#Or because the title of Rev. feels better than Mr. or Mrs. to you

[maeamian]

Hey, if some of your friends need to get married in a hurry now, one thing you can do for them is become ordained via the universal life church, a non denominational church-like entity that mainly exists for the purposes of this sort of ordination. They have state-by-state guides on the resources you'll need in any given state to officiate a wedding there as well as a willingness to sell you those things (In CA, I needed a certificate that cost me about twenty bucks), and it is sufficiently official for legal purposes.

[goddessofchaosleo]

Racer girl

College AU, 18+ 

Warning: mentions of alcohol use, unprotected sex, fluff 

Genre: fluff, smut

WC: 3,3k

Big thanks to my beta readers @karasimpno​, @mrs-kuroojinguji​ and @ceo-of-daichi​ for giving me priceless feedback and helping me make this better!! <3

Coming to study English lit at college wasn’t fun. You loved reading and what you studied but it wasn’t where your passions lie. Racing. The opportunity came about one day when all of your friends dragged you to a race. A popular guy from your university, Oikawa Toru was racing and everyone wanted to watch him win, you weren’t as excited but you wanted to get in on the scene too so you went with your beautifully modified car and got yourself a race.

After wining race after race that night you earned a reputation of Baby Girl Driver given to you by no other than the Great King of Tokyo racing scene. Ever since then you got challenged and rose up the ranks until you were the Queen of Tokyo races.

You maintained your grades and studied what you loved but something was missing or rather someone to make everything feel perfect. But meeting someone as passionate about something as you were about racing wasn’t easy at first. The guys in the racing scene wanted to be with you for the reputation you had, other guys from your course weren’t supportive of your racing and wanted you to stop so you figured looking for love there was hopeless but you were fine with it. You valued yourself too much to just break in search of a partner.

Yet love and passion came in a tall, dark and handsome volleyball player Iwaizumi Hajime. Having met through some mutual friends you easily kicked it off and were dating within a week. Weeks turned to months and in a blink of an eye two years went by in perfect happiness with the man who loved you as passionately as you deserved to be loved.

Iwaizumi Hajime understood your love and passion you had towards driving and racing. Was he thrilled that you took part in some not so legal races? Not really. Did he support you nevertheless? Absofuckinglutely.

You were there for every game of his, no matter how big or small and he was there to cheer on you when you had a race. Did he bet on his girl every time? Yes. Because he knew how skilled you were and because he believed in you.

But he worried about you every time too. No matter how many times you convinced him your car was more than safe he always feared the worst. What if someone was driving under influence? What if something unexpected happened? In those moments of doubt, not in you but the others around you he realized how much he loved you and how much he wanted you to come out of that car in one piece. That didn’t change even after two years of dating.

Tonight’s race was so much different than any other you had before. You were a favourite but there was a crazy underdog threatening to take your crown and knock you down. His words. A cocky Rooster-haired bastard from Kyoto who thought he could come to Tokyo and take over your territory. People in these circles were usually respectful to those who were winners and Kings and Queens of their territories but this dude was anything but that.

He started off by insulting your skills simply because you were a woman and then went on to challenge you to a one on one race. You took the challenge and you both bet your cars and titles on the race. One of the most important races was going to take place in a few hours and for the first time you were feeling nervous.

You weren’t nervous and insecure about your skill but about his way of driving. You only ever saw videos from his races and he was the worst type of driver. He was reckless and more often than not people got hurt and cars got destroyed. He didn’t care about any of it as long as he came out victorious.

Knowing how much Iwaizumi worried about your safety anyways you decided not to tell him about the man you’d be racing. It wouldn’t help and you couldn’t back out anyways.

Getting ready for a race night always went the same for you. You take a shower to refresh and get dressed. Ever since you started dating Iwaizumi you wore his jersey when you raced and tonight would be no different. Number 1 Iwaizumi proudly on your back, keeping you safe. You’d check your car over one more time, making sure everything was perfect before going to pick Iwaizumi up.

You rolled your windows down and enjoyed the fresh air on the way to his dorm. He insisted on coming even though he had an exhausting practice week behind him. He would never miss a race of yours and especially not one that you were challenged to.

The first thing you saw when you rolled up was your stud of a boyfriend staring at his phone in all black. From his sneakers and black jeans to a quite skin tight shirt and the black leather jacket you knew would end up on your shoulders at the end of the night. There or in the backseat of your car as you two made out.

“I’m here to pick up a snack of a man, Iwaizumi Hajime? Could you help me?” You said with a chuckle as you gained the attention of your boyfriend.

“Ahh yeah yeah. He is waiting for a beautiful girl in a beast of a car to pick him up. Could that be you?” Iwaizumi said with a chuckle as he made his way to the car, getting in with a smile. He leaned in kissing your lips softly. “Good evening lovely.. You ready to win tonight?” He asked softly.

The kiss helped relax your nerves as usual, melting into Iwaizumis hands that cupped your small face. “When am I not my love? With you by my side I can do anything..” with a small smile you were on your way to the races.

Like most nights there were many people gathered around the improvised track as you rolled up to the car park area, but tonight there seemed to be hundreds of people more. Must be because everyone heard about the cocky challenger and Tokyo Queen racing tonight. This meant nothing to you. The only thing that mattered was doing a safe race and of course winning in the end. Too much was on the line and you couldn’t afford to lose tonight.

You got out the car taking Iwaizumi’s hand and heading over to some of your friends who also came to support you and to have your back no matter what. Your unwritten rule was that you didn’t have a drop of alcohol though. Under no circumstances would your performance be influenced by drinking or smoking. Hell you didn’t even have sex with Iwaizumi before your races because you knew that victory sex would feel so much better, plus it would give you something more to look forward to after the race.

The warm up races before yours went quite quickly. Too quickly for Iwaizumis liking as this meant your race was up next. He gave you a tight hug whispering sweet nothings in your ear and giving you a deep passionate kiss before escorting you to the car.

“Go win it love. I’ll be watching.” He said as he looked at you buckling up and getting ready to go.

“I always do Hajime. This will not be the time I lose..” you said before giving him a quick peck and settling in. A silent prayer ran through your head as you checked all the switches and your brakes. You weren’t religious but for some reason before every race you did a small prayer.

Unknowing to you Iwaizumi did the same. Even more he would light incense at the nearby temple and pray for your safety. The only thing that mattered to him.

He could see the guy who challenged you and he was exactly what you had described him to be. A cocky bastard by the name Kuroo Tetsuro who came in thinking he could have this territory and your crown with one race. What worried Iwaizumi was the can of beer he threw to the side, squishing it down. He was driving under influence.

Nothing was prohibited during Tokyo races. You could drink, smoke and do whatever you wanted. The only rule was no purposeful injuries of the other race participants. People who raced in Tokyo, in the races approved by the King and Queen though followed the unwritten rule of utmost respect to the other racer. No one drank until after the race and absolutely no one went in with the thought of destroying someone’s car or hurting anyone.

Iwaizumi feared though that this wasn’t the case with the underdog who came to beat his girlfriend. But it was too late for his fears as both drivers were revving the engines of their cars waiting for the stoplight to turn green and signal the start of the race.

With the starter gun going off and the light running green you were off. Pedal to the floor as you conquered the curves of the track you knew like the back of your hand. The underdog was hot on your tail though, getting closer and closer with each passing mile.

You were ready for anything but the swerve of his car into your lane had you shocked. This was a clear violation of the only rule in the race but you couldn’t let him take this and win. You stepped on the gas, trailing him as he got in the front.

The swerve of your car had Iwaizumi clutching the barricade harder than he already was, his knuckles turning white. What the hell was this guy doing? Had he went in just a bit more your car would have crashed into the building you two were passing by. His worst fears were coming true as you disappeared from his line of sight and he had to follow your car on the big screen that was set up on the wall.

You knew this race wouldn’t be easy but it just got much harder as it was obvious Kuroo didn’t care about your well being or this being a fair race. If your car was to swerve off the road and crash he wouldn’t care, he would take the win and his title without a care in the world. But you weren’t going to let that happen.

You were hot on his tail and knew there was only one place where you could pass him and get the win but it was the most dangerous curve of the track, one where you usually slowed down and still got the win and one where many lost control of their cars for going in too fast. But it was your only option and the only blind spot for the cameras.

You stepped on the gas, right behind Kuroo’s car before pulling the handbrake and drifting through the curve. He tried to get into you and slam you to the side but due to not knowing the track he swerved of the road slamming into the concrete barricade on the side.

You were about to step on the pedal but as you saw the fire and smoke coming up from his car you stopped and ran out of your car. You managed to pull him out as he wasn’t even buckled up and get him in your car. Some of the ash staining your cheeks and hands.

The loud crashing sound was heard at the starting line, smoke coming up from a part of the track and had everyone’s voices die down. Not a sound was heard as the people wondered what happened. The sudden silence was killing Iwaizumi who didn’t know what to make out of the sound. Did you crash? What was going on? Was someone going to call the ambulance? A million questions flooded his mind before he saw your car approaching the finish line.

He didn’t care about a thing as he ran to meet you as you exited the car with a soft smile on your face. There was some ash and dirt on your face but you looked unharmed, your car was also fine so why did you look like you got hurt?

He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his chest tightly as he calmed down. You were fine and you were safe in his arms right now.

“Baby what happened there? I was terrified..” Iwaizumi said as he pulled away cupping your face in his hands.

“The bastard didn’t study the track. He went full speed at the Curve, trying to get past me but he crashed into the barrier.. ” you explained with a sigh as your hands came to rest on top of his. “I saw the smoke and the fire in the rear view mirror so I stopped, got him out of the car and came to the finish line. He is unconscious but alive..” you explained with a sigh.

You turned to the people who were gathering around the finish line and glared at the unconscious black haired male in your passenger seat. “Get him out of my car and to our hospital. The races are done and he is done in Tokyo..” you said as you took Iwaizumis hand. The people at the finish line nodded and quickly got Kuroo out of your car putting him in a different one to get him to a hospital. The crowd was quickly dispersing and soon you and Iwaizumi were the only ones left.

“Come on, let’s get out of here..” you said with a soft smile as you pulled Iwaizumi to your car. You drove off to a nearby hill overlooking the city before parking. You turned to Iwaizumi whose hand hadn’t left yours ever since you came out of the car after winning.

“I’m fine Hajime.. I promise.” You said with a soft sigh as you turned to your boyfriend. “I would never do anything reckless while in the car even if that meant losing a race. Nothing is more important to me than coming back to you..” you practically whispered as your forehead came to rest against his, your eyes looking into his as you spoke. “I love you Haji..” you whispered against his lips.

Iwaizumi breathed in your scent and relaxed. You were there with him. Safe and in one piece, telling him you loved him. “I love you baby. So much.. ” he said as he cupped your face. “I was so worried though. I heard the crash and saw the smoke but there was nothing. I thought I lost you..” he said softly, his usually confident and strong voice trembling as he held you.

You frowned slightly before placing a soft kiss to his lips. “I’m here Hajime. I’m here and I love you.. Let me show you how much.. ” you whispered as you crawled over to his lap.

Iwaizumi chuckled lightly as you straddled his lap but right now he just wanted to hold you in his arms and wouldn’t object to anything you said or did.

You slid your hands up his chest and neck before resting them on his face, cupping it with your small hands as you leaned in to kiss him. “I love you and I’ll always come back to you.” You whispered as you pulled away, your lower body slowly grinding against his as you felt his hands go from your thighs to your hips.

“I will always love you..” you said as your hands trailed down to the buckle of his pants. “I’m going to show you how much I love you baby. You are mine and I am yours Hajime..” you mumbled against his lips as your hands freed his cock. You quickly pulled your tights down, moving your panties to the side.

Iwaizumi was lost in your soft lips and words of assurance. He knew how much you loved him but hearing it over and over again would never get old to him. Saying you love him and that you would always come back to him had his heart fluttering like the first time you told him you loved him. He helped you take your shirt of admiring you beautiful and soft skin pressing against his as he took his own off before grabbing your face and kissing you passionately. “I love you so much YN. I will always love you.” He whispered as you slowly sunk down on his length.

“Fuck Hajime.. You’re filling me so well..” you groaned as you slowly made your way down his hard cock, your pussy stretching to take all of him in. The pain and pleasure mixed as always, the stretch burning in the most amazing way possible. No matter how many times the two of you had sex, he always felt too big and you always felt so full. Especially when you were riding him, then you could feel him in your tummy.

After a few moments you managed to slide all the way down, staying still as Iwaizumi stroked your hair softly letting you adjust to the feeling and go at your own pace.

“You are doing so good baby girl. Taking me so well.. Take your time baby..” he whispered in your ear as your hands rested on his shoulders, holding on for support as your breaths came out in soft puffs. 

“You’re so big Hajime.. Fuck..” you mumbled as you lifted your hips slightly before sliding back down and gasping at the feeling. The tip of his cock easily reached up to your cervix as you went down. The slight burning sensation from being stretched was so good it made your head fall back in pleasure. This granted Iwaizumi full access to your delicate neck and he wasted no time in attaching his lips to it.

You did your best to bounce on his cock but you were slowly beginning to lose yourself in the slow and rhythmic thrusts, your movements becoming sloppier and your mind starting to go blank from the pleasure. “Haji.. I.. please, I’m so close baby..” you mumbled as your head fell onto his shoulder.

“I’ve got you baby girl. I’ll take care of you..’ Iwaizumi whispered against your ear as he began to meet your hips and thrust up and into you, his hand sliding down to where your bodies joined where his fingers found your sensitive clit. His fingers began rubbing the ball of nerves just how you loved it and it was confirmed by the sharp gasp he got out of you.

"Haji it’s too much. I’m.. I’m gonna cum..” you cried out as your hands tugged on his hair, your lips brushing against his.

“Then cum baby girl. Cum all over my cock. Let me hear you scream because I love you so much baby..” he groaned as he sped up his thrusts and the quick motion of his fingers. 

The thrill on your face when you came out victorious was his second favourite look on you. The first being when you’re under him as he coaxed orgasm after orgasm out of you.

In a matter of moments you were coming undone around Iwaizumi’s cock, your pussy pulsating around him which only made him cum inside you. His cock twitching as he released his load.

Each other’s names and I love yous filled the car as you came down from your highs.

“I love you racer girl.. ” Iwaizumi said with a lazy smile.

“I love you, my ace..” YN responded.

The two of you sat like that for a while, away from the world, holding each other.

[chaoslordjoe]

#BlackSunWeek2020 Day 2 - Resurfacing

“Fuck this heat…” Nora Valkyrie whined, carrying herself on Yang Xiao Long’s back as Yang took a mental note about how that would’ve been her line.

If escaping Atlas was littered with red tape, then flying (relatively) safely to Vacuo was like duct taping yourself to a revved-up chainsaw. 

There were no AK droids or shell-shocked lumberjack-looking General headasses (seriously James, take your court martial like a man) to drag them into anything they were all just through a month ago into the war.

Still, being escorted to the city by a bunch of Vacuan mercenaries was probably more merciful than whatever haircuts or puffy outfits they were given from their time from being conscripted by Ironwood, probably without authority from the Council (General James “fuck-you-I-have-two-seats-on-the-Council” Ironwood) in the gang’s whole black ops stint.

All things considered, this was a lot more welcoming than being drafted into the “Greatest Kingdom’s” side of the war with how they weren’t so great and hiding how much their leadership sucked at communicating with one another.

Politics. The brass. Martial law. Friendly fire incidents. Good times.

Ruby trudged ahead of the group, with Qrow trying to save the water in his flask while he was surprisingly adamant in pushing forward through the dunes. It was a good thing that he sobered up in time for this trip, knowing how it would be hell on dehydration.

“At least we’re not…Having to face any AK droids for a while.” Weiss thought out loud.

“Come on, Weiss-cream.” Yang grunted. “Maybe we’ll get you a new manicure by the time we arrive at Shade.” She joked.

Weiss shook her head.

“She might need more than a manicure.” Ren interjected.

“No-no, she’s right.” Weiss mentioned. “Heiress or no, I think we could all use a touch-up.” She concluded, wincing at the idea of sand going down her dress.

“I hate sand.” Jaune spoke next. “It’s coarse, rough, irritating and it- -“

“DON’T YOU FUCKING DARE.” Yang warned.

“…And it gets everywhere.” Jaune taunted.

“I’m gonna smash your balls when we get home.” Yang said with a glare to him.

“How do- -How do you know I’m not into that?” Jaune remarked.

“Guys, can we please argue about which trilogy had the worse writing later?” Ruby begged.

“Much as I would like to learn about movies outside of my homestead, Ruby’s right.” Oscar spoke. “We’re almost there, then we can relax before meeting Theodore.” He added.

Qrow looked over, thankful that at least Ozpin insisted that they still act like teenagers in between all the missions and such. One thing he certainly got right.

“Hey, buddy.” Qrow said to the caravan leader. “How much further?”

“Almost dere, Mr. Branwen.” He spoke, inspecting his weapon behind his shades. “Ya don’t wanna get eaten by a mole crab, do ya?”

“Not exactly.” Qrow grunted.

“Den sit tight, we gonna be dere in no time.”

Soon as they arrived, Professor Theodore had granted the group a hotel to stay at before meeting with her on the Shade campus.

A rare sight this type of hotel was in Vacuo. Let alone something with this many accommodations. Soon as the gang arrived, a cold shower was in order followed by orders from Theodore to relax before the big meeting.

QROWBYJNR sat in the hotel’s pool area, finally being able to catch a breather along with some cooling off in the drink. Oscar stood at the corner reading one of Ozpin’s journals away from the group.

Blake decided to accompany him in the reading with a copy of <i>Zaibatsu Unlimited</i> she had meant to continue reading for a while now. Sort of a corporate espionage thriller about a power struggle between Mistral’s corporate elite in a deadly arms race on the stock market.

Ren sat with Weiss and Nora, figuring a tan wouldn’t hurt with how they were gonna be here for a while. Jaune got to work on a game of pool volleyball teaming up with Ruby, while Yang and Qrow played against them.

Oscar looked up with a cocked eyebrow, observing his friends finally being able to relax for the time being. He looked back at the Ozpin journal that he retrieved from the Atlas vault, then back and forth at the gang while he spoke to Oz privately.

Penny for your thoughts. Oscar spoke.

As long as you are all rested for this whole journey. He said.

Oz. How do you feel about reunions after living for so long? The host asked.

You are asking me? The wizard replied. Well, I suppose apart from all the betrayals and twists/turns I’ve been part of lately, I would say that reunions are best saved for when you can savor the moment.

Yeah. Oscar thought. If Theodore is in on it, feels like we gotta make it on our own. Did you miss Theodore?

”Missing” would imply that I would be welcoming to the Headmistress. I am not easily welcoming on the inside, Oscar. Perhaps I am the wrong person to ask about this.

Oscar squinted.

I get that we have to be more careful and not trust anyone, but you could at least act like you care. Your former students could be here too.

I suppose. Ozpin said with a sigh. Perhaps you are better equipped for this since only a select few people know that we are one at this time.

Because I’m a teenager like the others here? He interrogated.

No, I just feel that you are a more appealing individual in your age group. The wizard answered. Just so nobody else is out to kill us.

“Wow.” Oscar scoffed out loud, briefly catching Blake’s attention. Just put an arrow above my head of how cute I’m supposed to be while you’re at it.

Ruby roared, banking the volleyball around Yang. But Qrow briefly shifted into a bird, headbutting the ball right between the team leaders who dodged it.

“Hey, that’s cheating!” Jaune barked.

“Oh yeah?” Qrow said as he shifted back into a man. “Well, you’ve got banana hair!” He said as he shrugged at his blonde niece.

Weiss raised her sunglasses, squinting at the Huntsman’s remark while she turned around onto her stomach to tan her back next.

Jaune retaliated, by throwing the ball back in an attempt to get Yang to tilt by punching the ball open. Nora looked up from her seat, seeing her boyfriend meditating as he and her finally got a form of that beach day that she wanted so bad.

“I believe that Qrow has run out of remarks from Mr. Xiao Long’s joke book.” Ren observed.

“Feh.” Nora said with a shrug. “Just let him ramble, Renny.”

Ruby tried to Petal Burst her way around the net, only to create a cyclone which nearly sucked in Jaune. Qrow’s misfortune kicked in, causing the ball to hit Ruby in the side of her head at whoever tried sending it back.

“Oww, dang it!” Ruby cried out as she regained her footing the water. “Watch where you’re throwing!” She argued.

“Now who threw that?” Weiss inquired, raising her shades, and stopping at the familiar face before her.

Said familiar face had winced at his shot with Qrow attempting (and failing) to casually avoid the scene while Jaune carried Ruby out who rubbed her head.

“Sorry!” The familiar face shouted. “I didn’t mean to- -Sorry, guys!” He spoke.

Blake looked up at the voice, who wore yellow/blue swim trunks and had a noticeable monkey tail. She immediately got up, tackling her former squeeze from behind who yelped.

“Sun!” She cried out in joy.

“Blake!” Sun Wukong had called in return, setting her down and attempting to give his love interest a hug. 

Blake however, used one of her Shadow Clones to fool him and give the Huntsman an actual embrace after being away for some time.

Weiss sat up, greeting Neptune as well. A nervous meeting on her part due to how little they spoke during Vytal. But Nep was more than willing to let bygones be bygones in showing off his red speedo. Weiss blushed in hoping that she would be the one to clear things up.

Blake and Sun let go from their embrace, as she had never been more alive to see him until now.

“I know it hasn’t been that long.” Blake said first. “I know you pointed out that I didn’t need you anymore, but…Well, considering how poorly Atlas went, I kinda needed to see someone like you.” She sheepishly admitted.

“That bad, huh?” He asked.

“Yeah.” Blake sighed. “I know my hair isn’t properly rendered, either.” She muttered.

“Huh?” Sun asked.

“N-Nothing.” Blake retorted. “Though I imagine you’d probably come up with a better name for it than Yang. Called it the “bi bob” or something.”

“It’s a working title!” Yang argued while busy ogling Sage and Neptune.

“Ruby? Jaune?” Coco Adel asked with her teammates on CFVY not far behind. “What the hell are you guys doing here?” She inquired with lowered shades.

“He-hey, Coco.” Jaune said in an attempt to be suave while healing Ruby’s volleyball-shaped bruise. “See, it’s a funny story. We were called here by Theodore to investigate some Grimm trouble. Like you were…I think.” He flatly stated.

“Heh, great to see you guys too.” Coco spoke. Velvet stood by her side with her hands down. “I’m guessing you could use some lessons on team leadership from me and Sun?” She assumed.

“We are 100% fully functional on being team leaders, thank you.” Ruby argued, having just regained her vision.

“Yet you can’t watch your back at volleyball. Not the best aim there, luv.” Velvet joked. “Right, how about your focus on that Zaibatsu copy compared to Sun's arse and muscles, Blake?” She joked to her cat friend.

“Oh, HA-HA!” Sun angrily replied, blushing.

“It was just a kiss on the cheek, Velvet.” Blake retaliated with an eyeroll.

“I believe ya.” The hare said. “Of course, Sun worded it differently.” She fibbed.

“No he didn't, Bun.” Coco said while giving her friend a skeptical glare behind her shades. Had it not been in public with their First Year friends, she would've given Velvet a stern talking to about who pulled that off better.

While the two lovely ladies of Team CFVY bickered as to who would/wouldn’t get the ball gag, Blake grasped her arm anxiously while Sun awaited her response.

“You, um…Wanna get lunch to make up for lost time?” She hesitantly asked.

Sun instantly beamed, knowing how much of a relief they both needed from Remnant going down the tubes.

“Hell yeah!”

[the-mad-starker]

Starker Smut: Stuck in a Rut

... Maybe I should start off with an apology first cause I feel like this is a tease more than anything.

Also, not beta'd and only very lightly looked over. Forgive me for any mistakes 😭 and God save me from titles. I might change this one cause idek. 

Alpha!Tony starting his rut and omega Peter just wants to help, if only Tony would let him.

Notes: alpha!Tony, omega!Peter, intersex omegas, dirty talk, Rutting alphas, phone sex, size kink

💗💗💗

Peter could smell it.

It wasn’t something he was familiar with but that primitive part of his brain knew what it was. That scent… It drew him in, made him lean closer, made him want to hiss at all the other omegas that might come near his alpha.

Mr. Stark.

