mostly stock but with some key aftermarket enhancements that provide a much more enjoyable user experience. Auto Meter gauges housed in a Classic Dash instrument panel report the vitals, while a Vintage Air A/C system, an Alpine stereo, and a thick layer of HushMat keep the cabin nice and comfy.

By the time you read this, the Smithfield Foods Superbird will be touring the NASCAR Monster Energy Series race calendar, filling fans with fantasies of flat-footing that big, bad Hemi down the backstraight at Daytona. Fortunately, that fantasy (minus Daytona) will come true for one lucky fan at the season-finale race at Homestead. Best of all, entering the contest is as easy as it is delicious. In an era when society advocates forcing flavorless goo down your throat in the name of healthiness, Smithfield is doing the exact opposite. Anyone who purchases three delicious Smithfield Foods pork products—you know, the good stuff red-blooded Americans eat anyway with their grits and fried okra—at any one of Albertsons family of 2,500 grocery stores and texts a pic of the receipt to Smithfield is automatically entered to win. As with last year’s Hemi Belvedere giveaway, there’s a good chance that The King himself will hand over the keys.

And that, friends, is how you build a Superbird. At best, dearly departed video recording gadgets and hip-hop albums from the ’80s may inspire geeky conversations between fellow nerds, silly talk that other normal people don’t care about. In contrast, thanks to its racing pedigree, scarcity, history, and far-reaching technological innovations, the Superbird fills peoples’ imaginations with dreams of building exact replicas of the original, perhaps more than any other car ever built. The misguided masses overlooked these magnificent machines the first time around, but the passage of time has given them the clarity to finally appreciate what they missed out on. Potentially righting this wrong is as easy as eating some thick-cut bacon!

Recommended Reading!

Want to read more about how Petty’s Garage built A Superbird tribute? Here’s where to click next!

Part 1: Saving the rusty Road Runner donor car with all new sheetmetal from AMD: Superbird Clone Build Part 1 Part 2: How to clone a Superbird from a Road Runner using pieces from Janak Repros: Clone Plymouth Superbird Part 3: How Petty’s Garage does picture-perfect paint on the Smithfield Superbird: Petty’s Garage Paint Part 4: Final build-out of the powertrain, suspension, brakes, exhaust, & chassis: King’s Superbird Finish

Precise numbers are hard to come by, but many historians speculate that the Superbird slipped through the wind tunnel with a 0.29 drag coefficient. That’s right on par with the best late-models of today.

Macini Racing motor mounts position the Gen III “Scat Pack” 392 Hemi crate engine at just the right spot inside the engine bay. The factory camshaft provides plenty of vacuum assist for the Wilwood master cylinder, enhancing the Superbird’s street manners.

Fiberglass bits like the fender scoops and rear wing uprights can attach in a variety of locations. To pinpoint exactly the spot where they should go, technicians hopped over to the Petty museum, were they took measurements of real Superbird race cars.

The Superbird’s signature rear wing looks outrageous by today’s standards, however, wind tunnel testing proves the design positions the wing above the turbulent air coming off the rear windshield to maximize downforce. Harnessing the power of the Hemi are one of the first sets of General Tire’s new G-Max AS-05 rubber to be released to the public.

Getting the angle of the flat factory hood to match up with the swoopy Superbird nose isn’t easy. It involves cutting off the front 25 percent of the stock hood, and bonding a fiberglass edge to it. This can’t be any hood. It must be the hood off of a ’70 Coronet, which is quite pricy on the used market.

Fast Facts

1970 Plymouth Superbird Smithfield Foods; Smithfield, VA

Engine Type: Chrysler “Scat Pack” Apache 392ci Gen III Hemi small-block Bore x stroke: 4.09 inch x 3.72 inch Compression ratio: 10.9:1 Block: stock cast iron with piston oil squiters and four-bolt main caps Oiling: stock Rotating assembly: stock cast-iron crankshaft, powdered metal connecting rods with floating wrist pins, hypereutectic cast pistons Cylinder heads: stock, cast aluminum A319 alloy Camshaft: stock hydraulic roller, .591-/.551-inch lift, 288/292 degrees advertised duration Valvetrain: stock, 2.13-inch intake and 1.65-inch exhaust valves Induction: stock, sequential port fuel injection Ignition: stock, dual coil-on-plug Exhaust: TTi 1.75-inch long-tube headers, collectors, H-pipe, and intermediate pipe; dual 2.5-inch MagnaFlow mufflers Cooling system: C&R radiator, Spal dual electric fans Output: 505 hp and 495 lb-ft

Drivetrain Transmission: Silver Sport Transmissions A41 overdrive, bellhousing, flexplate, and converter Rear axle: Chrysler 8.75-inch rearend with 3.73:1 gears

Chassis Front suspension: rebuilt stock with QA1 sway bar and double-adjustable shocks Rear suspension: rebuilt stock with Super Stock leaf springs and QA1 double-adjustable shocks Brakes: Wilwood 14-inch discs and four-piston calipers, front; 12.88-inch discs and four-piston calipers, rear

Wheels & Tires Wheels: five-spoke Magnum 500 billet aluminum replicas, 19×8 (front), 20×9.5 (rear) Tires: General Tire G-Max AS-05 225/40R19 (front), 275/40R20 (rear)

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