The heady musk that only virile alphas gave off during certain times… It was doing funny things to Peter’s head. He wondered if the bite made him more susceptible to his omega instincts. Because for the last few days, Peter has been on edge. Whether or not he was near Tony, he was anxious and unsettled.

Maybe it was just him, after all. Not the bite. Not his spidey senses, just Peter Parker, an omega in the prime of his life. And apparently, this side of him was fixated on Anthony Stark.

Perhaps it would be surprising to others, but it wasn't to Peter. He had been obsessed with Iron Man and Tony Stark since he was unpresented. Those feelings only grew and changed after he had presented as an omega. And then it changed once more when he found out that Tony was an alpha.

His instincts saw Tony as the perfect mate. And it had nothing to do with his financial security, though that was certainly a bonus for sure.

No, Peter was in love with the man’s brilliance. With his busy hands and unrivaled mind. His generous heart.

So when he started smelling this scent, Peter knew almost instantly. The first time he had scented it, his body had lurched forward as though a hook had been buried in his stomach. The very first whiff of Tony’s alpha scent caused a violent tug towards the alpha and he had stumbled.

Of course, Tony caught him, worried over his sudden stumble. How could he explain that his mentor's scent was just… too much for him to handle? That he was getting wet… His little cocklet growing hard and slick wetting his holes… Looking into Tony's concerned gaze, how could he tell the alpha that he wanted him so much that he felt like he was going in heat because of that scent...

Tony was just a man. An incredible, genius of an alpha, but he didn't have Peter’s heightened senses. Did he know he was going into rut?

A few days later and the scent was so strong that it turned the heads of omegas and betas alike. There was a stiffness to Tony's shoulders, a tightening of the muscles in his face that told Peter that Tony was well aware now.

“I want to help you,” Peter demanded. His voice was steady, unyielding, but his heart was pounding, quaking in his chest.

“Help me with what, kid?” Tony didn't look up from where he was making repairs. He was playing dumb, something Tony rarely did with him.

So Peter put down his own tools and took the five steps he needed to get into Tony’s personal space. Tony’s alpha instincts were revved up by now, his urges kept simmering just right beneath his sweat damp skin.

Carefully, as though he was approaching a wild animal, Peter placed his hand on top of Tony’s shoulder. He could feel the fine tremble beneath his palm, Tony restraining himself from reacting.

“Your rut, Mr. Stark,” Peter said clearly.

Tony’s gaze snapped towards him, finally dragged away from the illusion that everything was okay. That he wasn't falling deeper and deeper into the first stages of an alpha’s rut.

His nostrils flared, no doubt catching Peter's distinctive scent and all the subtle notes in it. Worry. Interest. Arousal.

“... The hell, Peter?” Tony growled.

The omega only clenched his teeth, fighting back the urge to step away. His alpha was still in denial

What stopped Peter from being mortified was that even as Tony stared at him, his own scent didn't change. It remained receptive, even deepening in the way alpha scents did when they were trying to lure in a mate.

Except Peter was the one trying to lure in his alpha.

“I smelled it. Days ago,” Peter told him. His hand slipped down Tony’s shoulder and pressed the cotton of Tony’s tank against the warm skin of his chest. “You’re going into a rut and I can help. I mean, I want to help, sir.”

Tony told him to leave.

Peter left but that didn't mean he stayed away.

The tower went on lockdown that night but Peter was back in the morning. He waited on the roof, talking to Karen in the spidey suit, asking her to relay messages to Tony.

He smelled so close to his rut that Peter fretted, just waiting for his alpha to come to his senses.

“Karen, can you tell FRIDAY that Mr. Stark needs to drink more fluids this week?”

“I will relay the message,” Karen said, reassuringly.

“He’s not skipping meals, is he?” Peter muttered, more to himself than actually asking.

This was why alphas and omegas did better with a partner. It was easy to forget to do things. The most basic survival instincts, eating … sleeping… all disrupted during a rut or a heat. All placed secondary to the need to breed and that need would run rampant without a partner.

It was already late… He should return home but he couldn't help pacing around the roof. Worrying. Fantasizing.

If Mr. Stark started his rut, there was a chance that just one floor down, his alpha was already touching himself. Was he thinking of Peter?

The omega bit his lip, feeling the faint stirring of desire grow stronger.

Surely, Mr. Stark had something to help him?

Without a partner, omegas had knotting dildos. Fabricated alpha scent to ease the ache.alphas had fleshlights and synthesized slick and omega scents.

Peter had to stop himself from whining right then and there because his instincts knew that Mr. Stark needed him. And his body responded to the thoughts, insides getting soppy and wet in preparation.

It knew what his alpha needed and being a good omega meant being ready…

With a muffled whine, Peter dropped to his knees in frustration. All the way up here, there was no one to see him…

Peter pressed his hand between his legs, palming his growing cock and wishing Tony would just– His head tipped back as he leaned against the wall. He wiggled in place and groaned when wetness made everything slick and slippery between his thighs.

“Mr. Stark…” Peter groaned, frustrated.

“Mr. Parker,” the alpha's voice answered from his comm.

The omega nearly leaped off the building in surprise.

“Mr. Stark?!” Peter's heart was pounding and he immediately did a 360, trying to see if the alpha was nearby.

“I'm not–” Tony's voice was rough. “I'm inside, kid. What are you doing out there?”

Peter shouldn't have been surprised but for some reason, that realization only added to his frustration.

“...I was worried…” Peter admitted.

A few seconds of silence.

“You don't need to worry about me,” Tony huffed. “I'm… I'm fine, kid. Perfectly fine.”

Yeah, that wasn't convincing.

“Liar…” Peter muttered quietly. Of course, the system picked it up perfectly according to soft tsk Tony made in response.

“This isn't my first rut,” Tony sighed, “I can handle it. I just need a few days and I'll be fine.”

“But–” Peter cut himself off. They'd already had this argument and he had a feeling that they'd just be in an endless loop if it started up again.

“I can make it good for you,” Peter blurted out. He was immediately mortified, even more so when he heard a choked huff on the line. His face burned, but he didn't take it back.

Tony sighed but said, “Have you ever had a heat partner before, Parker? Or helped an alpha through a rut?”

“Well, no–”

“Then you have no idea what you're asking for,” Tony interrupted. “You think you can handle it? Ruts are… They're rough, kid. The things an alpha would do to you…”

The things I would do to you…

That was the hidden message, wasn't it? Peter's heart jumped at the thought and he clung to it.

“What… what would they do to me…” Peter said softly, hoping that Mr. Stark would go off into one of his rants.

It wasn't his lucky night. Tony immediately picked up the change in his tone, the breathlessness of it telling the alpha that Peter was getting turned on.

“Kid–” A warning, a plea.

“I'm not a kid,” Peter protested immediately. “You're saying alphas would– That alphas in rut would do all these things to me but what if that's what I want, Mr. Stark? As long as it's you… The things I would do if I was there with you and you were in rut, it's so… so embarrassing but I would do it!”

Beyond mortified now, Peter was ready to swing himself home and hide beneath the blanket. The silence between them only added to his embarrassment and he really was ready to jump off when his ears picked up the soft, shaky breath that Tony inhaled.

“...What would you do…?” Tony's voice was barely a whisper but it was enough to make Peter suddenly hyper aware of where he was. What he was doing.

His mind was telling him to be careful. He didn't want to fuck up this change. But another part of him was telling him to take the plunge. It had gotten him this far, hadn't it?

“Anything you want,” Peter answered honestly. “I'd… I'd let you do anything you want to me, Mr. Stark…”

Soft rustling, barely audible. A soft sigh.

“I like that…” Tony admitted, “But that's not what I was asking, kid. I want to know what you would do. If you were right here, right in front of me.”

Peter swallowed, trying to picture it. He had so many fantasies and when he was in bed, his mind would jump from one scenario to another, trying to choose the best one to suit his mood.

Tentatively and a bit shyly, Peter said, “That depends, sir… Are you, um, hard?”

A strained laugh. “Maybe. I am starting my rut.”

Peter shivered, already imagining it. He could do this… He could tell Mr. Stark all the dirty things he imagined when he was alone in his room.

It was easier to do when he closed his eyes, the soft sound of his alpha's breathing keeping him grounded.

“I'd already be… um, wet,” Peter began, “I always am when I think about it. About you, I mean.”

His fingers twitched on his thigh. His cocklet had softened a bit during this initial talk but once the first few thoughts came tumbling out, it was like he couldn't stop it.

“I think about you a lot,” Peter confessed, “A-And I think about all the omega's you've had and I get so jealous. Sorry… That's not… That isn't what you wanted to hear.”

He took a deep breath, trying to center himself.

“If… If you were in front of me, Mr. Stark,” Peter began again, “I'd want to touch you… I'd want you to touch me.”

Then a soft whisper, his fingers trailing over his inner thigh, barely brushing against his erection.

“My… cock is getting hard,” Peter said, “But I'd want you to see how wet I am for you… I'd take your hand and bring it between my legs… I'd let you touch me… Feel how slick I am…”

“Are you wet now?” The alpha asked.

The only way Peter had known Tony was still listening was the ragged breathes the mic picked up. Actually hearing the alpha's voice made his insides clench down, hungry for friction.

“I… think so.” Peter knew he was, he'd only gotten even more slick once he started talking. He'd never done anything like this and telling Tony Stark, the alpha of his dreams, about all these intimate details was really getting to him.

“Check for me.” Tony murmured.

It felt like Peter's heart stopped then jumped out of his chest.

“I'm wearing the suit…” Peter replied like that mattered. His legs were already spreading apart, his hand moving down. He hissed when his fingertips brushed against his pussy, the fabric damp with his slick.

He only wore a tiny thong. Didn't want any lines visible through the suit. It did absolutely nothing to stop the slick from speeding through his suit  when he was aroused.

“Are you?” Tony asked once again.

“Yeah…” Peter gasped, pressing down harder. “I'm really… wet for you.”

He waited with bated breath, wondering if that was too far. But on the other side, he heard a soft groan, the unmistakable sound of a cap being flicked open.

“Mr. Stark…” He started to pant, lazily stroking along the sensitive lips of his pussy over the cloth. “Are you touching yourself?”

“...Yeah…”

Peter groaned, removing his hand and squeezing his thighs together.

“I wish I could see it…” he said without thinking.

He heard a dark chuckle in response. Then his mouth almost dropped open when the screen in his suit blacked out. He gasped when his vision was replaced with an image of his mentor.

His alpha.

In the lab with his pants open and a rock hard erection proudly curving up towards his toned stomach. A large, calloused hand was stroking it, thick fingers lazily pumping from root to tip. It was glistening with wetness, coated in lube so that every stroke the alpha gave it looked almost effortless.

“It's huge…” Peter croaked, hands reaching out in front of him like he was actually there.

“I'm glad you like it,” Tony rumbled. His legs spread apart a bit more, giving Peter a more ample view of his groin.

The visual was messing with Peter's head a bit. It seriously felt like he could just lean over and touch it… his hands clenched in his lap, a soft whimper caught behind his teeth.

“Have you ever seen an alpha's cock…?” Tony asked him, voice low with promise.

“Only in porn,” Peter immediately answered then blushed. “Yours looks… better. Bigger.”

The alpha smiled and Peter felt those butterflies return, making him feel giddy and turned on at the same time.

“How about an alpha's knot…?” Tony murmured

“I… I would really like to see yours,” Peter said, breathless at the opportunity.

The older man let go of his cock, letting Peter get an unobstructed view of it. Saliva flooded his mouth when he took it all in… The thick veiny length of it and the folds of skin at the base where the knot would form.

“Mr. Stark…” he mumbled. “If I was there, I'd… God, I don't know what I'd do but I want it. I want it in my mouth… I want it inside me. I'd let you do anything you want, I just– I need it.”

Now that Tony had opened the video between them, he could see how his words affected the alpha. That impressive cock twitched at his words, precome forming into cloudy beads of fluid at the tip before dribbling down the sides.

His eyes were fixated on it.

“I'd lick that all up,” he said, shamelessly. He shifted in place, his hand closing in around his stiff cocklet. “I'd… God. I'd climb onto your lap and ride it.”

Tony's jaw clenched. Peter was pleased to see how much the alpha was being affected.

“I don't know if that'd be a good idea,” Mr. Stark says nonchalantly. “You should probably start out slow… Rutting alphas… You get a hole anywhere near our cock and we'd just fuck right in…”

“I'd let you,” Peter answered right away. At this rate, he wouldn't be surprised if there was a small puddle of slick under his ass. ”I’m so slick, Mr. Stark… You'd slip right in…”

Tony's lips parted, eyes dark as he imagined Peter's words.

“... Peter… You need to be sure… I'll try my best to control it but– I can't promise anything.” He said, almost begging. “Once we start, I won't stop… I'll end up rutting you… Knotting you over and over again.”

Peter only had one thing to say to that.

“Good.”

He saw Tony's lips part as he breathed in, eyes slipping shut for just a moment.

The last thing he saw was the alpha opening his eyes, all uncertainty wiped clean. His gaze was that of a predator's and it felt like he was looking right at Peter through the camera.

Peter's screen returned to normal.

“Get inside,” his alpha growled.

[reddielibrary]

The Better to See You With, My Dear

prompt: richie gets contacts and eddie is feeling ????? about it

written by: Alexis | quixoticquest

word count: 3960

*click title to read on AO3

Thirteen months, from kindergarten to first grade, marked the span of time Eddie Kaspbrak had known a Richie Tozier with perfect vision - and he didn’t remember a lick of it. Not the bare-faced expressions around the storytime mat, not the way dark brown eyes appeared without bugging behind enormous lenses. Not when Richie started squinting at the chalkboard in the October of first grade, not when he tripped and broke his nose on Halloween because he couldn’t see to begin with and certainly not out the tiny holes of his ghost sheet. Eddie remembered first grade when Richie got his glasses though, and even though he remembered in kindergarten too. Sometimes he found himself arguing with Bill or Stanley about the actuality of events, and even Richie’s own input wasn’t always enough to settle the stubborn hypochondriac.

Richie’s Glasses was just one of those things that had Always Been or felt like it had anyway. The chances of catching a glimpse of him with them off, out of the pool or at a sleepover, were so fleeting that Glasses just became the default. Growing up, the only thing Eddie could count on to never change was his friends, their quirks, familiar and comforting.

So you could imagine his concern when Richie announced his parents had finally caved and were taking him to get fitted for contact lenses.

Trashmouth Tozier had been begging to trade in his specs for years. The Losers Club had been on the receiving end of his whining for just as long, constantly groaning about how much of a drag it was to push them up his nose and clean them and keep them from getting broken (which he wasn’t very good at). But with his own hygiene regimen spotty at best, especially during the pubescent years, Mr. and Mrs. Tozier weren’t super keen to get Richie something that would require constant upkeep like that.

It wasn’t until Richie turned sixteen that all his whining paid off - and by then, Eddie thought he’d be stuck in glasses forever.

A Friday afternoon marked the end of what had Always Been. Richie left class early for his appointment at the eye doctor, rubbing his hand through Eddie’s hair on his way past his desk, pointing dramatically with both hands at the trademark frames across his face, before disappearing out the door with two thumbs up. It probably wasn’t the last Eddie would ever see of Richie with his glasses on, but it might as well have been.

That idiot refused to hang out with any of them the following weekend, drawing out the days and hours until Monday like some kind of sadist. The worst part was that he had homeroom with Beverly and Bill. Eddie wouldn’t even see Richie until fourth period.

“Mike said Ben said Bev said it was really weird,” Stan reported to Eddie during second period gym, and left it at that since there were balls to hit and bases to run.

The worst part was fourth period was Spanish, and Eddie had gone above his academic expectations for once and taken the Honors class, where they weren’t allowed to speak English, even to ask to use the bathroom. If he had known Richie was going to throw this curveball at him last year when he registered for classes, he would have stayed in Advanced and fucked Honors courses altogether.

There was no time to prepare - only to school himself when Richie came through the door, a couple of seconds before the bell, and descended into the seat beside Eddie as if nothing had happened. Really, technically, nothing had happened - but try telling that to the wound up dork gnawing the end of his pencil like a Twizzler.

Beverly was right, it was super weird. Richie’s glasses made his eyes huge, all big and shiny, and now they almost looked too small for his face. Eddie could see his eyebrows better, which made him even more expressive if that was even possible. It was easier to see his cheekbones too, though nothing could be done about all the miles of face hiding under his mophead until he bit the bullet and got a proper haircut.

“¿No me veo hermosa?” Richie asked, cheesing with all his teeth, bare eyes wide.

“Cállate,” Eddie griped, fixing his gaze on the chalkboard at the front of the room before he could be caught staring.

A couple days went by, and besides the occasional remark from their friends (and Richie’s constant boasting), nothing really changed. Or rather, a lot had changed, but Eddie seemed to be the only one who noticed. Was one day really all they were going to devote to this? Richie’s entire appearance had been reshaped with the exclusion of one single accessory! The entire fabric of who he was as a person had been altered forever.

Of course, Eddie couldn’t say that out loud because he knew it was ridiculous. Which might have been the worst part.

A week or so after the initial reveal, they had all gathered at Bill’s house to brainstorm for the college applications that would be due to submit as soon as the end of this summer. Eddie had been staring at the same blank page in his composition book for the last hour, scratching aimless doodles into the margin that probably wouldn’t have any bearing on the schools he was looking at (rather, the ones his guidance counselor was telling him to look at).

“Do you think I need to put varsity football and JV?” Mike asked, brows furrowed at his extensive list of extracurriculars. “Or is varsity big enough that JV is a given?”

“Here’s what I think: ditch them both,” Richie announced, pointing the end of his pen at Mike. “Better yet, dump the resume and essay altogether. Just submit a headshot and you’ll have all those schools begging for you to commit.”

Mike beamed. Beside him, Stanley leaned forward to tuck his chin onto his fist - fretting over a list even longer than Mike’s. Eddie was still trying to decide if the one day of mock trial he attended sophomore year counted as anything.

“Don’t tell me that’s what you’re doing,” Stan drawled at Richie - who sighed, his too-small eyes fluttering shut so he could tilt his head back.

“I could, but it wouldn’t be fair. It’s a shame, but this mug outshines all the volunteer work in the world. ‘Specially with all my handsome out on display for everyone to see now. Isn’t that right, Eds?”

Eddie clamped his tongue between his teeth and grunted, a paltry shadow of his usually feisty retorts. They were becoming harder and harder to dish out since they usually thrived on eye contact, which was becoming harder and harder to maintain with Richie looking like that.

They went on scribbling away, some more than others. At some point, while Bill was on the phone ordering pizza, Richie stood, hiking his legs overhead and limb alike to make it to the bathroom, backpack clutched in one hand - not that Eddie really took notice, since the seven of them had been getting up for various reasons all night.

He did notice, however, when Richie came back wearing his glasses.

“Well look who it is,” Beverly chuckled (because no one could ever let anything go unnoticed among the seven of them). “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Yeah yeah yeah, laugh all you want,” Richie retorted, arms rising over his head in some gesture of surrender, even as he smiled from under those familiar frames. “I can’t afflict you with my drop dead unfiltered gorgeousness all the time. It would be irresponsible.”

“But your obnoxious personality is totally fine, right?” Eddie snorted - unaware of just how easily it came out when that tortoise shell barrier was there.

Richie grinned his Richie grin. “Truth is, if you must know, my eyes were starting to hurt. Figured I’d switch so I didn’t have to turn in early. Now, let’s see if I remember how to work these things.”

If this was the return to form Eddie had been craving, maybe that meant he should savor it. There was no doubt he would see Richie in his glasses several times before the year was even out, though few and far between they may be.

This, he decided, glancing sidelong at the mophead trashmouth jackass beside him, was his opportunity to kiss goodbye that thing that had Always Been, and rev up for something new. Suck it up, take it like a champ. Like an adult, and not a baby who cried over object permanence.

But the next day at school, Eddie didn’t get a chance to put his rev-up to the test, because Richie came in with his specs on.

“I was running late,” he explained, launching into a long account of a hectic morning at lunchtime, that Eddie couldn’t even be bothered to pretend to care about.

Maybe he was late the next day too because once more he showed up bespectacled. No one really cared to ask, and he didn’t care to explain. But as the days crept on into weeks, into a month, the contacts seemed to have disappeared altogether.

Chief of all who didn’t care about this particular regression was Eddie - so much so that he didn’t even realize he didn’t care. He probably didn’t notice there was a difference at all. After all, what was so weird about Richie wearing glasses?

With finals coming up and Spanish kicking his ass, circumstances called for a study session. Eddie almost managed to intercept Richie at the front door and bustle him up to his room, but his mom’s Sonia Sense must have started tingling because she found them just in time to make it very clear that there would be no Toziers in her house after nine o’clock.

“I brought the new X-Men,” Richie proclaimed in a stage whisper when they reached Eddie’s room, wiggling a glossy issue in a plastic sleeve at Eddie.

“You’re here to study Spanish,” Eddie said at a completely normal volume. “Not Rogue’s boobs.”

Richie blew a raspberry. “She’s not even in this one, doofus. And last I checked, you’re pushing a B minus, and I’m on the star students poster.”

“Then stop speaking English and help me!”

Usually, study sessions devolved into aimless chaos pretty quickly, but they did a pretty good job of keeping on track this time, and Eddie did a pretty good job of keeping Richie and his constant asinine distractions at bay. It didn’t matter that the four-eyed idiot kept snickering at his color-coded flashcards either.

“I can’t remember the word for broom,” Eddie murmured at some point, pushing his top lip around with the eraser on his pencil.

“My mom said I better start wearing my contacts again or she’s not gonna pay for them,” Richie sighed.

Eddie looked up from his seat on the floor, arms folded around his flashcards on the edge of his bed. Richie, flopped across the mattress, flipped absently through his notebook full of chicken scratch. The bend of his head and the frames of his glasses concealed his expression ever so slightly.

“Huh?” Eddie asked dumbly.

Richie glanced over and pushed his specs up by the pad of his thumb. “La escoba,” he pronounced.

“You haven’t been wearing your contacts?” Eddie specified.

“Oh, I have,” Richie replied, nodding confidently. “I wear them with my glasses. That’s double the corrected vision. I can see into the fifth dimension.”

Eddie mimicked him in an unintelligible tone.

“Richie, why aren’t you wearing your contacts?” The question made him feel entirely too much like a parent. Hell, maybe that’s exactly what Mrs. Tozier had asked, hands on her hips and all.

Twisting his mouth every which way, Richie adjusted himself, pushing his notebook to the side, since he obviously wasn’t using it for anything practical. The yellow lamplight illuminating Eddie’s room sent the oblongs of white on the lenses of Richie’s Glasses around the frames as he moved.

Suddenly Eddie remembered the tangible possibility of Richie’s Glasses disappearing again. It wasn’t a very fun thought to remember.

“I dunno,” Richie finally confessed, setting his face in his hands, and his elbows on his knees. “It’s just - I mean I guess it’s just not how I thought they were gonna be.”

“Are they uncomfortable?” Eddie asked.

“Only for the first couple days.”

“Is it a lot to keep them clean?”

“No, you just hit ‘em with the contact solution. If I can’t aim and squirt then what kind of man would I be, Eds?”

Eddie huffed and rolled his eyes. He should have known better than to indulge I dunno and all the potentials for humor that might follow.

Situating himself squarely in front of his notes, though, it only took a couple seconds for Richie to roll himself back into Eddie’s line of sight - effectively demanding his attention again.

“I guess I just,” Richie mumbled, poking around one of the flashcards - armario-closet, to be precise. “I dunno. Thought I’d look better without glasses.”

Kneeling on the floor, with Richie laid out in front of him, put them basically at eye level. From here, though, Richie had to lift his gaze ever so slightly. Eddie watched his brows arch from behind his specs, dark eyes blinking. An unfiltered view - sort of.

“Look better?” Eddie repeated.

“Well, when you get called four-eyes your whole life…” Richie huffed, and rolled back again, always restless. “I just thought it’d be different y’know? I’ve got such a lousy prescription and I thought I’d finally look like less of a dumbass nerd with contacts but...maybe I’m overthinking it but it just doesn’t seem like you guys like me when I don’t wear my glasses.”

Eddie’s face screwed up. “What?”

Richie shrugged. “Maybe I talked it up too much but I was kind of hoping you’d make a bigger deal. No one really said anything or talked about it so I was like, oh shit, maybe I am hideous. Or maybe the glasses are just the perfect accessory to my comedy and I’ve ruined the whole schtick by dropping them. Or, you know, I’m hideous. Either or.”

“It’s not a big deal because you’re just you, Richie,” Eddie stated (completely unaware of what a hypocrite he was being). “So what if we didn’t say anything? We can’t go on and on about your face for the rest of our stupid lives.”

“Yeah, but…” Now, Richie sighed again, perhaps becoming too self-aware of how serious he had made the moment. “Eddie, it kind of felt like you couldn’t even talk or look at me when I wasn’t wearing my glasses.”

This was the part where Eddie felt like the biggest ass in the whole world. He might as well have turned into a donkey, like in Looney Tunes.

“Which could totally be just me,” Richie went on, smacking himself upside the head. “But that’s just what it felt like. So maybe it’s just me. I’m perfectly happy to be the idiot on this one. I’m usually very good at it.”

There was no way he could focus on Spanish now. Eddie collected all his flashcards and placed them in a neat little stack on the floor, so he could push himself up to sit on his own bed.

It was a crisis about fucking glasses. It didn’t need to get that deep. And yet, somehow, he felt like he owed Trashmouth Tozier somewhat of an apology - if you could fucking believe it.

“It’s not just the contacts,” Eddie confessed, tipping his head down.

“Aha, I was right,” Richie declared in a lackluster tone.

“It’s everything,” Eddie blurted right on his heels, sagging with a deep breath. “Everything is changing, Rich. And everything that changes just reminds me that all the stuff that’s Always Been is gonna be over next year when we graduate. Braces are coming off and bikes are getting sold and we’re all starting college applications that we’re not even going to submit for six months!”

He dropped his hands in his lap, slapping against his thighs, a crisp punctuation to his rant. Out of breath, Eddie puffed through his nose. Of course, now the room had to be dead silent, clawing and prodding at him with the reminder that this was way too honest for a study session.

Richie stared at him though, peculiarly thoughtful. At the very least, he wasn’t looking so much like a kicked, bespectacled puppy anymore.

“Well,” he finally said, steepling his hands between them, “this may come as a surprise to you, Eds, but I’ve always had eyes.”

“Oh shut up,” Eddie snapped (almost relieved for the lighthearted response). “You’ve always had glasses. And now you won’t, because you’re finally old enough to have contacts, and soon you’ll be old enough to move out and get out of dodge like we’re all gonna do.”

“Yeah, but isn’t that what we want?” Richie asked.

“I guess. It just feels like I liked thinking about it better as something far away then something we’re all flying toward at top speed.”

Childhood sucked. Any of the seven of them could tell you that. So why did the thought of it truly ending ache so much? Were the losers worth more than leaving Derry? Apparently fucking not, since they were all perfectly content to make their attempts to escape.

Just as Eddie was feeling sorry for himself, staring at the patterns in his quilt, Richie did something quite uncharacteristic. Just out of his line of sight, the trashmouth put his hand over the top of Eddie’s, curling them together in some gesture of support.

It was pretty awkward, but comforting in a weird, forced kind of way.

“I’m still me,” Richie said, offering his solid gaze when Eddie looked up. “Fuck you know I’m an idiot with the glasses on and off. That’s never gonna change. Hell, you can even call me four eyes of you want. The other two could be - hm - my nipples maybe? I’ve got that one eyed snake in my pants but that only makes three.”

“Richie-”

“The point is, Edward,” he continued, somehow lofty and sincere at the same time, “not everything is changing. Maybe we don’t get to sitcom it up at some university all seven of us. But we still have each other, as mushy gushy as that sounds. I’ll always be a phone call away. You called me to make me cart my ass over here. And I know the others feel the same way.”

What do you know? For all the stupid crap that came out of his mouth, Richie said something intelligent (and comforting) for once.

Before the telltale sting in his eyes could gain any traction, Eddie sighed his cares away or at least tried to. A motivational speech couldn’t fix everything. But just Richie saying it, Richie of all people, was enough to set him at ease. At least for now. And to think it hadn’t even been about Eddie in the first place.

“I know,” he answered, finally, soundly. If that wasn’t the only thing he was sure of, then he wasn’t sure of anything.

“I’m sorry I made you think I think you’re ugly,” Eddie added, deciding he wasn’t a huge fan of how he phrased that. “You’re not, I promise.”

Richie blinked at him expectantly. His hand still sat clammy and warm on top of Eddie’s.

“Well, if I’m not ugly, then what am I, Eds?”

“Oh, don’t you start,” Eddie ground out, pulling himself away.

“No no, this is important to me.” Richie sniffled dramatically, wiping away nonexistent tears from under his glasses, advancing incrementally. “You really hurt me, y’know? I’m broken-hearted. I might never heal.”

“Sure you won’t.”

“Come on, Eds!” At this point, Richie was practically bent over Eddie, and if he didn’t want to slide off the bed, he had to prop himself up on his hands, with nowhere else to go. “If I’m not an uggo then I must be something else won’t you please tell me what it is? Boost a poor boy’s self-esteem.”

“As if you need a self-esteem boost!”

“Pretty please, Eds? I’m dying here. The anticipation is killing me.”

“You’re okay looking I guess!” Maybe it was important that Eddie say it or maybe it wasn’t but he figured it was the least he could do (even if it warmed his face in the process). “You got a strong jaw and nice lips and sometimes I hear girls talking about your cheekbones and I guess I sort of agree with them!”

Maybe, Eddie realized retrospectively, he had revealed too much. Mostly because, Richie was staring at him from behind those big lenses - just a little too tenderly to be joking.

“Whoa,” he muttered. “That’s like, the nicest thing anyone has ever said about me. Besides my mom.”

Eddie blinked, feeling the heat spread further into his face. “Well I didn’t mean-”

Somehow managing not to send Eddie careening off the bed, Richie pressed forward enough to catch his lips in an entirely unexpected kiss. What Eddie lacked in mobility at the moment, he made up for in reaction time and found it in him to tip his chin up into Richie’s mouth without suffering all the shock and surprise that might have him freezing unhelpfully.

Richie got his arms around him and figured out how to pull him back onto the bed, which enabled Eddie to get a grip of his own, clinging to Richie’s shirt for all he was worth while their lips shifted and bumped together. Such a natural progression, it was a wonder it hadn’t occurred until just this moment.

Before they could get too carried away (which Eddie wasn’t super opposed to), Richie broke, huffing for air, as if he had been submerged in water. Rather than dwell on what kind of idiot couldn’t pace his own breathing (because he wasn’t one to talk about respiratory issues), Eddie stared up at Richie’s face, from the cradle of his arms, Klimt style.

To think Mrs. Kaspbrak was just downstairs tuning in to Dateline.

Without thinking very much about it, Eddie got one hand free to reach up to Richie’s face and pulled his glasses off carefully. That bare gaze followed his hand all the way to the side, as he folded up the arms and put them somewhere where they wouldn’t get in the way.

Richie’s eyes weren’t too small. They were probably perfectly normal sized, almost droopy in a way that was too endearing for his own good. And of course, there were those pink lips, and those cheekbones (which Eddie may or may not have come up with all on his own, no girls required).

“Well that’s just counterproductive,” Richie stated, quirking a smile in Eddie’s direction.

“How come?”

“What’s the point of no glasses if I can’t see you? Need those corrective lenses to ogle that booty, baby.”

Before Eddie could snap at him, he was kissed again, sweet and sound, and he couldn’t argue with that.

Maybe it was okay if some things that had Always Been changed. Eddie, for one, was certainly glad that he didn’t have a laundry list of medication to take any more. Things like Bill getting over his stutter and Stanley getting less anxious were good. Kissing Richie regularly was certainly a welcome change. And Eddie could learn to love a Richie with contacts, even if it was different from what had Always Been.

Just so long as Richie blinked his lenses in on the first try because watching the little disk flop out between his eyelashes was the fastest way to make Eddie gag.

[trash-the-tozier]

The Disappearance of Georgie Denbrough (8/10)

Title: The Disappearance of Georgie Denbrough

Length ~60.8k (~7.1k for this part)

Summary: The summer between junior and senior year of high school, Bill’s little brother Georgie goes missing.

Warnings: It’s relatively canon-typical in terms of content. For this part there’s explicit language and copious amounts of Richie

Pairings: Richie/Eddie and eventual Ben/Beverly

A/N: hey! Formal apology for this chapter, because it kinda breaks away from the format I wanted for this fic: it's all from Richie's point of view. I know, I'm sorry, but I started writing the scene and didn't realize it was over 8k words until I'd finished it. It's got a lot of stuff I wanted to have be from Richie's perspective, and when I tried reworking it to be from different perspectives it just felt clunky. So... yeah. This chapter is a little longer than the others, and it's all Richie, but we'll return to our regularly scheduled programming in the next part! Thank you for reading!! also posted to my ao3 here (much more readable tbh) Previous Parts: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7

Richie thought he would need to knock on the front door to get Sonia Kaspbrak’s attention, but all it took was for him to set one foot on her lawn before she was out of the house, lumbering down the porch steps towards him. Her beady eyes were angry behind her glasses.

“What are you doing here?” She asked shortly. Richie gave her what he hoped was a winning smile.

“I just wanted to check on Eddie! Make sure he’s alright, you know. He had a nasty fall. A fall that was not any of our fault, by the way.”

She huffed at him.

“He’s in bed. You’ll have to come back later.”

Richie raised an eyebrow.

“You’re inviting me to your house later today?”

“No.”

“Well, now I’m just confused.”

Her nostrils flared, and Richie didn’t need to say anything more. He was informed that he was a loudmouthed smart aleck (which he already knew, thanks) and he found that despite how much she hated him, it was actually hard to get her to stop talking to him.

“Well, I’ve gotta scram.” He finally said after a couple minutes spent inching closer and closer to the road, cutting her off mid-word. “Not that it hasn’t been lovely, but I’ve got someplace to be. A date, if you will. And Mrs. K, I really do miss Eddie. Tell him hi for me, alright?”

He gave a wave, then started up the street. Eddie was just around the corner, waiting for him.

“Geez, that took a while. Did you two solve world hunger or something?”

“It actually wasn’t me doing most of the talking, thank you very much.”

“Okay, for once in your life.”

Richie reached down and took Eddie’s hand, grinning when it made him flustered, and they started together towards town. The more people they saw the more Richie was unsure if Eddie wanted to keep to holding his hand like this, but any time he tried to pull away his boyfriend’s grip was steadfast, and Richie’s heart soared.

“...and because of your nasal turbinates and uvula, you’ll probably snore when you’re older.” Eddie was saying. He was using a bunch of medical terminology for normal body parts, and as a result Richie barely could follow what he was talking about.

“Uh huh. Eds?”

“Yeah?”

“Stop saying uvula. I don’t think I have one.”

“It’s just the dangly thing in the back of your throat, Richie.”

“...oh.”

Eddie laughed at him, sighing a little.

“Thanks for this. You were right; I was going a crazy in there.”

Richie grinned.

“Say that again. I barely ever get to hear anyone say that I’m right.”

“No.”

“Please? Come on Eds!”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Eddie? Richie?”

They turned at the familiar voice, face to face with Mike. He was slowing his bike to a stop, hopping off when he reached them. Richie caught his eyes going to their entwined hands, but he didn’t say anything about it.

“How are you guys? I haven’t heard from either of you.”

“Alright.” Eddie supplied. “Could be better.” He held up his cast, the bulky plaster making his upper arm look even tinier than usual. Mike nodded a little.

“I tried to call your house, but your mom got mad and wouldn’t let me talk to you. Well, that and she didn’t know who I was.”

“...sorry.” Eddie said, but Mike waved him off. “Have you talked to anyone else?”

Mike shook his head.  

“I called Stan this morning, but he wasn’t home. I think he…” He trailed off, glancing across the street. “He’s right there, actually.”

They all turned. Bill, Ben, and Stan were walking along the other side of the street, an overnight bag slung over Stan’s back. Mike waved and Ben noticed, stopping the other two to point and wave back. Richie met Bill’s eyes across the road and Bill’s lips fell into a line, Richie feeling his own expression harden.

“Let’s go talk to them.” Eddie said, starting forward to cross the street. Richie didn’t move, and Eddie glanced back when he felt the resisting tug on his hand.

“I don’t want to.” Richie confessed. “I think Bill’s still mad at me.”

“Well, let’s walk over and find out.”

“Eddie--”

“I’ve spent three days stuck in my room and I want to see my friends.” Eddie insisted, letting Richie’s hand go and stepping into the street. He was halfway across when there was the rev of an engine and a wild yell, Henry Bowers’s black convertible roaring down the street at him. It was on a collision course, slurs from the Bowers gang ringing in Richie's ears as he ran out after Eddie, Mike shouting and grabbing at his shoulders.

“Someone's got him! Careful!”

The car blasted past them, Richie realizing that if Mike hadn't been there to hold him back, he'd be roadkill. And true to Mike’s word someone did have Eddie, a man on the other side of the street having picked him up and out of danger, lifting him like a sack of potatoes and running out of the way. The man had the hood up on his jacket and a pair of long pants on, his face angled down. Then he looked up to grin Richie’s way before darting off, a noticeable limp in his gait. His face was streaked with dirty white face paint.

“Fuck!” Richie jumped back into motion, Mike right at his heels. He couldn’t believe he’d let this happen again, that again the clown had Eddie and again Richie was chasing him. But the other three across the street had already caught onto what was happening and also jumped into motion, giving pursuit down an alley. There was a hand over Eddie’s mouth and nose but he was still squirming and struggling, a kick to the clown’s injured leg causing him to stumble. Then Stan stooped and picked up a metal pipe from a pile of scraps to be taken with the garbage, hitting the clown in the back of the knees. The man crashed to the ground, dropping Eddie as he fell. He scrambled up just as fast but Richie didn’t care about him anymore, kneeling next to Eddie on the asphalt.

“Fuck Eds, are you o--”

“I’m fine.” Eddie said quickly. And maybe he was physically, but his eyes were blown wide with fear, his limbs shaking with adrenaline. “Did… Did I just almost get kidnapped?”

“Something like that, yeah.” Mike said after a moment. To Richie’s surprise, none of them had pursued Pennywise, the entire group crowded around Eddie instead. Eddie held up a hand, and Ben helped him to his feet. He was just looking around, his eyes still a little frantic, flinching when Bill touched his arm.

“Eddie?” Bill asked hesitantly, and Eddie properly looked at him, then stepped closer and Bill pulled him in for a hug.

“Do you want to go back home?” Richie asked. Eddie shook his head against Bill's chest.

“No, my mom'll be mad. I don't want to deal with that right now.” He stepped back and looked a bit calmer, glancing around at all of them. “Thanks for not letting him get me.”

“He tried to get me too.” Stan said. “Yesterday.” He let the metal pipe go and it fell to the ground with a heavy clanging sound. “He came into my house last night, when my parents were out. I hid until he left.”

“Holy shit, Stan.” Richie said. Stan glanced at him, shrugging a little.

“So I spent the night at Bill's, and I'm doing it again.”

That explained his bag, and Eddie looked up at Bill.

“Could I do that too?” He asked.

“Yeah, but w-w-will your mom let you?”

“No, but I don't care.”

Richie found himself grinning at that.

“Big sleepover at Big Bill's?” He proposed, looking around at them all. “It'll be fun. It'll be good to have some fun.”

Both Mike and Ben looked over at Bill, because really it wasn't Richie's decision to invite people to someone else's house, but Richie had known Bill long enough to know that he wouldn't have a problem with it. Sure enough, Bill nodded.

“S-sure. You're all invited.”

Ever polite, both Mike and Ben thanked him before going separate ways to get what they would need to spend the night. When Eddie realized he didn't have any of that stuff either, he began to fret.

“I don't have my meds, or my toothbrush, or a change of clothes… I'm gonna be grounded for at least two weeks the second I go back home, though. I wouldn't be allowed out. But I can't not take my medication, I just…”

“I'll get it for you!” Richie offered quickly. “I know where you keep all that stuff. I'll grab whatever you need.”

Eddie smiled at him, but Bill still looked troubled.

“How can you sleep over without telling her? She'll t-tear up t-the neighborhood looking for you if you don't come home.”

That was true. Eddie sighed.

“I'll just call her when we get to your house and see how well begging really works. If it doesn't she'll just pick me up, I guess.”

They split ways at the road leading out of town, Stan, Bill, and Eddie going to Bill's while Richie walked back to Eddie's house. It was simple to get into Eddie's room, finding a canvas bag and stuffing a clean outfit in. Under other circumstances Richie would have had a lot of fun with being in control of Eddie's next outfit but this wasn't the time, instead simply grabbing something that looked comfortable.

He was making his way down the hall to Eddie's bathroom when the downstairs telephone rang. Richie held his breath as Sonia Kaspbrak got up to answer it.

“Eddie?!” It was apparent by her voice that she hadn't yet found out that her son wasn't tucked away in his room like he was supposed to be. “Where are you?”

Richie winced, continuing on to the bathroom. It sounded like Mrs. K was yelling, actually, full-on yelling, which was something she never, ever did.

“Sweetie. If you're unhappy, we can just put you on some antidepressants.”

A long silence followed, Richie listening closely, wishing he could hear Eddie's side of the conversation. The last thing Eddie needed was more pills; Richie wasn't sure he'd be able to get down the trellis stealthily enough with the amount of rattling all of Eddie's medication would doubtlessly be doing. He opened the medicine cabinet in the bathroom to find that Eddie needed refills for nearly everything in his daily pill case, cursing under his breath. His mother refilled the box weekly, and it was time for her to do it again. He'd just have to go to Mrs. Kaspbrak’s bathroom, swipe a bunch of stuff, and hope Eddie knew which was which.

He made it to her bathroom easily enough; she was still extremely preoccupied with her phone conversation. Her voice had simmered down to a quiet, sickly-sweet sort of rage that made Richie's stomach turn.

Sonia's bathroom was surprisingly less than spotless, but Richie tried not to think about it, opening the cabinet on the wall next to the sink. Eddie's medications were all on a shelf of their own, all of the boxes and bottles carrying two stickers. One was standard and white, with Eddie's name and dosage instructions on it. The other was a bright red rectangle, with nothing on it but “PLACEBO” written in large white lettering.

He stared at the word, and the word seemed to stare back. It felt like a bizarre conspiracy, but the evidence was there, right in front of him; placebos. Eddie's medications were all fake. Even a box with an extra asthma inhaler had a placebo sticker on it. Richie searched through all of the bottles, only finding one without the sticker, and it turned out to be the painkillers for his arm. He stuffed those in his canvas bag, feeling conflicted as he looked over the rest of the pills. Eddie didn't need them, so Richie didn't want to take them. But still, Eddie deserved to know the truth. Richie grabbed the fake inhaler and a box with some of those red and white pills that he recognized and put those in the bag too, wrapping everything with a sweatshirt to keep the rattling to a minimum. Then he closed the cabinet, walking back out into the hallway.

Mrs. K was still on phone, but the conversation seemed to be wrapping up.

“Fine. But Mrs. Denbrough needs to be aware that I will be there at six to pick you up tomorrow morning, and that's when you'd better be ready to go.”

Then she hung up, and Richie hurried back to Eddie's room. He was back outside in no time, the overnight bag over his shoulder, dashing off to Bill's. Mike and Ben were already there by the time he arrived, and everyone was smiling.

“Mike brought s-some stuff, we're going t-t-to make dinner.” Bill explained as he let Richie inside, leading him to the kitchen.

“Oh, so we're burning your house down. Fun!” Richie called out a greeting and waved at everyone, Eddie hurrying over and taking the bag from his hands to search through what he'd brought. He noticed the lack of his regular medicine and looked up in silent question, confused. Richie took his arm to pull him aside, speaking quietly as Bill went to rejoin Stan, Mike, and Ben by the sink.

“I need to talk to you.”

“Is it about something bad?” Eddie asked, equally quietly. Richie chewed his lip for a moment, thinking.

“Kind of, yeah.”

“Then can it wait?”

Richie was all too familiar with how Eddie must be feeling, desperate looking for any sort of escapism, and nodded, kissing his forehead.

“Yeah. Of course.”

Stan let out a loud, giggly sort of laugh, the both of them looking over to see him armed with the kitchen soap while Mike had his thumb over the faucet, aiming the water flow and getting Stan's shirt soaking wet. Both Ben and Bill had jumped back, out of the splash zone.

“No!” Eddie exclaimed, hurrying forward, letting his hand trail down Richie's arm as he stalked towards the commotion. “Stop it! I told you guys to wash your hands!”

Richie laughed, going over to throw Eddie's bag on Bill's couch. Bill approached him, a cautious look in his eyes.

“Hey, Richie…” He looked at him for a moment before his gaze went straight to his feet. “I shouldn’t h-have pushed you. Or p-p-punched you. I’m sorry.”

Richie considered him for a moment, and in his silence Bill glanced back up. To his credit, he really did seem very sorry about it, chewing on his bottom lip, his eyebrows drawing together. Richie sighed.

“I’ve gotta say, I'm not really sorry for pushing you, Bill. But that’s only because it didn’t seem to do anything. You’re like a brick wall.” He chuckled, Bill giving him the slightest of smiles back. “But I did say some stuff, some stuff that I really didn’t mean, and… I’m sorry too.”

Bill pressed his lips together into a thin line, swallowing harshly. He looked upset, as though upon getting the forgiveness he’d sought after, he felt he didn’t deserve it. Richie stuck out a hand.

“Are we good?” He asked, making eye contact with Bill and holding his gaze. Bill stared at him for just a moment more before stepping forwards, disregarding the proposed handshake completely and pulling Richie in for a crushing hug. Richie couldn’t help his laugh of surprise, wrapping his arms around Bill too and giving him a squeeze.

“You guys are being really cute over there and everything but we’ve got a situation!” Mike called to them, and they both looked over. “Situation” was one way of putting it; Eddie was chasing both Stan and Ben around the kitchen with a rather aggressive-looking egg beater. Richie went weak-kneed in laughter, Bill disentangling himself in an attempt to do some damage control.

Eventually, after a dry shirt for Stan and a lot of direction from Mike, dinner was underway. There was meat in a pan, pasta in a pot, and a mound of steamed broccoli when they were finished, Richie helping Ben set the table. To Richie’s pleasant surprise, the food they managed to make together was actually really good. But Mike had orchestrated the whole thing, and as he currently held the record for the maker of the best soup Richie had ever had, he figured he shouldn’t have expected any less.

They all inhaled their food, Richie finishing up a third helping as Stan, Mike, Bill, and Ben all carried their dishes back into the kitchen. Eddie stood up to do the same, but Richie stopped him.

“You can stay the night, then? How did the phone call with your mom go? What did you tell her?”

“I…” Eddie shrugged. “The truth, kind of. I told her that keeping me inside was making me unhappy. It almost backfired, but I managed to keep her from getting me on antidepressants, so that’s good. I told her that a sleepover would make me happy, then I asked her if she wanted me to be happy or not. I feel a little bad about guilt-tripping her, but it worked.”

Richie considered that, scratching his chin.

“Do you think that’ll work when she finds out about us?”

“...when?” Eddie echoed after a moment. Richie blinked at him.

“Would you rather it be ‘if’?” He asked back, and Eddie sighed.

“I don’t know. I’m sorry Richie, I just… I did come out to her once, you know. She pretends it never happened. Asks me about girls all the time. Besides,” he gave Richie a little grin. “I think finding out that I picked you out of the entire male population might give her a heart attack.”

Richie nodded a little. They didn’t need to talk about this right now, he supposed, winking at Eddie instead as he got to his feet.

“I tend to have that effect on people.”

To his great surprise, Eddie reached up and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.

“I know. Maybe that’s why I like you so much.”

Richie was powerless against the blush rising up his face.

“That just isn’t fair.” He protested weakly, turning to the door to see a red-faced Ben Hanscom standing in the doorway.

“Hi there, Ben. Benny. Bean Burrito.” Richie was rambling a little, caught off guard, and Eddie looked close to mortified.

“...hi.” Ben finally said, ducking past them to get to the living room. They were silent for a moment.

“Well. I guess he knows now.” Eddie remarked, and Richie laughed.

“Wanna just tell everyone tonight?” He asked. The idea excited him, his spontaneity seeming to surprise Eddie a little. “Bev already knows. And Stan knows I like you.”

“Oh. I guess so, then. Sure.”

Richie beamed, leading the way back into the kitchen. Mike was in the middle of washing their dinner dishes but Richie wrestled the sponge from his hands, insisting that he had done enough already and to let himself and Bill do the washing up instead. That nearly escalated into a water fight as well, and by the time everything was cleaned, dried, and put away it was well past eight o’clock. They all sat around in the living room, waiting for it to hit 9:00.

“Your parents really don’t mind all of us being here?” Ben asked. He looked concerned, but Bill shook his head.

“My dad said it’s okay as long as we clean up after ourselves, and my m-m-mom… She’s just in bed a lot these days. W-we probably won’t even see her.”

The second hand on the wall clock ticked, turning 8:59 to 9:00, and instantly the telephone rang. All six of them jumped up, sliding on sock-clad feet to make it to the phone. Richie picked up the receiver, leaning against the doorframe. He stood on one foot, crossing the other so only his toes touched the floor, adjusting his coke-bottle glasses unnecessarily. He gave Eddie a smile.

“Hello? Zachary Denbrough here. Oh, well good evening Mrs. Kaspbrak.” Of all of the terrible voices Richie made and the horrible impressions he couldn't really do, he had one good one: Bill’s dad, Mr. Denbrough. Or rather, Mr. Denbrough over the phone; they’d never had to try it out in person. Sleepovers had a slim-to-none chance of being approved if Mrs. K knew Richie was going to be there, so when she called at nine p.m. sharp to ask who it was that the Denbroughs were letting sleep in the same house as her son, they lied. Richie told her that he wasn’t there, sympathizing about how terrible of a child he was. He quite enjoyed it, actually. It was fun.

“Hello.” Mrs. Kaspbrak responded haughtily. “Is Eddie there?”

Richie wiggled his eyebrows, looking pointedly at Eddie.

“Yes, Eddie made it here. He’s been here a couple of hours now, with Bill and Stan, and a lovely friend the boys made while at the library named Benjamin.”

“I’m sorry, who?” Her voice got dangerous, and Richie winced. He should have kept it to the usual crowd. All eyes turned to look at Ben, who’d begun to blush.

“Oh, Ben? I’ve heard all sorts of things about him from my boy.” Nervous, Richie was getting little heavy on the nasally tone that was faint, but ever present in Mr. Denbrough���s voice. Stan pointed to his nose, Richie nodding in understanding as he adjusted. “A real stand-up citizen, trust me. He got top marks in the English class they had together.”

Ben’s face was definitely red now, Bill putting a hand on his shoulder with a grin.

“...fine. I’ll have to ask him about that. What about Richard Tozier?”

“Richard? Why would that hooligan be in my house?” Richie’s face took up an expression of pure horror. Mrs. K couldn’t see his face but Eddie sure could, and Richie wanted to make him laugh. It worked; Eddie giggled behind his hands. “No, no. Ever since you told me what color that vomit was on your flowers, I’ve made sure he stayed clear of my front lawn.”

Mike looked both confused and vaguely horrified, Stan offering an expression that was supposed to mean “we’ll tell you later”. It was hard to tell if Mike understood the sentiment.

“Good.” Sonia sounded rather miffed. “I’d rather Eddie keep away from him.”

“Yes, well, we can only control so much of our children’s lives, you know.” Richie’s voice was attempting to imply years of wisdom beyond his age, but with a mental age of seven, he didn’t end up sounding all that astute. “One more year of that rowdy child, then our own will be off to college and won’t have to deal with him anymore.”

Bill began to tap his foot. It was unusual for Mrs. K’s calls to take this long. She seemed in a chatty mood though, continuing to talk.

“College, yes… Where is William going to school?”

“Bill? Where he’s going to school? Oh, uh… The University of…” Richie caught Bill’s eye, desperate, but Bill just shrugged back helplessly. “University of North Edward College. He’s studying…” Another painfully long pause; Richie’s mind was blank. His next words came out in a rushed, uncharacteristic squeak. “Squirrels. Must be off now!”

Richie hung up, and the group collapsed into laughter.

“University of North Edward College?” Stan asked, incredulous. “What does that even mean? And squirrels, really? Literally anything you could have said would have been better than squirrels.”

“I couldn’t help it!” Richie exclaimed. “My default response to ‘what are you majoring in’ is ‘Eddie’s Mom’, but I couldn’t say that to her!” He stepped forward, slinging an arm around Stan’s shoulders. “But I saw your face, and was struck with a squirrely inspiration.”

Stan rolled his eyes. “Go fuck yourself, Tozier.”

“Would love to, but I’m not quite flexible enough.”

Stan made a face, shoving Richie off him. The group made to go to Bill's room, but Richie hung back by the phone.

“Coming?” Bill asked. Richie waved a hand.

“There's one more call I want to make. I'll catch up with you.”

He knew it was cryptic but nobody pressed him for an explanation so he didn't give one, dialing Beverly's number. She deserved to be here too.

“Hello?”

“Bev?”

“Yeah, it's me.” She paused. “Which of my wonderful teenage boys am I talking to?”

Richie laughed. “You wound me. It's Richie! We're having a sleepover at Bill's, and I wanted to know if you can make it.”

She was silent for a good while.

“Am I invited?” She asked after a moment.

“You'd have to climb in through Bill's bedroom window, if that's what you mean.” He answered. “But we'd all love to see you.”

She was quiet again.

“I'd have to wait for my dad to go to sleep, and he's not even home from work yet.”

“It's no rush. You don't even have to show up if you don't think you can. I just wanted to let you know.”

“Thanks Richie.” There was a smile in her voice. “I'll see what I can do. But don't wait up for me, okay?”

“Whatever you say, buttercup.”

“Shut up.”

He laughed, saying his farewells and hanging up. He got up the stairs just in time to hear Eddie's watch going off for his evening medications, Eddie excusing himself with his overnight bag over his shoulder and nearly running into Richie outside Bill's bedroom door. He thrust the bag into Richie's hands.

“Tell me what's going on.” He requested. Richie twisted his fingers up in the bag’s straps, suddenly nervous.

“Should we go downstairs for this? Or… You should at least sit down.”

“Just tell me! You're freaking me out.” Eddie exclaimed. Richie reached around him and closed Bill’s bedroom door, just in case. Then he pulled the bottle of painkillers out and handed them over. He had to take a deep breath before he could speak.

“This is the only medication in your mom's cabinet that's actually helping you.”

Eddie frowned at him.

“Richie, what are you talking about? These are temporary; they're my painkillers for this thing.” He lifted his cast arm up. Richie nodded.

“I know. Everything else in your mom's medicine cabinet looks like this.”

He pulled the other bottle out, placing it in Eddie's hands. The placebo sticker was facing up, bright red, and Eddie stared at it.

“Placebo…?”

“It means the drugs are fakes. They don't do anything.”

“I know what placebo means!” Eddie snapped, and while Richie knew the harshness wasn't truly directed towards him, it still made him take a step back. “Just… You said all of them were like this? All of them? Even--?”

Richie pulled the inhaler box out too, and Eddie snatched it from his hands. He opened it and looked at the inhaler inside, identical to the one he always carried with him.

“How?” He asked, and Richie didn't know what to say. “How did--since--when did she… I don’t --”

“Eddie! Eds. Breathe.” Eddie was taking gasping inhales and heavy exhales with every word, his chest heaving. He gripped tightly to the front of Richie's shirt, bringing the inhaler to his mouth. It took a little but Eddie brought his breathing under control again, Richie rubbing circles on his back.

“You okay, Spaghetti Man?”

“It worked.” Eddie said after a moment. He held the inhaler a bit tighter. “If it's a fake, how come it worked?”

“Isn't that the point of a placebo, though?” Richie pointed out. “To make you think it worked? Even if you don't have asthma, right?”

“What are you talking about? Asthma attacks--”

“That's the thing though, Eds.” Richie cut him off, and Eddie looked a little angry. “What just happened to you, and all the other asthma attacks you've had in the past… I get those too. They're called panic attacks.”

“Of course I'm fucking panicking! How could I not be fucking panicking?”

Richie pulled him in for a hug, letting his chin rest on the top of Eddie's head for a moment.

“I can't not take my medication, Richie.” Eddie mumbled softly into his shirt. “I just can't.”

“If you really need me to, I'll go back to your house and get everything else.” Richie said. He wasn't sure how he would slip past Mrs. Kaspbrak, but he would try. “But for now, just take these,” he pressed the painkillers into Eddie's hand, “and these, if that makes you feel better,” he traded out the inhaler for the red and white fakes, “and just try not to think about it. Okay?”

“...okay.” Eddie finally said. He turned the bottle of placebos over in his hand. He let his eyes fall closed for a moment. “Thanks for telling me, Richie. I'm… I'm glad I know, at least.”

Richie returned with a smile that he hoped was comforting, surprised to find that he was relieved that Eddie believed him. He got Eddie a glass of water, noticing with pride that he only swallowed down one pill, putting an arm around his shoulders in front of Bill's closed door.

“Alright, Eds Spagheds. You ready to go back in there?”

Eddie rolled his eyes.

“Don't be dumb, Richie.”

Richie could tell that at least some of the brazen attitude was an act so he stepped into Bill's room grandly, throwing open the door and striding in with his hands on his hips, garnering everyone’s attention while Eddie slipped inside quietly.

“William Billiam! I require soft sleeping pants!”

“Okay, but I'm getting you a s-s-shirt, too.” Bill said dryly, but he was smiling. “And you're going to w-wear it.”

Richie made a show of complaining, lamenting that “what is a shirt, if not a cotton prison”, but thanked Bill when the sleepwear was handed over and changed quickly. They arranged themselves comfortably around Bill's room, conversation beginning easily. They talked about family first, mostly because Ben wanted to know if Richie actually had a sister, or if his mother was actually dead. The answer to both of those was no, but it was still pretty funny.

Whenever a natural lull fell around them Richie wanted to spill the beans about himself and Eddie, because Eddie just looked much too cute in an oversized hoodie and tucked under his arm. Unfortunately, he wasn’t sure how. A couple times he considered pulling the “guess who has two thumbs and is dating the cutest person in the world” line, but he didn’t just want to spring the announcement on Eddie as well as everyone else, considering all he’d been through today. He wanted the conversation to naturally just flow that way, but he was having a hard time trying to steer it. Finally, he managed to stick his foot in.

“Hey Ben, do you remember that question I asked you about Beverly the other day?”

Ben blushed red, but before he could say anything a muffled voice came from somewhere outside Bill’s room.

“Are you guys talking about me?”

There was a sharp tap on Bill’s bedroom window and Stan jumped, letting out a yell in surprise.

“Bev!” Richie exclaimed in excitement, Bill getting quickly to his feet to let her in. He opened the window and Beverly tumbled in from the tree outside Bill’s window, laughing a little. She brushed a couple of leaves off her clothes, grinning, everyone except Richie looking stunned to see her.

“Y-y-you, w-w-w-w-w-we… What?” Bill stammered out, and Beverly giggled.

“I called her! I invited her.” Richie said, Beverly sending him a wink. “It wouldn’t be a group sleepover without her.”

“Hi.” Beverly finally said, waving, getting waves back as she sat herself down happily next to Ben. Everyone was still staring at her, and she laughed.

“What Bill, never had a girl in your room before?”

Richie could've sworn all of them blushed. Maybe except Ben, but that was because he hadn't yet stopped blushing from Richie's question earlier.

“I'm glad you managed to escape.” Richie said. Beverly looked a little guilty, nodding.

“My dad said he wanted a drink when he got home, so I crushed up a sleeping pill in his beer.” She confessed. They all gaped at her.

“Isn't mixing alcohol and soporific drugs like… Super fucking dangerous?” Eddie asked hesitantly. “Couldn't that kill him, or something?”

Beverly looked hilariously unconcerned.

“Sleeping pills and stuff have never really had that much of an effect on him.” She said with a shrug, Richie wondering how it was she knew that. “I'm sure he'll be fine. What are you guys up to?”

“We ate dinner, and now we're just hanging out.” Mike said with a shrug. “Are you hungry, Beverly? There's food left.”

Beverly considered it for a moment before nodding.

“Sure, I could eat. Thanks.”

Mike got to his feet with Bill and Ben following behind, Bill looking like he was trying hard to be a good host, Ben looking a bit disappointed that he hadn't thought of offering the food first. Beverly reached over, ruffling Stan's hair.

“You okay?” She asked him. He shrugged.

“Been better.”

“Yeah, I can tell. You look weird.”

He snorted. “Thanks.”

“Eddie looks weird too.” Beverly said, turning her attention to Eddie now. “Did something happen today?”

��A lot has happened today.” Eddie said with a nod. “The clown...”

“You guys saw him?” Beverly asked. “When? What happened?”

“We should talk about it with everyone.” Stan said. “But… I saw him yesterday, and all of us saw him today.”

“I did a little more than see him.” Eddie mumbled, and Richie suddenly felt guilty. He'd been completely useless, powerless to stop any of the terrible things Eddie had gone through in the past week. He wanted to be better. He needed to be better than that.

“I'm sorry.” He said quietly. Eddie looked up at him.

“Sorry? Sorry for what?”

“I haven't been able to do anything.” He explained. “Not in the Neibolt house, not earlier today… Hell, it was even my idea to go outside today, if I hadn't suggested it then--”

“If you hadn't suggested it, then I'd be in bed getting pills shoved down my throat by my psychotic mother.” Eddie interrupted. Richie frowned.

“Yeah, but--”

“No.” Eddie cut him off, taking both of Richie's hands with his own. “I would have been completely miserable, but instead I'm here with all of my friends. I have you to thank for that. You’re the one that’s keeping me from completely losing my fucking mind.”

Richie smiled a little, in spite of himself.

“God damn Eddie, could you please just let me blame myself for this?”

“Not a chance, Tozier.” Eddie had a small smile playing on his lips too and Richie decided fuck it, he didn’t care about an audience, leaning in and kissing him. Bev and Stan already knew anyways, to some extent. He realized though, once Eddie's lips touched his, that it wouldn't have mattered much if they knew already or not, because this was so, incredibly worth it.

There was the heavy thunk of glass hitting carpet behind them and Richie and Eddie both turned to see the rest of the group in the doorway, Bill standing front and center and letting the water from the cup he'd just dropped seep into his socks and the carpet below. He looked stunned.

“W-w-w-w-w-wh…?”

“Okay Bill, I'm sorry, but you're going to have to do a little better than that.” Richie told him, because he was suddenly nervous about what Bill might say, or do. He tried to remember Stan’s words about how worrying was stupid, and the rational part of him knew that Stan was right, but that rational part was very, very small, especially in the face of something as terrifying as possibly losing a best friend.

“I-I-I-I-I…” Bill stammered a bit more. “...what?”

That wasn’t much, but it was something.

“I like Eddie.” Richie explained. Eddie hit him in the arm. “A lot.” He tacked on.

Eddie hit him again.

“What?” Richie asked indignantly.

“I don’t know!” Eddie replied. “Just…” He gestured at Bill.

“He might be broken.” Richie said gravely, just to have Eddie hit him again.

“So Eddie is the one you asked me about?” Mike cut in. He slipped in the room past Bill, holding Beverly’s plate of food. He handed it to her, Ben entering after him and giving her silverware. “I mean, I kind of figured.”

“You asked about me?” Eddie asked, surprised.

“I… Well--”

“He told me he thought he might be in love with someone, and asked me what he should do about it.” Mike interjected, Richie turning on him.

“Hey!” He protested. “That was a private conversation!”

“No it wasn’t.” Stan said. He was inspecting his fingernails rather closely. “I heard the whole thing.”

“Both of you suck.” Richie said, crossing his arms.

“L-l-love?” Bill croaked out.

“We did break him.” Eddie muttered.

“Come on you two, tell us everything!” Beverly requested, and Richie balked. When he’d said he wanted to tell everyone, he was thinking of it in more of an announcement fashion: “Everyone, could I have your attention please. I am super gay for Eddie Kaspbrak. This has been a PSA.” He wasn’t prepared for any storytelling. But, he figured, the “show” part of “show and tell” was his fault, and he took a deep breath.

“Well, I talked to Mike. Then I talked to Ben, because he’s such a romantic.”

“I am?” Ben asked.

“And the day I told Stan was the day I was sure about it.” God, why was he blushing so much? “So I figured I would just wait for the right time, or something. But then we went to Neibolt and got attacked by Giggles McFuckface and I kinda figured that any time that we weren’t dead was the right time. So I told him that I liked him, or whatever.”

“Eddie, please tell me he said more than ‘I like you, or whatever’.” Stan said seriously. “You’re worth more than that.”

“He did.” Eddie said quickly. “It… It was really nice, actually.”

“Yeah, because you kissed me. Damn near knocked the wind out of me, you know.” Richie replaced his arm around Eddie’s shoulders, grinning. “And then I kissed you, and you said it was the best kiss you ever had.”

“Sounds fake, but okay.” Stan muttered dryly.

“No! Tell ‘em, Eds.” Richie nudged him, delighting how red Eddie’s face had become.

“Don’t call me that.” Eddie grumbled back.

“Stop embarrassing him.” Beverly protested, because Eddie was blushing harder the longer Richie talked. “You’re just as bad as he is, if not worse.”

“Hey, I just want everyone to know how great of a kisser I am, now that I have evidence to prove it. We've spent the past few days in Eddie's bedroom doing--”

“You cried when he told you he loved you.” Beverly said, crossing her arms in triumph. Richie’s mouth fell open.

“You said you wouldn’t tell anyone about that!”

“Beverly, you knew?” Ben asked. “When did you guys talk to each other?”

“Midnight ragers.” Richie said quickly. “She’s been eating all of my Cheetos.”

“...is that a euphemism or something?” Mike asked, as Bill finally seemed to get over himself, coming into the room again and sitting on the floor.

“I’m happy for you guys.” He said earnestly, and when Richie glanced over he saw Eddie beaming.

“Thanks.”

“So, now that all of my secrets have been spilled, what do we want to talk about?” Richie asked with a sigh. “Anyone want to hear about the time I ate hot glue in fifth grade? I was going to take that secret to the grave with me, but I’m coming to realize there’s no point in trying.”

“I want to hear about what happened today.” Beverly said. “About Pennywise, and all that.”

Ben nodded in agreement.

“Something happened to you, right Stan?” He asked. Stan nodded a little, launching into the tale. The retelling of the events made him visibly uncomfortable, curling in on himself as he spoke. Mike put a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“And then he left me a balloon, which was just incredibly thoughtful.” Stan finished, sarcasm heavy in his voice. “I called Bill, and he came to pick me up.”

“I would hate to think I scared all the little boys away?” Beverly asked, repeating what Stan told them Pennywise had said. “What does that mean?”

Stan shrugged.

“He t-t-tried to take Eddie too.” Bill said. “Eddie was crossing t-the street when B-B-Bowers came at him with his c-car. Pennywise grabbed him out of the w-way, but t-then tried to run off. W-w-we stopped him, but…”

“He tried to do this in broad daylight?”

“Well, who wouldn’t try to steal Eddie?” Richie asked. “I mean, look at him!”

What Richie didn’t expect was for the entire group to actually look over at Eddie, who suddenly seemed very self conscious in his striped athletic socks, grey shorts, and big green hoodie.

“Yeah.” Mike said after a moment. “He’s small.”

“Not what I meant.”

“No, it makes sense. He's small.” Ben agreed. “If you're going to kidnap someone in the middle of the day, with witnesses and stuff, they have to be easy to carry.”

“Well, I'm not easy to carry.” Eddie said. “I kicked him in the leg.”

Beverly held her hand up for a high five, and Eddie took it.

“Okay, but why?” Bill asked. “If he w-wants to make s-s-someone disappear, why not someone easier? Someone y-younger, or something?”

Richie thought back, still distracted by what the clown had said while going through Stan’s house. He couldn’t take Ben, he couldn’t take Mike, and he couldn’t take Bill because Bill was the one he needed.

“He’s setting you a trap, Bill.”

“He w-w-wants to kidnap one of you to… To what? To g-get to me?”

“It would work.” Mike pointed out.

“But he already h-has my brother.”

“But he thinks he scared us away.” Beverly finished, nodding a little. Richie felt slightly sick.

“Why me?” Bill asked. It was quiet for a long moment, then Stan spoke.

“Because you’re the only one looking for him. You’re the only one, maybe ever, and you keep getting closer. Hell, Bill, you’ve been inside his house four times. And he doesn’t like it.”

“S-so… He’s trying to kill me?”

Mike sat back in Bill’s desk chair with a sigh.

“It wouldn’t exactly be out of character.”

[privateplates4u]

Choosing the 2017 Motor Trend Best Driver’s Car

Patron saint of literary cool Joan Didion—who stalked the steamy, smoggy canyons of Los Angeles in a Daytona Yellow 1969 Corvette Stingray—once said, “Rationality, reasonableness bewilder me.” If only Didion were along for this year’s Best Driver’s Car competition. There is nothing rational or reasonable about holding the keys to $1.9 million worth of the world’s dreamiest sports cars, exotics, grand tourers, and supercars. It’s one thing to parse the packaging of family-friendly compact SUVs. That’s our day job. Best Driver’s Car is about the way a car makes you feel. It’s about the bees in your belly as you clip an apex, the giggles induced by the slingshot launch of barely restrained acceleration, and the sense of satisfaction that comes from the melding of man and machine. Where’s the cupholder for my latte in the McLaren? Can you fit anyone in that back seat of a 911? How much does that Ferrari 488 really cost? Don’t know. Don’t care. Our Highway Patrol–assisted closure of California State Route 198 and subsequent invasion of Mazda Raceway Laguna Seca are the highlights of this event. But the Best Driver’s Car format actually began two weeks prior at Auto Club Speedway, when our testing trio of Kim Reynolds, Chris Walton, and Erick Ayapana took their first crack at our contenders with our battery of standardized instrumented testing. To earn the title of Best Driver’s Car, a vehicle must deliver a balance of usable performance, intuitive handling, and driver-friendly design. The winner should be a vehicle with a multidimensional personality, a car that will delight and reward the enthusiast driver on any road at any time, regardless of weather and traffic conditions. We had quite the field this year, with representation from Italy, Germany, Japan, England, and the V-8 thunder of American freedom. But as the test team crunched the test results, there was no clear leader. A storm was brewing. Highway 198 Revisited A four-hour drive along I-5’s trackless wastes brings us to our hotel in King City, California. Most of the other judges had convoyed up together around noon. But with most of California tucked into bed, associate editor Scott Evans and I made great time in the Aston Martin and Corvette. We rolled into the King City Days Inn a tick past midnight. We were the last to arrive, but our hotel clerk couldn’t have been happier. It isn’t every day you get to meet a YouTube hero, a certain “Mr. Lieberman,” who earlier had given an impromptu car show to our host. His fan club is everywhere. Highway 198 is a magical place, an undulating public two-lane roadway filled with tight switchbacks, sweeping curves, midcorner bumps, long straights, and panoramic views. It’s a gorgeous 4.2-mile stretch of roadway that climbs about 1,000 feet, allowing Motor Trend judges to test each contender at its (and their own) limits. Any shortcomings of either car or driver will be quickly identified on this passage. It is the mill that grinds the grist. Just past daybreak, the ground fog still clearing, we pulled to the side of the road to set up camp, clean cars, and wait for the California Highway Patrol’s black and white Ford Explorers to close the road so we could begin. After a team meeting, we fired up all 86 cylinders and commenced our first runs up the beckoning hills—each of us starting in the familiar car we had driven from L.A. That meant the Chevrolet Corvette Grand Sport, intimidating in looks and sound, for me. The ’Vette is really a sweetheart once set up properly—Driver Mode Select in Sport and the steering wheel set to Tour. In those modes, the throttle response is linear and quick, and the suspension is dialed in to maximize the car’s speed around corners. The steering is light and direct, though you need to make a conscious effort to slow yourself down because turn-in is still very quick. That doesn’t mean there isn’t room for improvement. “Needs 100 extra horsepower! Felt slow!” Jonny shouted after his turn behind the wheel. Also, the crowded seven-speed manual gearbox has rubbery, ropey throws and doesn’t like to be rushed, and the gear ratios felt too tall for the track-oriented Grand Sport. Said executive editor Mark Rechtin: “It seems like there was a big gap between the powerbands in third and fourth gear.” Chevy used to sandbag the Camaro to avoid stepping on the Corvette’s toes, but those days are gone. The Camaro ZL1 1LE is an uncaged race car. As he pulled into our makeshift pit lane, Jonny could be heard screaming, “Yeaaaah!” and clapping his hands. You’d think power would be why the Camaro works so well, but it’s actually grip that’s the key to this muscle car. Those steamroller-wide, superglue-sticky Goodyear tires work hand in hand with the DSSV dampers and the added aero aids to ensure that the Camaro can use each and every one of its 650 horses. “You quickly learn you can trust the tires as you unleash the power,” Detroit editor Alisa Priddle said. Scott added: “There’s a lot of vertical movement in the cabin, but the car never jumps sideways a foot when it hits a midcorner bump; it never moves around laterally at all.” The downside to the Camaro’s grip is its ride quality—basically there is none. “I’ve encountered smoother paint mixers,” guest judge Derek Powell said. “The bouncing was so bad that I found myself reacting to that instead of focusing on the sheer act of driving. The nuclear-waste green Mercedes-AMG GT R  provoked whoops and hollers from all of the drivers. A brutal supercar that rewards fortitude, the AMG needs to be driven flat out in order to properly enjoy it. Dig deep into the 577-hp twin-turbo V-8, and you’re compensated by a violent surge of power and the soundtrack “of a small arms factory exploding behind your hips every time you come off the throttle,” as Jonny put it. “Let it rip,” Alisa added. “The AMG has the power to get unruly, but it holds the road incredibly well.” Although the Mercedes’ nose bites with ferocity—only fighting back once you approach its limits—the rear end wasn’t as well behaved even at sane speeds. “There were several times when the rear would hop side to side or even produce drop-throttle oversteer or on-power oversteer,” Chris said. Unlike the Merc, it’s hard to get into trouble in the Mazda Miata RF. Like any good naturally aspirated engine, the Miata is happy to rev its way to redline, growling sweetly as you stab the clutch and flick the six-speed manual into its next gear. The Miata is not fast, but it rewards a driver’s skill. Entering corners, the Miata RF is surprisingly tail-happy. Mazda rehashed the ragtop’s suspension for 2017, but the RF is unsettled. “It’s always dancing on the top of its springs and edge of its tires,” Scott said. With traction control on, the Mazda’s electronic systems are constantly grabbing at the brakes to keep the Miata’s tail in line—sapping the little power the RF has to give. A better beginner sports car to explore one’s limits might be the Porsche 718 Cayman S. “The chassis is so beautifully balanced, the handling so predictable,” Derek said. “Each movement is connected directly to the brain’s synapses.” Scott agreed, adding: “Steering is among the best here—talkative and light, quick enough but not too much. I wish the Miata handled like this.” The 718’s 350-hp mid-mounted turbo flat-four is a good match for the platform, too–even if some of our judges wish it sounded less like a garbage disposal eating a fork. Alisa silenced those critics: “There are those who miss the sound of the old throaty engine, but the trade-off for a nice, wide powerband is worth it.” There isn’t much room for improvement in the 718, but the Aston Martin DB11 could use some help in the braking department. Its 600-hp V-12 is more than capable of getting its nearly 4,200 pounds of British aluminium going (and quickly at that), but it lacks the brakes or suspension to handle that heft on a twisty road. The DB11 has three suspension settings, but all feel inadequate for spirited performance. Its body control was subpar, the car displaying a tendency to porpoise through corners and over bumps. “It’s a wonderful GT car and is happy at high speeds, as long as the road doesn’t twist too much,” Scott said. Upsides: The V-12 provides epic thrust, and the steering is beautifully weighted, light, and linear—just as a British GT car should be. As the Aston’s counterpoint in the grand touring department, the Lexus LC 500 was a revelation, having done its homework on chassis and suspension tuning. “The fundamentals are all there,” Jonny said. Scott provided further details: “Weight transfer is nicely handled, and the car sits in a turn nicely.” The Lexus provides light, progressive feedback from the wheel, and its four-wheel-steering system helps make the LC feel smaller than it is. The LC’s 5.0-liter V-8 makes a good match for the 10-speed auto, though the gearbox was frustrating for its abundance of overdrive gears. “How can this car have 10 gears and never, ever be in the right one?” Chris asked. “There were at least a dozen rejected downshifts.” You’d expect the lone four-door sedan in our group to be soft, but it’s clear the Alfa Romeo Giulia Quadrifoglio “is a sports car regardless of how many doors it has,” Derek said. The Alfa’s sportiness is baked into its chassis; it’s a car that rewards smooth inputs yet begs to be driven hard. “This might be the best-handling sedan I have driven in 25 years of automotive journalism,” Mark said. “And yes, that includes the W124 and E39.” The 2.9-liter twin-turbo V-6 is laggy down low, but it hits you in the face with a sledgehammer once you’re above 2,000 rpm. Its eight-speed auto rattles off shifts as if it were a dual-clutch transmission. Complaints? A few. The engine, for all its power, doesn’t communicate what it’s doing at redline, making shifting by ear difficult. Some also found the Alfa’s Italian electrics a little buggy, with inconsistent brake-by-wire feel and a seemingly overeager overheat protection mode that would impose a 5,000-rpm rev limiter on the engine and limit torque vectoring at the rear axle. The other Italian in our group, the Ferrari 488 GTB, delivered thrills on an epiphanic level. After piling out of the Ferrari babbling a red-mist rant, Mark calmed down enough to say, “This delivers every teenager’s fantasy when they think of Ferrari.” The Ferrari 488 is one of those rare cars that makes you feel immediately at home despite its exotic appearance. The cabin is open and airy with a driver-focused interface. There are no distractions. Your hands hold a flat-bottomed, carbon-fiber and leather steering wheel, and all the needed controls are a finger’s reach away. Not only does the 488 GTB feel magical merely sitting still, but it’s also glorious to drive. The Ferrari’s small twin-turbocharged engine makes 661 horsepower. “It’s a force of nature, like being picked up by a tornado,” Scott said. The 488 also carries tenacious grip “with a flat attitude and fingertip control while cornering at speeds 10 to 15 mph faster than other vehicles—with the same if not greater confidence heading down 198 as up,” editor-in-chief Ed Loh said. The Achilles’ heel for the Ferrari is its brakes—the carbon ceramics have a slightly wooden feel and squeak like the midnight subway to Coney Island. If on the emotional scale the Ferrari is an embrace from a Victoria’s Secret model, the McLaren 570GT is a polite but firm handshake from gritty Bruce himself. Last year’s winning 570S was a highly rewarding and technical car, but in softening the 570 for grand touring duty, McLaren seemed to scrape away some of the special sauce. “It’s not what I would have expected,” Chris said. “This one feels far more ass-happy and less balanced and composed.” The 570GT feels stuck between sledgehammer and rubber mallet���it no longer drives like a supercar, but it’s not soft enough to drive like a proper GT. The issue is especially apparent if you’ve forgotten to press the “Active” button. Turn on the Active Panel, and dig into the 30-some-odd possible drivetrain configurations, and that sharpens steering and throttle response. But then the handling becomes unpredictable. “There were times when I’d exit a corner and the engine and transmission would be ready for it, and I’d rocket out onto the straight at full boost,” Derek said. “Other times it felt like I caught the car unaware.” When the McLaren is awake, there’s a hint of that 570S magic in its fingertip-light steering, supple ride, and peaky but powerful little engine, but the 570GT’s inconsistency hurt its credibility. If you want instant confidence bordering on immortality, the Porsche 911 Turbo S is your machine. Despite the PDK seven-speed dual-clutch doing the shifting, despite the torque-vectoring all-wheel-drive system constantly shuffling around the twin-turbo flat-six’s 580 hp, and despite the four-wheel steering making the 911 feel smaller than it is, the Porsche makes its driver feel responsible for it all. “Right out of the box, the 911 Turbo S lets you drive as fast as you dare, brake as hard as you can, and turn as much as you wish,” Derek said. “It doesn’t just inspire confidence. It inspires a relationship with the driver.” Still, some, like Jonny, thought the 911 made things too easy. “This thing is weaponized speed,” he said. “It’s maniacally capable but not the most engaging car, let alone 911, I’ve ever driven.” Added Ed: “It is a focused tool intended for one purpose: going very fast. Really hard to find a flaw here; if I’m being really critical, it’s a bit anodyne.” He quickly followed with: “I take it back about it being boring.” Now eight years since it made its debut, the latest Nissan GT-R NISMO still remains very proficient at hauling ass. Defined by what should be physically impossible levels of grip, it’s a car that you chuck into corners, mash the gas, and let the all-wheel-drive system sort things out. Godzilla’s 3.8-liter twin-turbo V-6 is indeed a monster worthy of the name—boost hits strong, and the power keeps coming. “This engine pulls and surges effortlessly,” Erick said. Ed said it was “noticeably sharper, like they ran the GT-R over a Japanese whetstone.” But some things don’t change. The programming on the GT-R’s six-speed dual-clutch is lacking, making manual shifting a must for performance driving. The ride is literally a sore spot. And then there’s the steering—it broke. Nearly every judge had a bizarre issue after hitting a midcorner bump, where the steering wheel would go cockeyed at a 20-degree angle, yet the car would be going straight down the road. Then the steering wheel would correct itself as if nothing had happened. Chris had it happen multiple times, with GT-R chief engineer Hiroshi Tamura riding shotgun. “It was an unusual electro-mechanical anomaly,” Chris said. “Tamura-san was as curious about it as I was.” As Motor Trend en Español editor Miguel Cortina nursed the NISMO back to our makeshift Highway 198 paddock, he handed the keys to Tamura-san and the Nissan team for repairs. The question as we pointed our field north toward Mazda Raceway Laguna Seca was whether the GT-R would be fixed in time for our staff champion racer Randy Pobst’s hot laps around the track. Hot Shoes, Cool Fog Monterey, let alone Mazda Raceway, has its own microclimate. Monterey proper was warm and clear, but the track was cool and foggy. It would be lousy for visibility but great for the turbocharged cars that Randy would run that day. After a quick sighting lap in our long-term Honda Civic to scout the conditions, Randy, Ed, and the test team determined which six cars to run on day one. 718. Corvette. Ferrari. McLaren. Camaro. 911. The assembled teams scrambled off to start prepping the cars. Meanwhile, a local Nissan dealer was attempting to bandage Godzilla. The Cayman was ready first. Randy hopped in, fired up the rumbly little four-pot, and set off for his hot laps. Not long after—1:40.22 to be exact—Randy pulled the ticking 718 into the pit with a huge smile on his face: “People! Marry this car! This is not like the crazy, scary girlfriend who will give you the time of your life and then boil your rabbit in the morning. The Cayman S has such beautiful balance; it’s so good that I felt like I could push it harder and harder.” Not long after, Randy set out in the red, white, and blue Corvette. But when he came back, Randy’s smile had been replaced with a scowl: “It wasn’t until the second timed lap that the tires started to get some temperature, but the car still wanted to power oversteer at throttle tip in. The front is ready to turn full blast, and the rear isn’t. Or the rear is ready to accelerate, and the front’s not too happy.” Going out in the Ferrari 488 GTB seemed to cheer Randy up before he was flagged for breaking Monterey’s punitive noise regulations: “I talked about marrying the Cayman, but this car is your mistress! This car accelerates so quickly that I needed to apex a lot later. The turbos on that Ferrari V-8 give it a big, fat torque curve. The transmission is such a beautiful match for that engine.” He did caution that the brakes did not provide a solid initial bite and that pedal pressure and brake force were not in cahoots. And like that, Randy was off in the McLaren 570GT, choosing to leave the stability control on because it felt fairly easy to break the rear end loose. “Track mode gets into a nice place where it allows some drift,” Randy said. “But it’s controlling the throttle a bit for me, and it’s less satisfying because I’m not the one driving. I could even feel the stability control activating significantly in Turn 1. The McLaren is fast enough that we’re arriving there at over 140 mph, and the car gets light and a bit oversteery.” You’d think the Camaro ZL1 1LE that Randy lapped next would be as oversteery as the Brit, but its claws stuck into the track. “This thing handles so well,” he said. “For a front-engine, rear-drive car with 650 horsepower, the traction was incredible. It put power down extremely well. Stability controls aren’t necessary for the average good driver.” The same rules applied for Randy’s last car of the day, the 911 Turbo S. “I don’t want to get out,” he said. “This car is the one you married, and it’s your mistress. It’s the whole package. I’m so utterly blown away by its capability. It was incredibly rewarding to drive. I was driving that car hard because I could.” As we wound down for the day, the Nissan GT-R arrived—but after a quick spin, Chris and Tamura-san quickly shut it down. Not ready. Nissan PR called for an identical white GT-R NISMO to be shuttled up from L.A. the next morning. It needed to arrive before the track went cold at 5:30 p.m. The Final Countdown As the clock started ticking for the NISMO on day two, we turned our attention to the remaining cars’ hot laps. Or warm laps in the case of the Miata RF. Its lap around its namesake track is not surprisingly the slowest of our 12, but it’s probably one of the most fun. “The MX-5 makes every trip to the grocery store feel like a Grand Prix at 34 mph,” Randy said. “I have to really slow my hands down because it leans over a lot. I like to trail-brake into a corner, and the Miata does not like that. But you can go around screaming at redline all day and not end up in jail.” By comparison, the Mercedes-AMG GT R is a go-directly-to-jail card. “This AMG really has personality in its engine,” Randy said. “It’s satisfying to pull all the way to redline. The fat torque curve makes it easier to drive, too, because it’s more controllable.” But the brakes started exhibiting signs of heat soak by the time Randy was on his final lap. Although the Lexus LC 500 might not spring to mind as a track car, Randy found it to be a delightful experience. But he also had some caution. “When attacking the corners, the Lexus is reluctant to change direction,” he said. “But once it finally comes down the apex and I go back to power, it’s beautiful from then on.” Randy was pleasantly surprised with the other front-engine GT car in our group, the Aston Martin DB11: “My expectations were low. I thought it would be a boat, but I was wrong. Well behaved on the track. Surprisingly good handler. Responsive and well damped in the Sport Plus suspension setting.” But the Aston’s brakes were shot midway through its second hot lap. With still no sign of our missing NISMO, Randy hit the track in the Giulia Quadrifoglio, returning with queries about cornering inconsistency: “I think there are electronic variations with the torque-vectoring differential. When I started at a quick pace, small steering changes really brought the car into the corner. Then when I go flat out, I get a lot of understeer in the middle of the corner under some circumstances but not others. I noticed the brake pedal doing something similar, too. It’s a lot of fun, it’s fast, it’s quick handing, but I’m not a fan of variation.” The Return of Godzilla All available cars having run, there was still no NISMO. Ed called a meeting; the manufacturers who wanted another lap would get one. Porsche wanted the Cayman to run again, citing the fog on day one. Ferrari wanted a run with flushed brake lines and new calipers and pads. The Corvette would run in Sport mode. And why not? The AMG GT R and McLaren 570GT could rerun, too. But if the GT-R showed up, bonus laps would cease. The Cayman, Corvette, McLaren, and Ferrari improved their times—the Italian by nearly a full second, leading some to suspect Ferrari’s mechanics did far more than change the brakes. But the AMG was actually 0.2 second slower. With 45 minutes on the clock, our replacement NISMO rolled into the paddock. The garage buzzed around the NISMO. The test team hooked up our data-logging gear, replaced wheels and tires, torqued lug nuts, and checked pressures. Video mounted and prepped cameras. Sound strapped down microphones. Everyone else stayed the hell out of the way. Some Formula 1 pit crews aren’t this in sync. At 5:15, Randy hopped in the GT-R and blazed a 1:35.01 lap. “The GT-R has been around for a long time,” he said. “It has gotten better and better, and the NISMO is the best version, but after it brakes pretty well once or twice, it starts getting hot. And when you first tip into this thing, it gives you full power and throws the car completely off balance. All-wheel drive or not, it suddenly makes the car run wide.” It was 5:30 on the dot. Time to hash out the winner. Final Tally When you have such a closely contested field, it is almost harder to pick the last-place car than the winner. Someone has to come last even if we really truly love our cellar dweller. And love, love we do, the 12th-place Aston Martin DB11. The DB11 is a great car to drive, but it’s not a good driver’s car. It’s a little too heavy, a little soft. There’s still plenty to like, though. “It’s beautiful inside and out,” Miguel said. It has a killer engine, too. Derek described the sound of the starter as “God Himself wound a pull cord around the flywheel and gave it a wondrous yank.”   Coming in 11th place is a car that was minutes away from earning a DNF: the Nissan GT-R NISMO. Mechanical issues aside, the Nissan’s 11th-place finish is a testament to how competitive this year’s field was. Yeah, it’s a bit heavy and a bit vague through corners, and it isn’t as fast as some of the new kids on the block. “It’s impressive that there are still improvements to be made,” Ed said. Godzilla might be old, but he sure as hell can still breathe fire. Tenth place goes to the Mazda MX-5 Miata RF Club. Miatas are the go-to for entry-level racers, and that ain’t just because of its price point—it’s because it is an exceptionally well-composed sports car with approachable, unintimidating limits. But although the Miata ragtop finished in third a few years back, the package isn’t improved by adding 125 pounds worth of complicated hardtop, which doesn’t accommodate a helmeted driver. Also, Mazda’s suspension tweaks fell out of favor of our judges. Oh how the mighty have fallen. After winning it all with the 570S last year, McLaren comes in ninth place this year. The 570GT is unsure of its place on the road. There are moments of brilliance in the delicacy of its steering, its surgical precision, and its tremendous brake feel, but the 570GT never gives you the confidence to go for more. “Somehow the magic of the 570S didn’t translate into the 570GT,” Chris said. “It’s a brilliant car, but it’s no winner.” Jonny had argued against bringing the Lexus LC 500 because it’s so big and heavy. But chastened, following its respectable eighth-place finish, he said: “Folks, we have an athlete on our hands.” We were all impressed with the Lexus’ sonorous V-8, quick-shifting automatic, and crisp steering feel—even if the LC was too eager to default to understeer at its limit. “Tighten this thing up, cut some weight, add some power, and you’ve got a really good GT car here,” Scott said. It seems that the Chevrolet Corvette is always this close to perfection, and that remains the folly of the seventh-place Corvette Grand Sport Z07. First the good: Its 6.2-liter V-8 is fantastic. It’s got a big, meaty powerband, and although it could probably benefit from an extra 100 horsepower, it’s tremendously rewarding to drive. The Corvette’s biggest issue is its transmission—its gearbox doesn’t like to be rushed, and its gear ratios are ultimately too tall and too widely spaced for performance driving. Sixth place goes to the Alfa Romeo Giulia Quadrifoglio. The Alfa is high strung, but that’s part of the fun—the engine is laggy down low and peaky up high, and the steering is so quick off-center that you’re liable to drive off the road if you so much as sneeze. “LOL-fast steering, short gearing mixed with a turbo-tickled powertrain,” Ed said. This is where things get real close; any of our top five could have justifiably won the whole shebang. Finishing a few points shy of fourth place, the Mercedes-AMG GT R is a helluva car. “The harder you drive this thing, the better it gets,” Erick said. But it needs to be driven at ten-tenths to get the most enjoyment out of it. Wring it out for all it’s worth, and it rewards you with endless grip and lightning-quick shifts. But it isn’t as gratifying at five-tenths as it is flat-out. The Chevrolet Camaro ZL1 1LE’s fourth-place finish was a contentious one. We could agree on power and grip. The fact that all 650 of the Camaro’s horsepower is usable without instantly vaporizing the rear rubber is an engineering feat. But some of us maintained that a car couldn’t win Best Driver’s Car if you didn’t want to drive it every day. “I’ve probably lost all my fillings, and my kidneys are bruised,” Derek lamented, to which Jonny retorted: “Some judges thought the ride was too harsh on their way to Pilates class, but who cares? Finishing fourth is a failure of democracy.” One vote is all that separates our second- and third-place finishers. One. Earning the bronze is the technological tour de force that is the 911 Turbo S. It never seems to run out of grip, power, or brakes. “The 911 Turbo S is so amazingly competent on every level—without having any visible compromises—that it’s easy to forget how high its limits are,” Derek said. “Some might be tempted to punish the Porsche for its unflappable greatness. Big mistake.” Life’s funny. The Porsche 718 Cayman S wasn’t supposed to be here. We didn’t invite it until a last-second dropout had us scrambling to fill a hole in our lineup. Now the 718 Cayman S is tootling away with a silver medal. “There is something really spirited and sweet about this car,” Alisa said. “It’s so well balanced and smooth, so seamless in its power delivery and responsive to the slightest steering input.” Mark agreed: “It’s an exacting corner-carving machine that entices you to push your limits even more.” Erick, who did his best to hog the Cayman most of the week, called it “lovely,” adding that it “felt impossible to do wrong in this car.” Simply put, the 718 is a phenom. Deus ex Machina You’d think a mid-engine supercar would be a one-trick pony, but our 2017 Best Driver’s Car proves that wrong. First place goes to the Ferrari 488 GTB. This Ferrari makes you your best self behind the wheel. It grabs your attention, it focuses you, and it helps you improve. The 488 GTB lets you know when you screw up and pushes and prods you to do better next time around. The Ferrari 488 GTB’s powertrain is an endless assault on your senses, with wave after wave of devastating power. The engine pulls all the way to 8,000 rpm and then, bam, the seven-speed gearbox upshifts, and the engine digs deep for more. The powertrain is happy lugging around, too. “This car is amazing even loafing along I-5,” Mark said. Derek agreed about its cruising manners: “Very little engine noise makes it into the cabin despite it being inches away from the back of my head.” Chassis, steering, and suspension tuning are equally impressive. “The steering is very lively and requires constant attention—this car needs me,” Chris said. The 488 GTB does it all. “The Ferrari fulfills the complete list of needs, from extreme exotic to dauntless touring car,” Mark said. It’s memorable, too. “This is one of those cars, one of those drives, one of those moments that will forever be seared into my synapses as an epic moment,” Chris said, “a true deus ex machina experience in my life.” Joan Didion once described driving in Los Angeles as requiring “a concentration so intense as to seem a kind of narcosis, a rapture-of-the-freeway. The mind goes clean. The rhythm takes over.” The Ferrari 488 GTB is that rapture. It is that rhythm. It is our 2017 Best Driver’s Car. Read more about 2017 Best Driver’s Car contenders: Ferrari 488 GTB Porsche 911 Turbo S Chevrolet Camaro ZL1 1LE Porsche 718 Cayman S Lexus LC 500 Mercedes-AMG GT R Alfa Romeo Giulia Quadrifoglio Chevrolet Corvette Grand Sport Aston Martin DB11 Nissan GT-R NISMO Mazda MX-5 Miata RF McLaren 570GT The post Choosing the 2017 Motor Trend Best Driver’s Car appeared first on Motor Trend.

http://www.motortrend.com/news/choosing-2017-best-drivers-car/

[intangible-rice]

Red Right Hand

Just a small little offering for Caroline Appreciation Day, to make up for the fact that I didn’t participate last year. It’s a short little one-shot which is somewhat disjointed and where not much happens, but hopefully it’s at least mildly interesting. The title is a hastily chosen Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds lyric.

Caroline listens to the wind whistle through the trees in the distance, trying not to notice how similar its sound is to whispers. She tenses as she hears it approach, rushing in through the driver’s side window and whipping her graying hair all around. Her ears sting from the chill, but there isn’t much she can do to keep out the cold - she needs something to keep her awake, and the radio would be too conspicuous. 

She should have brought coffee, she thinks. If she’d had time to make some. If she had time to do anything besides worry nowadays. She stares up at the moon. Almost full, she thinks. Or was it full yesterday? Perhaps it’s waning. Waning. The word sticks in her head until she’s forced to look away, her face a mixture of anger and worry.

She stares at the dashboard instead, at the aging plastic coating, the worn stitching on the steering wheel. She aimlessly runs her finger along the rabbit’s foot keychain that hangs down from the ignition. It was just like Cave to buy a silly good-luck charm like this. Caroline tries to remember when exactly it was that he purchased it. Probably the time they’d detoured through Vegas, on the way back from some business trip or other, when they’d admired the glittering lights on the strip and marveled at the myriad forms of entertainment all around. They hadn’t spent very long there, but Caroline remembers her boss throwing a nickel or two into the slots. He’d probably swung by the gift shop afterwards, acquiring a kitschy trinket before getting back on the road and making offhanded comments as they passed the shotgun wedding chapels. Comments that Caroline now wishes she’d paid more attention to. 

A faint glow appears in the distance, soon distinguishing itself as two car headlights. The lights inch forward slowly, and Caroline sits up in the driver’s seat. A second later, they disappear completely. Caroline counts under her breath. “One... two... three... four...” Suddenly the headlights return, flickering on and off a few times before the horizon returns to darkness. “About time,” Caroline mutters as she twists the key at the end of the rabbit’s foot and does the same routine with her own headlights.

She shifts the car into gear and places her foot on the gas. “Easy does it,” she still inadvertently hears in her head, even though it’s been years since she’s needed Cave’s direction.

“You’re kidding, right?” she remembers her boss saying when she’d told him. “Whaddya mean you don’t know how to drive?”

The look of bewilderment on his face had been in stark contrast to Caroline’s own nonchalant reaction. She’d explained to him that it simply hadn’t seemed important for her to learn. Before working at Aperture, she could never have afforded a car, and luckily the town’s old bus routes hadn’t been changed from the days when miners used to take them to get out to work. Driving just hadn’t ever seemed necessary, especially since she left the facility so infrequently nowadays.

“But that’s ridiculous!” Cave had protested. “What if some emergency happens? Everybody evacuates and then you’re just gonna stand in the parking lot waiting on a timetable? You’ll be mantis meat in no time! Or what if you gotta get somewhere where there ain’t no bus?”

“Where am I going to go, sir?” Caroline asked, shrugging her shoulders. “I just don’t think it’s necessary.”

“Well dammit, I do!” Cave said, opening a drawer in his desk and grabbing ahold of the rabbit’s foot. “Clear off your calendar for the afternoon, because you’re gonna learn!”

Caroline was taken aback, but she knew there was no talking Cave Johnson out of an idea once he’d gotten it in his head. So before long, the two of them were in the parking lot, sitting in the same car Caroline was now inching down the remote woodland road into the darkness.

Caroline remembers not hearing a word of her boss’s instructions initially - she was too flustered by the whole scenario. Here she was, called on to do something she was completely unfamiliar with, and with absolutely no time to prepare. She’d always prided herself on how smoothly she handled everything in her job - even in a place where an experimental error could lead to any number of unbelievable mishaps, Caroline let nothing phase her. She was always prepared for anything; a feat that Cave marveled at as effortless, but that in reality took several rounds of careful study, organization and preparation. And that adept, collected exterior was about to come completely apart as soon as her boss realized she had no idea what to do with a simple little car.

Her first attempt to move forward just resulted in revving the engine uselessly, until Cave informed her that she had to put the car in drive first. Flustered, she followed his instructions, and gave a small yelp of surprise when the car moved forward as soon as her foot was off the brake. By then, her face was beet red. She waited for the inevitable signal from her boss to scrap the whole idea and head inside. But surprisingly, Cave didn’t give up on her. He didn’t laugh or yell at what she herself viewed as gross incompetence. As they circled the parking lot over and over, he continued to give patient instructions, peppered by some tales from the driving lessons of his own youth, and an occasional grab of the steering wheel to demonstrate something. 

By the end of the whole thing, Caroline was calm, calmer than she’d ever expected to be from something that had seemed so daunting. Her boss smiled at her, and she felt proud - somehow prouder even than when she’d gotten the same sort of praise for finding a loophole in the test subject contracts, or pulling off the increasingly-miraculous task of balancing the budget each month.

“Atta girl,” Cave had said, smiling warmly at her. “Now, whaddya say we try taking a spin into town?”

That was the first time Caroline had left the facility in years, she reminisces as she pulls up alongside the car with darkened headlights. But certainly not the last. She’d only been confidently driving for a short time before Cave asked her for the first favor.

“Look, Caroline, this is good for everyone,” she remembers him arguing. “They’re about to be investigated, and there’s things they don’t want to fall into the wrong hands. You remember how that was - we had to destroy some of our best work to keep those idiots in Washington from shutting us down. Do you really want that to happen to another company?”

“Mr. Johnson, I just don’t know that -”

“They’ve got science to get rid of, and we’ve got science to do,” Cave reminded, characteristically cutting her off before she could get her protests out. “They’re not even gonna charge us for it, since we’re doing them a favor.”

Caroline hadn’t answered, knowing that she would just get shot down again if she tried to open her mouth.

“Caroline, I’ve seen the ledgers,” Cave reminded. “We’re never gonna get a better deal than this.”

She sighed.

“You wanna keep this company alive, don’t you?”

“Of course I do, Mr. Johnson,” she replied. “But how...” She paused, knowing her boss’s attitude towards what she was about to say. “How do we know it’s safe?”

If anyone else had asked that question, they’d be fumbling their way to the parking lot with a hastily-packed box of belongings within ten minutes, their boss shouting insults at them the whole way out. Caroline, however, could at least get her boss to swallow a little bit of his bravado - not a lot, but enough to cut through the charades to get to the truth.

“We don’t,” he answered her simply. “No different than half the things we’ve done in the past around here,” he added as a way of revealing his annoyance at her question.

“But it is different, Mr. Johnson,” Caroline had argued. “It’s different when we just barely made it out of a high-profile investigation by the skin of our teeth. When we’d be working with outsiders that we don’t know if we can trust. And when we’ll be taking things from them that we’re just gambling on being useful rather than being one test away from killing us all. And not to mention when the government’s probably still watching our every move.”

“That’s why I want you to do it,” Cave had said matter-of-factly. “I can’t go out there - you’re right, they’re probably watching me like a hawk. And I don’t trust anyone else around here with something this important. With you, I know it’ll go off without a hitch. And if something goes wrong, I know you’re smart enough to see that and get out of there.”

Caroline remembers thinking that his response was both too simplistic and too optimistic, but also that she could already feel her shoulders loosening. It should have taken more than this to sway her - a few carefully chosen words, a plea for science, and a small showing of gratitude shouldn’t have gotten her boss anywhere towards her agreeing to such a ridiculous idea. 

“Come on, can you imagine what would happen if I sent Greg out there?” Cave added, and as Caroline felt the hint of a smile creep across her face, she knew her chances of arguing any further were gone.

And that’s how she’d ended up repeatedly doing one of the most dangerous jobs she could ever think of, driving out in the middle of the night to receive god-knows-what from god-knows-who under the cover of silence and darkness. For the last decade or so she’d served as a glorified mule for anyone who needed to unload something quick with no questions asked. It was a familiar routine by now, though not one that she ever grew more comfortable with.

But tonight is different. Tonight, Caroline isn’t just taking something off someone’s hands. She’s also giving something in return.

“You got it?” a voice asks as she steps out of the car. The figure asking is cloaked in the night’s shadows, but Caroline can see enough to know that it’s tall, broadly built, and not alone - two other shadows bookend it on either side, no less muscular. Caroline tells herself not to let it phase her - some contacts have brought backup before. The chances of them wanting to hurt her are far less than of them being equally uneasy about meeting a stranger in the dead of night to hand over something volatile and incriminating. Caroline finds herself wondering why backup was never discussed as an option on her end.

“You first,” she replies to the figure, trying to keep herself from rolling her eyes at how ridiculously cliched this entire interaction is.

The two backup shadows move to one end of their car, opening the trunk and grunting as they extract a large metal container. They remove the lid, and signal Caroline to approach. She moves slowly in the dark, careful not to trip on an unseen branch or rock. She hopes the effect looks more dramatic to an outsider, and less like what it actually is, the deliberate and guarded movements of a woman with aging eyes.

She leans over slightly to peer into the container, and there they are - dozens of gray, lumpy, pitted, and wholly unremarkable rocks. Caroline nods. “Good,” she says, as if it actually is. As if this ridiculous box of contraband is actually the goldmine her boss thinks it is. As if staking the future of the company on foreign sediment is a positive thing.

“And you?” one of the keepers of the rocks asks impatiently.

Caroline straightens and turns around. The walk back to her car is even slower, but this time it’s not because of the dark. It’s because she can’t help but think that she’s signing Aperture’s death warrant.

She opens the driver’s side door, reaches across, and pulls out a briefcase.

She had fought harder on this one. Harder than most things she’d fought for over the years at Aperture, in fact. Unlike Cave’s many other crazy ideas, this one lacked any arguable redeeming qualities. Taking in unknown and potentially dangerous waste and experimental leftovers was bad, but at least they weren’t paying for any of it, and could argue that it might end up producing some good data for the company. But this - this was spending $70 million - money that they simply did not have and never would have again - to purchase a substance with no technical market value, and no known scientific worth. Selling and buying it constituted a litany of federal crimes. It was enough to earn them another government investigation. All because Cave Johnson thought that moon rocks might be fun to play around with. All in the name of throwing science at the wall and seeing what sticks.

Caroline wasn’t sure what it was exactly that had finally caused her to give up. Maybe it was seeing her boss so desperate, so broken, so out of ideas and so willing to latch on to the most outlandish one that came his way. Maybe it was knowing that there was nothing left for Aperture regardless - if nothing else, this would just kick the liquidation process into higher gear. Or maybe it was just that - she’d given up. Thirty years as the voice of reason was exhausting - especially when no one listened anyway, and when a silver tongue and a little admiration could erase any protest. Thirty years of picking up the pieces when all of the things he’d persuaded her to agree to had gone wrong. Thirty years of watching scientific achievement and progress slip through their fingers.

Caroline had fought so hard for the company for so long. Most of what had happened within it over the years was a direct result of her doing, her fighting, her fixing. Why reduce that level of involvement now, she thought as she handed the briefcase over. Now, when it was all so close to ending? Why not have the honor of putting the final nail into the coffin?

“This thing’s pretty heavy,” one of the shadow-cloaked figures says as he and another carry the container over to Caroline’s car. “You gonna be able to handle this?”

“I’ll manage,” Caroline replies stoically as she opens the trunk for them. 

And she will. As long as there are some shreds of the company remaining. As long as they still have experiments to run with their new $70 million purchase. 

She turns on the engine and drives away, leaving her contacts from god knows what corner of the black market to fade into the distance.

Only the moonlight surrounds her now. She runs her fingers over the rabbit’s foot as she drives, trying not to notice the ethereal orb above. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Mr. Johnson,” she mutters under her breath as she continues on into the night. 

[thefloatingstone]

I feel like talking about my books

Instead of working on the next page of the comic I took photos of some of my books because I wanted to show you guys. Because I honestly like books a lot, and I’ve got some interesting/weird ones I wanted to share.

And sometimes I just like to remind myself of nice things I have. (sorry for the bad photos)

1:

This is a really really good book.

It’s all about ways and cases of how people have faked “new species” or “scientific evidence” of mythical creatures using weird taxidermy, photo-doctoring and other ways in which people have SUCCESSFULLY FOOLED a large enough group of people for a while to be noteworthy. The book was published in 1975 and is honestly written in a way that you can tell the author was having an enormous amount of fun, never dodging facts and never letting a good story ruin what is the truth, but also thoroughly enjoying the joke on people and sometimes celebrating the insane creativity behind some of these creations.

The book includes things you’d expect like the Fiji mermaid, and the unicorn skeleton which was pretty infamous, but also bizarre things like the fur-bearing trout.

I got it for $3 at a flea market.

2:

I’m gonna avoid saying “this is a good book” or I’m gonna say that on every single one of these.

This is a book written in english by an english speaking author who lives in Japan, and although it includes a section on Anime, Chanbara and Kaiju, it also covers all the other sections of Japanese cinema that the non-Japanese audience might not even be aware of. From dramas to Pink movies to ‘Japan on Japan’ to art house. It’s probably the best book I’ve seen on Japanese cinema that offers a really broad look at the country’s film history, rather than focusing on the few exports we associate with the country.

I got this at a warehouse sale where the bookstore chain in this country use to have a bi-monthly thing where they sell their extra stock by weight, rather than cover price. Otherwise I probably wouldn’t have been able to afford the $50 price tag.

3:

The best book on Archaeology I’ve managed to find thus far. I’ve tried finding other books that match how good this one is but I haven’t managed it yet. I’ve found inferior books on Archaeological discoveries, and books about like... the process of archaeology itself, but not a book that documents the histories and stories behind the discoveries themselves, talking about the persons who made the discoveries, the nature of each discovery, the time setting and weird events around the excavations. As well as giving facts about everyday life of people in the past and what each discovered item teaches us.

It’s in this book I learned about Mrs. Pretty and Jean Louis Buckhart. I’m just angry this book I bought on a whim turned out to be the best one and I now have an impossibly high standard for any future books on the subject.

I have this other book about lost treasures and In the Mrs. pretty story it uses a pun on 50 Shades of Grey for the chapter title. Just... fuck off.

4:

I actually keep meaning to read this one and I still need to get around to it because I’m pretty bad at reading. I never seem to just sit down and do it unless I’m forced to.

However I’m still kinda into this book as a concept at least. The blurb says:

The Bible is full of myth and full of mystery and the Very Rev Gillbert Thurlow, the Dean of Gloucester takes the well known stories of the Old Testament and explains the purpose and symbolism behind the myths, showing where myth ends and history begins and how relevant these stories are to us today. He then goes on to examine the nature of the Mysteries of the New Testament.

And you guys know me, I’m all about symbolism and deeper meaning behind things (within reason)

The book was published in 1974. I got is for $4 at a flea market.

5:

“Misao to Fukumaru” is a small little book with no actual writing in it. It’s a collection of photos taken of the author’s grandmother and her partially deaf cat living in rural Japan. It’s a gorgeous little book showing simple, everyday life and happiness. I have the second one too but the first one is much better. The second one is mainly made up of the B-roll and it kinda shows.

6:

A book about the history of toys. Underneath it you can see my other book on toy history, but I decided to show this one instead. The other book documents the history behind things like Troll dolls and hula hoops, whereas this book instead is more “historical” for lack of a better word. Showing us popular toys from hundreds of years ago and earlier. Showing things like Ancient Egyptian horses on wheels to be pulled by string, doll houses from Victorian England, and french dolls from the Rococo period. It’s almost a bit heartbreaking to see the artistry in these toys, and compare to the cheap manufactured factory stuff made today. However I suppose back then only rich kids could get toys, instead of being widely available for everyone the way it is today.

Oh well.

7:

I highly recommend this book if you can get your hands on it!

Honestly, I’ve found it hard to find any books on exploitation movies. Yes, there’s the Internet and shows like ‘The Cinema Snob’ which fills in a lot of the gaps, but no real BOOKS on the film subgenre. This is the best one I’ve managed to find that focuses on the topic itself, rather than talk about exploitation films as a single chapter in a book on film as a whole. Which is a shame, because Exploitation ‘trash’ (and yes. a LOT of it is complete trash) helped build movies into what they are today, for better or worse. They played a very vital role in shaping cinema, and not only that, but to ignore parts of history in favour of other parts paints an inaccurate picture of a time period.

It’s why you have people who believe ‘Saw invented Torture Porn’ when movies like ‘Blood-Sucking Freaks’ have existed since the 60s.

I once attended a screening by Jerry Beck on his ‘Worst Cartoons Ever’ show, where he states that he believed preserving terrible awful shit cartoons to be very important, and how nobody was doing it. Because “If we only remember the good and forget about the bad, of course we’re gonna say ‘Everything was so much better 20 years ago!’ If we ignore the crap how can we really see how much we’ve improved?”

Exploitation films are why the modern horror genre even exists tbh. Hollywood saw how much money ‘Last House on the Left’, ‘Halloween’, ‘The Texas Chainsaw Massacre’ and ‘Friday the 13th’ were making and went “Hey! There’s money here!” and made ‘Nightmare on Elm Street’. The first mainstream blood-soaked horror movie widely distributed.

Which, sadly, mostly killed the exploitation circuit. Because when all you have to fall back on is blood and nudity, how can you compete when Hollywood, which actually has money, starts muscling in on your territory.

Hilariously the opposite is now starting to be true. Hollywood is so focused on churning out stupid gore-soaked horror movies that people are starting to pay more attention to the low-budget indie films that tend to have more thought put into them.

No photos of the inside on this one because it’s an indie released book (as it should be) and printing costs limited how many pictures could be included, so it’s mostly text.

I bought this from the Author while visiting friends in L.A.

[trash-the-tozier]

The Disappearance of Georgie Denbrough (5/10)

Title: The Disappearance of Georgie Denbrough

Length ~60.8k (~6.1k for this part)

Summary: The summer between junior and senior year of high school, Bill’s little brother Georgie goes missing.

Warnings: It’s relatively canon-typical in terms of content. For this part there’s explicit language, mentions of death, violence, 

Pairings: eventual Richie/Eddie and Ben/Beverly

A/N: ugh benverly are so cute I love them also posted to my ao3 here (much more readable tbh) Previous Parts: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4

Bill and Mike were already there by the time Ben arrived at the sewers. They weren't looking around like Ben expected but talking to each other instead, and there was a smile on Bill's face. Ben had only seen Bill smile a handful of times, but the expression looked good on him.

“Oh, no.” Mike was saying. He was laughing a little. “I cannot let you say that The Cure are cooler than Michael Jackson. I just can’t. He’s the King of Pop!”

“I d-didn’t say they were cooler. I s-s-said they were better.” Bill grinned as Mike shook his head, seemingly ashamed on Bill’s behalf. He spotted Ben approaching, calling out to him.

“Hey! The Cure or Michael Jackson?”

Ben thought for a moment.

“Is Prince not on the table?” He asked back, and Mike gave his answer consideration before declaring that an argument for a different day. He couldn’t stay ashamed of Bill for very long though, Richie and Eddie coming up quickly, seemingly right behind Ben. They were bickering about something like always, but Richie didn’t seem to be putting up as much of a fight as usual, just looking down at Eddie with a grin as the shorter one spoke fast and fervidly.

“No Richie, you cannot just ‘live in my closet’. That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“It would save me a lot of trips up and down that trellis, Eds. Those are more dangerous than you know. One day, I’ll fall and break my neck and then you’ll regret it. You’ll hold me in your lap and cry over my dead body.”

“Don’t call me Eds! I can’t believe we’re arguing about this. My mother would find you. And I keep stuff in there! Like… Clothes.”

“So you could keep me in there too! C’mon, it’s not like I haven’t seen your underwear before.” Richie’s expression was less suggestive and more affectionately dopey, but Eddie still shoved his shoulder so hard that he stumbled away a few paces. Eddie came to a huffy stop in front of the rest of them.

“Hi.” He said, the heat still in his voice. When Richie tried to walk up, he shoved him again without even looking. This time Richie fell into the grass, laughing. “Can someone tell Richie that he can’t move in with me?”

Nobody spoke. Bill simply looked amused, helping Richie to his feet. Mike’s eyebrows were raised, and Ben was hesitant to say anything. He couldn’t tell what Richie and Eddie had going on, but quite frankly, he was too afraid to ask. Eddie sighed, mumbling something about “have to do everything myself”.

Stan walked up next. He looked like he hadn’t slept much, but he greeted the group with a little smile anyways. When Beverly approached, she looked sort of the same way. Ben couldn’t help the smile on his face when he saw her though, his heart soaring when she met his eyes and smiled back.

“‘Sup Bevvy?” Richie greeted, an easy smile on his face as he waved. Her expression changed so quickly that Ben barely had time to register it, and before any of them realized what was happening she wound her arm back and slapped Richie across the face, his glasses flying off into the grass. He stumbled away from her, ducking his head, Eddie holding his arm to steady him. All of them looked at her, Stan taking a step back. Ben had seen her lobbing rocks during their fight against Bowers, and could tell that she hadn’t put her full force behind the blow--and it would have hurt infinitely more if she’d decided to punch him instead.

“Call me that again and I swear to god I will strangle you.” She said. Ben saw her swallow after she’d gotten the threat out, and she didn’t look angry. She looked… Scared. Her gaze flicked to the rest of the Losers. “That goes for the rest of you too, understand?”

Their bobble-headed nods seemed to make her realize the spectacle she was causing, casting her gaze to her feet.

“Good.” She finished. Then she stooped down, handing Richie back his glasses. “Sorry.”

With Richie trying to recalibrate his head on his shoulders, there wasn’t anyone to break the silence. Finally, Bill spoke up.

“N-no, you h-h-hit Richie in the face. You’re our hero.” He said. The remark got a few chuckles, Beverly offering him a small smile.

“We get it, we get it, no Bevvy. No need to try and kill me.” Richie said, stumbling back behind Ben and raising his hands placatingly to his chest when his brain had caught up with his mouth, seeing the twist in Beverly’s expression. Stan rolled his eyes and punched Richie on the shoulder. “Fuck! Sorry, sorry. Jesus.”

“So… The sewers?” Ben offered, and they made their way to the pipes.

It wasn’t the most fun way to spend the morning. It was dark and stuffy and didn’t smell the best, with a reluctant Stan and protesting Eddie trailing behind the group every step of the way. They found a couple of things as they stumbled around in the water (grey water, as Eddie was insisting, telling Stan the different ways they would all be contracting staph infections) most of it garbage that Richie flung around with a large stick he'd picked up. Bill found a small shoe with Tania McGowan's name written on the tongue, all of them solemn for a silent moment.

It was weird when Beverly found Patrick Hockstetter’s lighter. They all recognized it, even before Mike pointed out the initials that had been scratched into the bottom. Ben knew he should feel badly, that he should be sorry that Patrick was most likely dead, but all he could identify was a vague sympathy. He wasn't happy about it, he didn't wish death upon anyone, but…

“I don't know what to do with this.” Beverly confessed. She held her hand out palm up, offering the lighter to the group, asking someone else to decide its fate. Richie took it from her, examining it with a furrowed brow before pocketing it.

They reemerged, blinking in the sun, and it took Ben a couple of minutes to realize that he knew where they were. He pointed down the street.

“Hey, that's my house.” He said.

“No kidding!” Richie said with a laugh. He'd gone more or less quiet while climbing through the tunnels, but the sunlight seemed to revive him a little. He began crossing the street, as though forgetting that their mission for the day was to explore the tunnels, not pay Ben’s place a visit.

“H-hey, Richie--” Bill began, but then Mike let out a loud curse, and Eddie’s hands were on Ben’s back, pushing him to get him moving.

“What--?” Ben began, his question drowned out by the loud and menacing revving of an engine. He could guess what car that was--just their luck, of course this would happen--chancing a glance over his shoulder.

Bowers was all the way down the street, Vic and Huggins with him in his car. A look at his expression almost made Ben miss the days that Bowers spit in his face with a smile; this new ‘angry and murderous’ thing made him so much more terrifying. He was a good ways away, but his car was coming at them fast, and Ben scrambled to get his legs moving.

“Which house is yours?” Richie shouted, already in front of them. Ben gave him the house number, realizing as he got closer that his mother’s car was in the driveway. His mom was home. That didn’t seem to deter Richie though, because as soon as he reached the right house he dove inside, Stan fast on his heels.

Bowers’s car was almost on them. Ben could hear the engine roaring in his ears as he ran up onto the sidewalk, up onto his front lawn, hoping that he was safe now that he was out of the road. That wasn’t the case. He heard the bump behind him as the car went up over the curb, and simply kept running for his front door.

“Henry, fuck--” Huggins’s voice, and suddenly the car swerved, kicking up grass and dirt and skidding away from its collision course for Ben’s front porch. He looked back and saw the two bullies grappling for the wheel, Huggins steering the car back onto the street and Henry shouting curses at him.

“I almost had the fat fucker--”

And then Ben was inside, slamming and locking the door behind him. He half expected the gang to try coming in his house, the mad glint developing in Bowers’s eyes making him feel that nearly anything was possible, but they didn’t. Maybe the ‘veteran’ bumper sticker on the back of his mother’s car was dissuading them; if that were the case, Ben would be willing to wear it across his forehead.

His friends were all standing very awkwardly in his kitchen. It took him a few moments to catch his breath, then he gestured around vaguely with his hands.

“Uh… This is my house.”

It was Beverly that began laughing first, but soon they were a hopelessly giggling mess, Ben’s legs shaking slightly as the adrenaline faded from his limbs. He offered them drinks and snacks, trying to be a good host, and everyone had a cup of water in their hands by the time his mother came down the stairs.

“Well hello.” She sounded happy but hesitant, giving Ben a quick look. How she hadn’t known about other people in the house until now, Ben had no idea. They had been rather loud upon entering. “Benjamin, what’s all this?”

“These are my friends.” Ben supplied. He named them all in turn, each giving her a small wave.

“Oh, friends!” She exclaimed the word as though until now, she’d forgotten how to pronounce it. Ben wished she’d said it any other way than that.

“I know, we might just be the first ones.” Richie said, walking over and slinging an arm across Ben’s shoulders. “Your Benny’s a special boy.”

Mrs. Hanscom beamed at him. “I like this one.” She said, gesturing to Richie. Then Richie winked, and Ben shoved him.

“Okay, I’m going grocery shopping so I’ll be out for a little while.” She said, moving towards the door. She paused for a second at Beverly, who looked nervously back, but Mrs. Hanscom only complimented her on her dress before continuing on her way out. When she opened the door, she stopped.

“Oh, what happened here?”

Ben looked out. There were very clear tire tracks ripping through the grass.

“Looks like some kind of accident.” He said innocently. He glanced down, seeing Bowers’s car parked a few houses away, and pulled his head back inside. “Don’t know.”

“I do hope the driver is alright.” She remarked absently, and Ben bit the inside of his cheek. She turned and ruffled his hair affectionately. “If you go out again, just make sure to be home in time for dinner.”

“I will.”

She was out the door, Ben turning to the group.

“Bowers is just waiting down the street.” He said. “We probably shouldn’t go out there until he leaves.”

“Party at Ben’s!” Richie said happily.

“Don’t wink at my mom.” Ben responded. “It’s weird.”

Eddie hit Richie in the arm. “I told you it’s weird.”

Richie just shrugged in a hopeless sort of way.

“What can I say? Moms love me.”

Bill looked incredibly frustrated, and Ben felt bad for him.

“W-w-what are we s-supposed to do now?” He asked. Aside from a shrug from Stan, nobody else had an answer, and they sat themselves around Ben’s kitchen table, someone getting up every once and awhile and peeking through the windows to check on the status of the Bowers threat. Mike brought back the Cure vs. Michael Jackson debate, and after an hour and a round of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, they were all still stuck at Ben’s.

“Sorry about this.” Ben felt he had to say, but his apology was quickly waved off.

“Not your fault that Bowers is a dick.” Eddie said. “Plus, you’re keeping us out of the hepatitis breeding ground. We should be thanking you.”

“But--” Bill began, Ben remembering something so suddenly that he cut him off.

“That book!”

“What book?” Mike asked. Ben apologized to Bill, but turned to him as well, knowing that at least him, Stan, and Beverly would know what he was talking about.

“That book we looked at in the library, with the sewer system mapped out. Remember? I went back and checked it out. There are a few maps in it, too. We could see what places--”

“What p-places are ab-bandoned.” Bill finished. “We m-m-might be able to f-find out where he lives.”

He nodded and they all rose from their seats, Ben not realizing at first that everyone walking out of the kitchen meant everyone going into his room. He rushed ahead of them, trying desperately to clean up as much as he could before they got there, picking things up as he scurried around. It only half worked, his bed unmade and papers strewn all over the place, but at least all his dirty clothes were now shoved in his closet.

They walked in one by one, Ben standing back and watching their expressions, feeling strangely nervous. Everyone's eyes went first to the various things he had pinned up. Ben didn’t like having bare bedroom walls, and as a result he'd hung up every noteworthy thing he could. Flyers from events he’d attended and movie tickets were in the majority, with a few family photos and achievements from summer camps. Most of it was stuff he and his dad had done together and almost none of it was from Derry, but he liked having it all up there nonetheless.

Ben crossed to his desk, picking the book up. It was out of his hands as soon as he turned back to the group, Bill opening it, Stan and Mike on either side of him to get a good look as Eddie and Richie continued to flit around his room. Ben hovered behind them awkwardly, unsure of what it was they were doing. Beverly let out a little cough, and when Ben looked over the bottom dropped out of his stomach. She had her hand on the knob of his bedroom door, the door almost completely closed, all five members of New Kids On The Block staring back at him.

Ben’s eyes went wide, glancing momentarily to the unaware Eddie and Richie and shaking his head desperately. He’d been incredibly into the boy band a couple of years ago, and while they’d faded from his enthusiasm, he still knew most of their songs by heart. He’d put the poster up when he’d moved to Derry, and found he still had a soft spot for the group every time he tried to take it down. Bev looked completely delighted by her discovery, and as happy as Ben was to see her smile, he didn’t know what the rest of the Losers would do with that information and didn’t want to find out.

Thankfully, after a few more moments of teasing, Beverly reopened the door so that the poster was hidden safely against the wall, and Ben breathed a sigh of relief.

“The wellhouse.” Mike remarked. He sounded surprised, pointing to the book in Bill’s hands. “All of the sewer lines end up running to the old wellhouse. That thing isn’t there anymore, though; it was torn down or something.”

“W-what’s there now?” Bill asked, and Mike took the book from him, flipping through a few different pages of maps. Nobody else could see what it was they were looking at, but everyone watched them, a feeling of foreboding settling in Ben's stomach as Mike's eyes fixed on a place on the page. He swallowed, pointing.

“Well?” Beverly asked, visibly nervous. “What is it?”

“The Neibolt house.” Stan answered. His voice was slow, and he sounded slightly hoarse.

“Hey!” Richie gave Eddie a nudge, breaking the ominous silence that had settled around them. “You were right, Eds.”

Eddie didn’t look at all pleased at being right. Ben watched the courage muster up on Bill's face, taking a step towards the door.

“Woah, where are you going?” Mike asked, gripping Bill's shoulder. Bill turned back to them, his eyes bright, his mouth a thin line.

“L-l-let’s go. We know where h-he is, so let's go.”

“Go?” Stan echoed, his voice cracking slightly. “Go to the Neibolt house? Are you insane?”

Bill didn't wait to debate him, turning back to the exit, but Stan jumped forwards and grabbed his arm.

“Bill--”

“I'm going!” Bill shook him off, but Stan just grabbed him again. “I'm g-going. Every second we w-w-waste here is j-just--”

“Georgie. I get it.” Stan said empathetically. “But Bill, you have to think about this! It's crazy! If we really have a psycho clown on our hands then we are so damn far over our heads that it's unreal. We have to take this to the police. It's their job. We're just kids.”

“B-b-but--”

“You--we--are the only people doing something. I know that. But if this gets you killed, you'll be no use to Georgie at all. Please go to the police station.”

They held each other's gaze, Ben afraid even to breathe. Then, finally, Bill's eyes dropped to his feet.

“Fine.”

Stan visibly relaxed but Bill wasn't finished, looking up again.

“But i-if they d-d-don't do anything useful, w-we’re going in ourselves.”

Stan's fingers tightened on Bill's shirtsleeve.

“Fine.” He said. “Fine.”

Then he let him go, the group following Bill out of Ben's bedroom. Eddie ran forward and looked out the window.

“Coast is clear.” He reported. “Bowers left.”

Nodding dutifully, Bill was out the door without another word. The others left soon after that, first Eddie, then Mike and Stan. Richie asked to use his bathroom, Ben pointing him in the right direction, and after a strangely disconcerting promise to not do anything weird to the soap, Richie retreated into the house.  

That left him with Beverly, and he smiled at her. Just being next to her was nice, despite the fact that she seemed a little different than usual today. Maybe she hadn't slept well; she had bags under her eyes that he'd noticed as soon as she'd greeted them, smiling a little less, and her walk was slightly stiff. All the same, his stomach did a little somersault when she smiled back. He wanted to tell her she smelled good, but thought that might be a bit much.

She misread his silence, laughing a little and looking out over the torn-up lawn.

“Don't worry. I won't tell anyone about your crush.”

“W-what?” Ben choked out. She raised an eyebrow at him.

“New Kids On The Block?” She said. “You know, that you're their biggest fan.”

“Oh.” He laughed a little. “Yeah. I mean, it was a couple years ago, I…”

“Is it because you were the new kid?” She asked. “I remember when you first came to class. You and I were in Social Studies together.”

“You remember that?” He couldn't hide how stunned he was.

“Yeah. You wrote the best paper in the class about the Civil War, so the teacher made you stand up and read the entire thing in front of everyone. Your face was bright red.”

“Of course that's what you remember.” Ben remarked, and Beverly laughed. She took a step out onto his front lawn.

“I'm going to go ahead.” She said. “I want to meet up with Bill, actually. He shouldn't do this alone. See you later.” She winked, and Ben had a near death experience right there in his doorway. “Hang tough.”

Ben recognized her parting words as a New Kids song reference, but by the time he'd thought of a response she was already halfway down the street. He said it anyway, calling after her.

“Please don't go girl!”

She turned at the sound of his voice, confused for just a moment before understanding what he said. When she realized it was another song title she threw her head back in a loud laugh, her shoulders relaxing, releasing a tension in them that Ben hadn't noticed until it was gone. It felt good to make her laugh like that.

“So. Bev.”

Ben spun around so fast he nearly fell down. It was Richie. Ben had completely forgotten he was there. Richie was staring at the back of Beverly's head as though she'd just told him a rather complicated math problem, though Ben knew for a fact that Richie was extremely good at math.

“Yeah?” He asked after a moment. “What?”

“She's great, don't get me wrong.” Richie said. “I mean, she's one of us now, so we'd all die for her. It's just… Why do you love her so much?”

“Love?” Ben squeaked. “I… It's…”

“Benny.” Richie raised his eyebrows. “Come on man.”

“Please don't try to get that nickname to catch on.”

“Fine, Benji.”

Benji wasn't much better, but Ben took it. He shrugged.

“I like being around her. She makes me nervous, but in a good way, and happy too. I want to make her laugh. I want to protect her, even though she really doesn't need it. I don't know.” It was hard to put his feelings into words. “She's fearless, and she's funny, and I can't wait to see her every day. Plus, she's… You know…”

“Cute.” Richie finished. Ben nodded but Richie didn't notice, looking preoccupied with his own thoughts. “Really, really cute.”

“Yeah.” Ben raised his eyebrows, confused by Richie's change in attitude, but he didn't end up needing to ask about it. Richie scuffed the bottom of his right shoe against the floor.

“I feel that way about someone too.” Then he caught the look in Ben's eye. “It's not Beverly, don't get your dick in a twist.”

“Oh.” When Richie didn't elaborate, Ben figured it wasn't his business. “Well, good luck.”

“You too, Benito.” Richie clapped him hard on the back, trying to break the mood with his terrible British accent as he jumped down all of Ben’s front steps at once. “I'm rooting for you, old sport!”

“Thanks.” Ben gave him a smile, and after a clumsy salute, Richie was gone.

“The Neibolt house?” The police officer gave him a disbelieving look. His dark hair was cropped short and his face was incredibly pockmarked from old acne scars that never properly healed. He seemed pretty sure that Bill and Beverly were playing some sort of joke on him. “What on God’s green Earth are you talking about, Denbrough?”

Bill swallowed, glancing at Beverly, who gave him an encouraging nod. She’d run after him, finally catching up in town, and Bill was glad now for her company. He hadn’t considered what to do if the police didn’t believe him. He hadn’t even thought that would be a possibility.

Taking a deep breath, he explained again about the sewers, and the clown Mike had seen. He left out the name Robert Gray, remembering what Mike had said about his father getting laughed out of the precinct. To his credit, the officer genuinely seemed to be listening. He turned to his partner when Bill had finished for the second time, a man with light brown hair and an exceptionally bushy mustache under his long nose.

“Are you hearing this?”

“Sounds like bullshit to me, but why not?” The cop with the mustache asked back. “You told me ten minutes ago that you were bored. We could go.”

“P-please.” Bill said. He was beginning to feel angry, trying to keep it out of his voice. His brother was missing, and the police were bored. He was frustrated with Stan, too; if not for him, Bill would be in the house by now. He might have even found Georgie already. “I-i-i-it w-won’t take long, j-j-j-just--”

“Alright, alright. Don’t hurt yourself.” Pockmark got to his feet, grabbing his hat and putting it on. “You two wanna ride in a cop car?”  

Bill hadn’t expected to be invited along. He’d expected to be taken seriously, for this to be seen as the significant, dangerous lead that it was. All the same though, he did want to go, and a few minutes later the two of them found themselves in the back of the police vehicle, Mustache behind the wheel and Pockmark sitting shotgun. Nerves twisted themselves in his stomach, a negative type of anticipation, and a strange part of Bill wanted to cry. It must have shown on his face because Beverly reached over, rubbing his arm. He tried to smile in gratitude, but he felt his lips stretch weirdly and he quickly gave up.

“Hey, where's the chief?” Pockmark asked. “He didn’t ever come in.”

Mustache glanced over at him.

“Chief Bowers? Day off.” He answered. “He called in earlier though; can't find his damn gun. Thinks his kid stole it.”

Pockmark let out a breath. “Wouldn't surprise me. He hits that boy, you know.”

“Yeah?” Mustache’s mustache furrowed as he frowned, turning onto Neibolt street. “Sounds like he doesn't hit him hard enough.”

Then the police car was put into park, and they had arrived. The Neibolt house loomed over them, dark and desecrated, a sore thumb in an otherwise picturesque neighborhood. The lawn was brown and dead, a bare and mangled tree jutting from the earth like a gnarled hand. Vines had grown all around the first story of the house, creeping their way in between the cracks of the boarded up windows, but they too looked brown and wasted. The rusted fence boasted two “NO TRESPASSING” signs, but they were disregarded.

“It’s not trespassing if nobody lives here.” Mustache reasoned. “The owners of the house died, the kids didn’t want it, and they left it here to rot.”

It wasn’t until they got to the front door that Pockmark stopped them both.

“Just in case, you two stay out here.” He said. “There’s a working radio in the front if you need it. We should only be a moment, really. But we’ll take a look around.”

Bill bit back a retort. He wanted to go inside, especially since he’d already come all the way here. This had to be it, and if it was, that meant Georgie was in there. Georgie needed him. He couldn’t just stand here and do nothing. But he couldn’t defy a police officer to his face, especially not with Beverly holding tight to his arm. At her insistence they backed away from the porch, standing in the middle of the walkway to the house.

“God, I hate this place.” She said, and in spite of himself and his frustration Bill felt a shiver pass through him as he looked through the gaping front door. But still, his weight shifted forward, all the more ready to pull away from Beverly. She felt it, gripping him tighter.

“Bill, don’t.” She was looking at him, examining his face.

“What?”

“You want to play the hero.” She said. “You want to help, and I get it, but Stan’s right. If Pennywise is here, we need to let the cops take care of it.”

“I k-know.” Stan was right. Stan was usually right, but this wasn’t really a question of right or wrong; it was all about how much feeling useless he could bear.

It only took a few minutes before he was ready to disregard all of the warnings and go inside anyway, pulling his arm from Beverly’s grasp.

“Bill--” She started, and he turned to apologize, flinching horribly when something that felt like an explosion went off inside the house. Beverly cursed in surprise and confusion, Bill stepping instinctively closer to her. A metal rod flew from the open front door, landing only inches from their feet and cracking the pavement ahead of them as dust billowed from the windows like smoke. There were few moments of tense silence before the policemen emerged, Pockmark dragging Mustache down the steps. He looked like he’d survived a nuclear blast, his hair blown every which way, blood and dirt streaked across his face.

Mustache looked like he’d been through the nuclear blast too, but that he hadn’t been so lucky. It wasn’t until Beverly muffled a scream behind her hands that Bill noticed that the darkness on the clothes of the officers was actually blood, so much of it that it scared him, his eyes traveling up to see that Mustache had a rusted metal rod protruding through his neck. The ground seemed to sway under Bill’s feet, Pockmark’s frantic voice sounding like it was coming from miles away.

“Radio! Radio for help!”

Mustache--or Bruce Andeen, as Bill later learned--was dead before any help arrived. Bill tried to press the other officer for answers--Charles Avarino--but he didn’t talk much at all until they were back at the police station. Traps, he’d said. The place was full of them. Tripwires, bear traps, holes in the floor. Explosives. Something had launched steel rods through the living room, though in the moment he hadn’t been able to discern where they’d come from or how they’d been sprung. But despite all this, he said the house looked as though nothing had been in it for years. The dust was undisturbed. They didn’t see a single person.

“The place was empty.” He kept insisting. “We didn’t hear anyone. We didn’t see a soul. It was empty.”

Bill and Beverly were also questioned, and again Bill explained their reasoning for going to the Neibolt house, as well as what had happened, but they were marked off as unimportant. The Neibolt house was declared dangerous, the fence marked off with caution tape, the “NO TRESPASSING” signs now shiny and new and under police jurisdiction, and Bill and Beverly were sent home.

Beverly took him by the hand and began to walk. Bill felt numb, shellshocked; he didn’t even realize where they were going until Beverly came to a stop at his front door. When he didn’t move to go inside of his house she tugged him forward, stepping into the kitchen.

“You need to get some rest.” Her voice was quiet, but not in an attempt to be comforting. She was shaken. “Or eat something. We haven’t eaten since we were at Ben’s.”

Bill disregarded her suggestions, one thing on his mind as he left his kitchen. Her hand was still in his so he took her with him, walking together to Georgie’s bedroom. The door to the room was closed, and as soon as he saw it he choked on a gasp.

A dirty yellow raincoat was nailed to the wood of the door, arms of it splayed out and hood up as though it were being worn. It was Georgie’s and Bill knew it, running forward with a choked sob, pulling the coat down from the door and holding it close. Beverly was there with her hand on his shoulder but he barely noticed, his face a mess of tears as he pressed it into the raincoat. His world felt as though it were spinning and crumbling all at once and he couldn’t breathe, pain ripping itself from his throat in cries.

“Bill, Bill…” Beverly pulled him close to her, her hands threading through his hair, rubbing his back, trying to comfort him. “Bill, I’m so sorry…”

“Georgie…” The name was an explanation that Beverly didn’t need, but Bill felt as though it grounded him slightly, the coat feeling heavier and heavier in his hands until he let it fall to the floor. Bev took his hands in hers and it pulled him back to the present even more.

“Look at me. Look at me.” She reached up to wipe the wetness from his cheeks. “Breathe.”

It was difficult, but he did, the storm in his chest slowly subsiding. The tears came anew in the quiet but Beverly sat with him, and it was her again that kept him there, not allowing him to be swept away by his emotions, and he reigned himself in enough to speak.

“I-I-I…” Beverly met his eyes, and Bill realized he had no idea what it was he wanted to say. “Beverly…”

When he trailed off the second time she looked at him curiously for a moment, then leaned forwards and kissed him, giving their entwined fingers a squeeze.

Bill liked Beverly. She was fiercely strong and loyal, and anyone could tell how pretty she was. He had thought about kissing her once or twice. But this, while comforting… Something about it wasn't the way it should be.

Bill had kissed people before, and Beverly wasn't a bad kisser. It didn't feel wrong, exactly, but it didn't feel right, either. Beverly pulled away.

“There's something off about this, isn't there.” It was a question but it came out like a statement, and Bill tried to apologize.

“Bev, I-I-I…”

“No, I felt it too. It's okay.” She gave him a little smile. She wasn’t upset, and for that Bill was relieved. “I guess we're just meant to hold hands with other people, huh.”

“The h-hand holding was nice, actually.” Bill said, and Beverly smiled wider. Bill realized he truly felt better, safer and calmer. “Thank you, Beverly.”

“Of course. You're my best friend.” Beverly squeezed his hands again before letting him go.

“D-d-d… Do you really t-think he isn’t there?” Bill had to ask. Beverly frowned.

“I don’t know.” She confessed. “Officer Avarino did say he didn’t hear any…” Her voice died in her throat, looking up at the bedroom door they’d collapsed in front of. Bill followed her line of sight, clutching his stomach as though he’s just been punched in the gut, the wind completely knocked out of him.

There had been something on the door behind the raincoat, a message written in dark red. The door smelled of paint and not iron, but the small relief that the message wasn’t in blood barely helped.

“Leave my home alone or I’ll kill you.” Beverly read slowly, her voice shaking. “I’ll kill you and your sweet brother too.” Beverly gripped Bill’s shoulder, her fingers digging into him. “Bill, he was inside your house.”

That should have scared Bill, and he knew it, but that wasn’t the part of the message he was focusing on. He struggled to his feet, unsure if his legs would hold him. They did, just barely, and he swayed on the spot.

“He’s still alive.” He said. “Georgie’s still alive. We have to go to the Neibolt house.”

“Okay.” Beverly was willing, and he could see that, but she sent an anxious glance out the window down the hall. The sun was just starting to set, the beginnings of orange and pink streaking across the sky. “We will Bill, but tomorrow, okay? I have to go home.”

“Bev--”

“I have to go. Tomorrow we’ll call everyone, and we’ll go to Neibolt, and everything. But tonight I have to go home.”

Bill didn’t understand what had her suddenly so close to tears, but he could tell it was important, and he nodded.

“Okay.”

She gave him a small smile, and after a kiss on the cheek and an expression of farewell, she left. Bill grabbed a towel from the bathroom, hanging it over the door to cover the words, knowing full well that his parents wouldn’t try to move it. He didn’t want them to see the message. They were distraught enough as it was, and they wouldn’t believe him if he told them the truth. They would just be angry with him instead.

He took Georgie’s jacket with him into his bedroom. It smelled mostly of sewage and slightly of blood but Bill couldn’t bear to part with it, laying back on his bed and holding it in his hands. He wasn’t willing to admit it to anyone, most of all himself, but he’d begun to give up hope. Some part of him had just been waiting for a body to turn up, like Betty Ripsom had. Not anymore.

A tiny voice was nagging in the back of his mind, wondering if the whole thing was a trap, or some kind of red herring, Avarino’s words echoing in his mind. The place was empty.

He shook it away, determination settling in overtop of his uneasy fear. Georgie was in there, and Bill was going to get him out.

[atanih88]

FIC: Piece by Piece - Chapter 8 (Marvel MCU, Tony/Peter)

Title: Piece by Piece Pairing: Tony Stark/Peter Parker Rating: Explicit Chapter: 8/13 Summary: Three years after the end of the Infinity War, the world prepares to celebrate its third anniversary of freedom. The world doesn’t realize that the heroes who fought for them are a little broken. But hey, maybe broken together, is better than broken and apart.

Notes: Written for Marvel Big Bang 2018 and originally posted on my AO3. Go there for full fic. Will be posting one chapter a day here.

CHAPTER 8

Peter starts using the workshop to work on a new web shooter prototype, something that’ll help shape the fluid if he needs it to, to produce, say a shield if he needs it. Because Peter has had people shoot at him before, many times, and he doesn’t want May to receive a call one day about Peter being on a slab in a morgue because he was unlucky. Despite what people think, Peter knows he’s not indestructible. He tries to keep himself as safe as possible. But the more defense mechanisms he has at his disposal, the better off he’ll be in the long run.

But in order for him to be able to use it for something like that, Peter has to try and produce a higher volume with each shot of the web.

With the anniversary of the Infinity War approaching, Tony’s spending more and more time out of his place, and an issue with Stark Industries means he’s away for a couple of days in Germany. It’s odd, being in the house without Tony. It’s kind of crazy how in such a short space of time Peter has gotten used to spending his evenings with Tony, working away or eating junk food while they try and work through something that’s not quite right.

‘So, you’re just at his house?’

Ned’s voice echoes in the room, his face taking up the entire screen.

Peter lowers his hand back to his side and unlocks the prototype to examine the skin beneath, hissing at how raw it feels. ‘Yeah. It’s actually,’ he shrugs, ‘okay. Weird, but cool, you know?’

‘Is May okay with it?’

Peter sighs. ‘She’s glad I’m sleeping again. I’m going over later, we’re gonna grab some Chinese. She says she’s got some exciting work gossip she wants to share with me.’ He smiles. He loves May.

‘Cool. What about Mr Stark? When’s he back?’

‘Uh, tomorrow I think?’ Peter reaches for the aloe gel he’s been keeping around and starts to rub it over the sensitive glands on his wrist. ‘What about the Summer Program? How’s it going?’

That sends Ned into hyperdrive and they spend the next few hours just catching up before Peter hangs up to go and get ready to meet May. He’s got her invitation to the party. It occurs to Peter when he’s on his way back to Queens that no one’s really mentioned if there’s a dress code or something. He hopes not because he hasn’t bought something formal in years. Probably not since prom in High School and that had been. Well. Either way, it’s not a contender. Nothing in Peter’s wardrobe is.

As he walks into his bedroom he pauses, eyes going to the unmade bed that he’d neglected to make that morning.

Peter hasn’t had nightmares since Tony left. But that’s because he’s been alternating between being in the workshop and napping downstairs on the sofa. The easy rhythm he’d been finding with sleep again vanished after that disaster.

He wonders if maybe he’d sleep again if Tony was next to him.

But then before he can think too much about it, imagine it too much, he heads into the bathroom for a shower, looking forward to being out of this house for a while.

Because those thoughts are only for when he’s dreaming.

~

‘Sooo, what’s it like at the Stark castle?’

The restaurant is packed tonight. It’s a Friday night and the weather is nice and crisp and May is smiling and relaxed, wielding the chopsticks with the ease of someone who eats here way too often. Peter’s not complaining though as the smell of the roast meat has his mouth watering and he’s wolfing food down like they’re about to run out. Out here the sound of traffic outside and people talking out on the street pieces together the more familiar fabric of Peter’s day to day life.

Stark Castle, as May puts it, is made up of rock & roll, revving engines, FRIDAY’s voice and the coffee machine.

‘It’s cool,’ he says, ‘I’ve been working on something in his workshop to help me—uh. You know. With that thing. That I do.’

At that, May’s smile tightens. Because she’s never been okay with it. And she probably never will be. But she’s May and she loves Peter and if there’s anyone who wants to support him it’s her. ‘As long as it’s an improvement? Anything that makes you safer out there is a relief for me.’

Peter nods. ‘I know. And it is!’ He leans forward and lowers his voice. ‘It’s actually to help me use the web fluid to form a shield.’

May’s eyes widen. ‘What? You can do that?’

Spurred by the way she looks just as excited as he feels, Peter nods even more enthusiastically and starts describing what he’s working on. May loses some of her enthusiasm when Peter shows her his wrists but he assures her that he’s taking care of them and it’s just from overuse.

‘I thought Mr Stark had already spoken to you about overworking yourself.’

‘May, I’m being safe, I promise. And I’m taking real breaks. It’s just really sore? But I promise I’m being careful. Near genius intellect, remember?’ he says, referring to what the recruiters from MIT had said about him.

Wrong thing to say because May scowls at him and goes back to her food. ‘What I remember is you not going to MIT.’

Peter sighs. ‘Because I’d rather be here. With you. I like it here. And I’m doing really well here.’

May shrugs a shoulder. ‘Yeah, I guess. Now finish eating. Just because you brought me an invitation to a fancy shindig filled with superheroes doesn’t mean you get out of Funday Olday Friday with me.’

Peter groans. ‘How many, today?’

May pops a piece of pork and smiles around the bite. ‘Two back to back today.’

‘Fine.’

May grins. ‘You love me.’

Peter grins back. ‘You love me too.’

~

It’s late when Peter gets back, eyes and ears still hurting from the back to back musicals he had to sit through.

It’d been nice though and he has a small smile on his face as he walks back into Stark Castle. The name makes him laugh. But then he hears the sounds of someone moving around in the house, the sound coming from deep within the house, the cadence of the walk familiar.

Tony’s back.

The flutter in his chest is weird and Peter frowns, rubbing at it as if that will get it to go away.

Peter follows the sound to what Tony should just start calling his bedroom. Peter knows for a fact by now that that’s where Tony spends most of his life.

It still rankles that he watches Tony do this day after day and he’s not allowed to comment on it. But he’s let go of that now, tries not to let it bother him.

When he gets down there, Tony has a hand planted on the worktable, familiar Hulk mug in hand. It’s the station Peter has been working at since he left and his eyes are locked on the papers full of notes that have been spread across the surface.

Peter tucks his hands into the pockets of his jeans and clears his throat. ‘You’re back early.’

Tony’s eyes flick up and focus on him there. ‘How’s May?’ he asks.

Peter smiles. ‘She’s good,’ he scuffs the toe of his shoe on the floor, ‘she says I’m looking better, so. That made her happy.’

Tony hums around the mug as he takes another drink. ‘That’s because you are. How were the nights while I was gone?’

He picks up the web shooter that Peter’s been tinkering with.

‘Okay. I didn’t actually get much sleep,’ he shrugs, ‘managed to nap a couple of times. I was just…didn’t want to dive back in right away you know? In case it happened again.’ He looks away. ‘Not as bad during the day though so I, um, just napped then.’

‘And spent your nights here, by the looks of it,’ he says, turning his attention back to the papers in front of him. ‘Doesn’t look bad. Is it working?’

‘Yeah!’ Excitement propels him further into the room and he’s shrugging off his hoodie, already so comfortable in his routine and so familiar with the place he doesn’t think twice. ‘I mean, okay, it’s not perfect? There’s a few more details to work out, but it’s all about how the web shooters are able to project a forcefield that will shape the web fluid. If I can just get it to do that, then all I have to do is gain more control of the fluid itself.’

‘Can you show me how far you got?’

‘Ah,’ Peter scratches at the back of his neck, apologetic, ‘actually, I can’t right now. Don’t be mad okay?’

Tony’s eyes narrow on him.

‘It’s just, I got a bit too excited about the idea and kind of overdid it a bit? So um. I’m just. You know. Sore.’

‘How bad is it?’ Tony asks. ‘Come here. Show me. Does medical need to take a look at it?’

Peter glances down, holding both arms wrists side up and examines the skin. It’s reddened and where normally it would be smooth without so much as a hint of where the glands are, now they each sport a large puffy looking rise that Peter’s been careful not to touch too much to avoid aggravating it. It’s happened before and he knows that he just needs to take it easy for a couple of days and keep putting the aloe on it. It always goes down eventually.

Despite the usual coolness of the workshop, Tony has the sleeves of his shirt rolled up past his elbows. The crew top he’s wearing has buttons down to mid chest and he’s left them undone all the way, showing skin and the edges of a white undershirt.

‘Peter.’

‘What?’

Tony gives him a look. ‘Your wrists. Are you coming over here or…?’

‘Y-yeah. Sorry.’ He almost trips over his own feet but makes it without incident. Tony’s shaking his head, half a smile stealing over his face. ‘Yeah. Smooth right there young padawan. Let’s see ‘em.’

Peter turns his wrists over.

‘May coming to the party?’

‘Yeah! She was super excited! Think she’s going to buy a dress just for it.’

‘What about you?’ Tony asks.

Before Peter can ask what he means, Tony gets a good look at his wrists and gives a low whistle. ‘Good thing you’re out of commission right now because you’re not gonna be using these any time soon. You overdid it.’

‘Yeah, I know.’ Peter can’t help flexing his wrists. Tony’s hands are warm andrough where they hold Peter’s wrists still.

‘Sure we shouldn’t get a medic to look at these?’ Tony lifts Peter’s hands higher. He adjusts his grip on Peter’s left wrist and brushes his thumb over the soft swell there, the roughness of his thumb scratching lightly. The probing touch has Peter sucking in a breath and letting it out in a shudder, unable to keep the involuntary flinch.

Tony’s head snaps up. ‘Doesn’t hurt huh?’

‘That wasn’t—that didn’t hurt!’ The words just blurt out of his mouth, bumbling and earnest and Peter wants to swallow them back because the silence that follows is—

Peter doesn’t know what it is.

He only knows that Tony’s grip has tightened on his wrists and he’s frozen in place, eyes intense on Peter’s face.

‘I mean,’ Peter tugs on wrist, ‘it’s just uh. It just feels sensitive. That’s all.’

‘Right.’ Tony straightens and then lets go. ‘My bad.’

Peter swallows and looks away, wrapping his own hand around his wrist, pressing the heel of his hand against it because he can still feel Tony’s touch on the skin there like a phantom whisper.

‘It’s fine. I’ll just put some more aloe on it.’

Tony’s eyes are narrowed on his face. ‘Yeah, you do that.’

[sportscarss]

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DIGITAL EDITOR ANDREW STOY: Beautiful to attending at and sit in, the 2013 Audi S7 about larboard me with alloyed feelings, abundant as it’s kissin’ accessory the S6 did. There’s annihilation amiss with the administration feel or anatomy dynamics; the agent is magnificent, able of casting one like a sixth grader’s spitball, but the dual-clutch automated exhibits abundant awe-inspiring behaviors to blemish abundant of the fun.

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At tip-in, there’s abundant rubber-banding to accomplish one anticipate they’re in a approved automated with a apart torque converter. The aftereffect is affiliated to what I’d brainstorm a affliction body actuality catapulted over a burghal bank ability experience…were it not a body (shame too; it’s affectionate of fun in its own way). Upshifts and downshifts are performed bound enough, but in action approach they’re abnormally timed and decidedly harsh, as if the gearbox aback began channeling the Mitsubishi Lancer Evolution MR while the blow of the car remained an Audi.

In the end, what’s absent is the mechanical, belly attributes of the powertrain begin on the S4. Abundant if it can be traced to the use of a dual-clutch consecutive chiral against a acceptable chiral transmission, and I accept it’s additionally accompanying to the blazon of chump who purchases the beyond Audi sports sedans against the A4/S4 buyer. But as far as driver’s cars go, the S4 (and S5) artlessly bear added of the absolute lever-connected-to-gears affiliation I prefer.

Damn if it isn’t pretty, though.

EDITOR WES RAYNAL: I accept alloyed animosity about the Audi S7. Adulation the exoteric shape; I anticipate it’s aloof stunning. I mostly adulation the autogenous as well. It’s comfortable, chic and beautifully built. So why do I say “mostly” about the interior? Because I’d like it a accomplished lot bigger after the head-up affectation that array of sticks out like the accepted abscessed deride on top of the dash.

And afresh there’s the transmission. Yes, that’s area I air-conditioned off — sometimes. There’s the rubber-banding appear aloft authoritative launches from lights uneven. But it’s not absolutely that per se, it’s that the activity is intermittent. Sometimes the car will cruise abroad calmly from lights. Sometimes there’s a averseness as if one is bottomward the clamp on a chiral chiral car. The accomplished acquaintance is aloof weird. It seems the beneath you cossack the bigger it is, but again, sometimes it aloof acts up. Trying the assorted ambience didn’t assume to help. The transmission’s alternate aberancy connected throughout the weekend.

Once underway the affair is fantastic. The agent is bland and there’s absolutely abundant ability actuality and added than abundant anchor — it’s one of those attenuate birds that feels lighter to drive than it absolutely is. For acquisitive up bags of artery afar I can anticipate of few cars accomplishing it better.

Overall, I like the S7 a lot. I aloof ambition the chiral was added seamless and there was no head-up affectation to accomplish the autogenous a bit tacky.

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Other than that, this car is actual nice.

ROAD TEST EDITOR JONATHAN WONG: We’ve broiled up to Audi’s A7 about the Autoweek appointment back it accustomed on the market. The exoteric sheetmetal is elegant, the rear bear offers some added utility, it has a beautifully done autogenous and with the 3.0-liter supercharged V6, it’s a adequately absorbing car to drive.

In the S7 we accept added ability with the turbo V8, acicular handling, sportier administration touches and an autogenous that has some of the best admiring and adequate in the business.

Compared to the A7, the S7 packs 110 added application (310 against 420) and 81-lb-ft added torque (325 against 406). Audi says the S7 gets to 60 mph in 4.5 seconds, while the A7 needs 5.4 seconds.

In abode of the eight-speed torque-converted automated in the A7 there’s a seven-speed dual-clutch consecutive chiral in the S7, which happens to be my alone big afraid point to the car. I’ll get into that added after on.

On the outside, the S7 gets specific fascias, argent mirror caps, ancillary sills and bankrupt outlets.

The amount to advancement from an A7 Prestige to an S7 (which is alone accessible in Prestige trim) is $12,650, which isn’t too crazy if you accede how quick a sticker amount can jump on European cars if you go a little bonkers with options. Is it account it? I anticipate it is, but the abuse dual-clutch chiral is putting a damper on the affair for me. Like the S6 I collection afore this S7, the aerial burke acknowledgment at tip-in collection me crazy over the weekend. Maybe with some programming alterations Audi could bland things out. Or at atomic I achievement they can.

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Once you’re affective along, things are accomplished with quick up- and downshifts abnormally back the Audi Drive Select arrangement is set to Dynamic. Dynamic additionally quickens council response, increases weight and the S7 stays durably buried about corners with little roll.

The agent is a acceptable allotment with the 406-lb-ft of adorable torque accessible at aloof 1,400 rpm, which is affectionate of decrepit by the apathetic burke tip-in response. Throughout the rev ambit ability is strong, which is nice. Slowing affairs is additionally accessible with acceptable brakes that calmly abrade acceleration off with a close pedal feel.

The absolutely abundant affair about all these affluence sports sedans with adjustable anatomy and burke mapping settings is that at the advance of a button you can about-face the car from aciculate and acquisitive to a car that’s adequate to docilely rolling about back you’re aloof dabbling home from work. With Audi Drive Select in Comfort, the car can be adequate with a berth that’s able-bodied abandoned from wind babble and alone a little bit of annoy babble from the 20-inch summer tires award its way into the interior. The abeyance damps out alley imperfections able-bodied and council feel is lighter.

In archetypal Audi form, the autogenous is accurately done with best abstracts and the above advanced action seats are adequate and supportive. Audi’s MMI interface charcoal my admired one amid affluence makes with the controls aural accessible ability on the centermost console.

The S7 is a nice car with an adorable silhouette, a bang of an engine, a anatomy that can be both bound and adequately absorbing or calm and adequate and an autogenous that’s aloof a nice abode to absorb time in. If Audi remedies the burke tip-in, the S7 would be abreast perfect. Now, let’s get our easily on the RS7.

Base Price: $79,695

As-Tested Price: $94,570

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Drivetrain: 4.0-liter turbocharged V8; AWD, seven-speed dual-clutch consecutive manual

Output: 420 hp @ 5,500-6,400 rpm, 406 lb-ft @ 1,400-5,200 rpm

Curb Weight: 4,508 lb

Fuel Economy (EPA City/Highway/Combined): 17/27/20 mpg

AW Observed Fuel Economy: 15.7 mpg

Options: Bang & Olufsen complete arrangement ($5,900); addition amalgamation including cruise ascendancy with stop and go, pre-sense plus, alive lane abetment and ancillary assist, head-up display, night eyes assistant, cornerview camera system, ability folding mirrors ($5,600); LED headlights with LED active lamps ($1,400); 20-inch admixture auto with summer tires ($1,000); carbon album inlays ($500); Phantom atramentous fair aftereffect exoteric acrylic ($475)

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[the-record-columns]

May 23, 2018: Columns

Mr. Lincoln Spainhour, the Dean of Main Street...

KEN WELBORN

Record Publisher

    Among the folks being inducted in to the Wilkes County Hall of Fame on Thursday evening at the Stone Center in North Wilkesboro is the late Mr. Lincoln "Linc" Spainhour.

  Some months ago, his son Syd asked me to round up some of the Spainhour's memorabilia I have accumulated through the years (much of it from Syd), to help with the display honoring his fathers memory.  Of course I was glad to do so, and with the visits fro Syd came lots of reminiscing about the old days at Thursday Magazine (predecessor to The Record), and the early days of publishing our newspaper. 

    When Thursday Magazine began in 1982, I spent a lot of time in Downtown North Wilkesboro.  Belk, JCPenney, and Spainhour's were still anchors in Downtown and, although Belk and Penney soon moved to the then WIlkes Mall, there was always Mr. Lincoln Spainhour there to greet you at his store on Main Street.

    Shortly after getting my first job in radio advertising with Paul Cashion in the early 1970s, I learned to check with Mr., Spainhour to know when sales would break, when markdowns would be taken and even when window displays would be changing.  Clearly he was the Dean of the Main Street merchants; they even hesitated to have Downtown  Association meetings if he wasn't available. So naturally, when I was working on the Thursday Magazine idea in 1982, Mr. Spainhour's opinion was high on my list.  He was cautiously optimistic and told me I would have to work hard, but basically encouraging.

    He was a good merchant but a better man.  Always putting on a front as a fiscally conservative person, often remarking how expensive it was to advertise, but he never turned me down when it came to helping others less fortunate.

    At Spainhour's with Mr. Linc was his son, Syd, who I had often worked with on promotions for the store.  It was working on an After Thanksgiving Sale with Syd that brought about one of the most memorable ads Thursday Magazine ever ran--a big double page ad in color that would have "impact" I promised.

    Impact indeed.

    When the ad came out it stated boldly, "Entire Stock,  Aigner Coats, $4.99  - $14.99."   When I saw this in print I couldn't speak--you couldn't buy a set of buttons for an Aigner coat for those prices.  I had promised to bring tearsheets to post in the store on Wednesday.  I prayed for Syd to be there, but it was Mr. Lincoln.

    As he looked over the ad, I confessed the error.   "Son, are you trying to kill me.?" he said, lighting up a fresh cigarette.  Within the hour I had taped a letter to every cash register in the store, the front windows, and just barely begged out of having to be at the store on Friday morning to greet customers.

    But, there was a silver lining.  The error was so bad that no one really tried to make them sell the merchandise that cheap, and everyone seemed content to kid Mr. Spainhour about he prices.  He later told me that traffic on the coats had actually increased because of the  talk about the mistake.  In the years that followed, Kaye Hall and Caroline Beamon from the Carol-Kaye store up the street, would call Mr. Lincoln at Thanksgiving and ask if he was putting the Aigner coats on sale again.

    Years have gone by.  The names and faces on Main  Street have changed a lot.  The Spainhour store is closed and the building sold.  Mr. Spainhour died in 1993, leaving his family and friends a legacy of hard work and caring for others.  A legacy of building on whatever opportunity is open to you, of taking care of your family, your business, and helping others in our community. Five generations of good merchants, good people. 

    I'm glad to know them, and thankful the memory of Mr. Lincoln Spainhour is being honored in such a special way this week.

   The Power of Love

 By LAURA WELBORN

 I was one of the millions who watched the Royal wedding this past Saturday and it totally rocked my world, blowing away my expectations of a boring formal ceremony.  

 The Most Rev. Michael Curry, Presiding Bishop of the Episcopal Church in America, delivered the sermon.  As I listened to Bishop Curry I became mesmerized by his words. It was the opposite of all I had expected, and I became so proud of these two young people who went outside of tradition to open a closed society to diversity grounded in love and respect. Here are some of the things Bishop Curry said ...

 "The late Dr Martin Luther King Jr once said, 'We must discover the power of love, the redemptive power of love. And when we do that, we will make of this old world a new world, for love is the only way. There's power in love. Don't underestimate it. Don't even over-sentimentalize it. There's power, power in love.

 "If you don't believe me, think about a time when you first fell in love. The whole world seemed to center around you and your beloved.

 "Oh, there's power, power in love. Not just in its romantic forms, but any form, any shape of love. There's a certain sense in which when you are loved, and you know it, when someone cares for you, and you know it, when you love, and you show it, it actually feels right.

 "There is something right about it. And there's a reason for it. The reason has to do with the source. We were made by a power of love, and our lives were meant, and are meant, to be lived in that love. That's why we are here. Ultimately, the source of love is God himself: the source of all our lives. There's an old medieval poem that says: 'Where true love is found, God himself is there.'

  “Love is not selfish and self-centered. Love can be sacrificial, and in so doing, becomes redemptive. And that way of unselfish, sacrificial, redemptive love changes lives, and it can change this world.

 “But love is not only about a young couple. Now the power of love is demonstrated by the fact that we're all here. Two young people fell in love, and we all showed up.”

 The simple but profound statement Bishop Curry made was about the people gathered at an event entrenched in tradition and status, yet the differences in culture melted away in love. In love, violence has no place, so this event paid respect to a very different culture than the Royal family and most of us are used to.  The songs were nontraditional and yet sung in respect to a culture most of us don’t experience.  Respect became the power that love lifted, and diversity spoke to one of love and somehow the differences became insignificant.  People gathered for an event to honor two people joining their lives in love and respect for their differences and somehow brought the world with them in that moment.

 So, let us once again resolve to start each day with love.  If we think of love in everything we do, we can fight poverty, make government policies work for people, and make our world a better place.  It's never too late!

  Flag Code: Etiquette and Laws; how to be patriotic, not disrespectful.

By HEATHER DEAN Reporter/Photojournalist

 Before World War I, there were no federal or state regulations governing the display of the United States Flag. On June 14, 1923 the National Flag Code was adopted by the National Flag Conference with representatives of the Army and Navy in attendance .This was adopted by all organizations in attendance. A few minor changes were made a year later during the Flag Day 1924 Conference. It was not until June 22, 1942 that Congress passed a joint resolution which was amended on December 22, 1942 to become Public Law 829; Chapter 806, 77th Congress, 2nd session.

 We are coming up on several patriotic holidays in a row, and the American Flag take center stage in many ceremonies. Memorial Day is next week, Flag Day on June 14, and then Independence Day on July 4th. That being said, I felt it important to discuss flag code.

 The code states “No disrespect should be shown to the flag of the United States of America”; we all know not to let the flag dip, get wet, or to be flown upside down except as a distress signal. On a recent Facebook post discussing flag code, several friends thought that wearing a tee shirt with old glory across ones chest (Like American Eagle Outfitters and many other brands have) was showing you were proud American. Not according Public Law 829; Chapter 806.

 Remember, the flag represents a living country and is itself considered a living thing. If you have never read the laws pertaining to flag etiquette, you may find yourself more on the offender side than the patriotic side without even realizing it. For instance:

•Wearing a shirt/dress/tie with the American flag on it, especially if there is writing over top of the flag.

• Carrying a tote bag that looks like the American flag.

•Using disposable plates, napkins, plastic/ paper table décor with the American flag on it.  

•Flying a flag outside your vehicle/boat where it will get wind torn, wet, and never taken down.

•Outside decorating, i.e. painting old pallets or window frames to look like the flag.

* Hanging the flag in a window.

•Wearing flag insignia on a school sports uniform. (Football helmets, etc.)

•And don't even get me started on swimwear…  

 Shocked by some of these things? Allow me to introduce the laws on the subject, and how serious they are taken. Consider that in the District of Columbia, (Washington D.C.) offenders "shall be deemed guilty of a misdemeanor and shall be punished by a fine not exceeding $100 or by imprisonment for not more than thirty days, or both, in the discretion of the court."

 Laws in effect as of  May 20, 2018

From Title 4-FLAG AND SEAL, SEAT OF GOVERNMENT, AND THE STATESCHAPTER 1-THE FLAG

 No disrespect should be shown to the flag of the United States of America; the flag should not be dipped to any person or thing. Regimental colors, State flags, and organization or institutional flags are to be dipped as a mark of honor.

(a) The flag should never be displayed with the union down, except as a signal of dire distress in instances of extreme danger to life or property.

(b) The flag should never touch anything beneath it, such as the ground, the floor, water, or merchandise.

(c) The flag should never be carried flat or horizontally, but always aloft and free.

  (d) The flag should never be used as wearing apparel, bedding, or drapery. It should never be festooned, drawn back, nor up, in folds, but always allowed to fall free. Bunting of blue, white, and red, always arranged with the blue above, the white in the middle, and the red below, should be used for covering a speaker's desk, draping the front of the platform, and for decoration in general.

 (e) The flag should never be fastened, displayed, used, or stored in such a manner as to permit it to be easily torn, soiled, or damaged in any way.

 (f) The flag should never be used as a covering for a ceiling.

 (g) The flag should never have placed upon it, nor on any part of it, nor attached to it any mark, insignia, letter, word, figure, design, picture, or drawing of any nature.

 (h) The flag should never be used as a receptacle for receiving, holding, carrying, or delivering anything.

 (i) The flag should never be used for advertising purposes in any manner whatsoever. It should not be embroidered on such articles as cushions or handkerchiefs and the like, printed or otherwise impressed on paper napkins or boxes or anything that is designed for temporary use and discard.

 Advertising signs should not be fastened to a staff or halyard from which the flag is flown.

 (j) No part of the flag should ever be used as a costume or athletic uniform. However, a flag patch may be affixed to the uniform of military personnel, firemen, policemen, and members of patriotic organizations. The flag represents a living country and is itself considered a living thing. Therefore, the lapel flag pin being a replica should be worn on the left lapel near the heart.

 (k) The flag, when it is in such condition that it is no longer a fitting emblem for display, should be destroyed in a dignified way, preferably by burning.

(Added Pub. L. 105–225, §2(a), Aug. 12, 1998, 112 Stat. 1497 .)

 Even though it's tempting to buy the flag wrapped solar lights, resist the urge.  Most of these decorations are made in another country, and they have no idea about what our flag laws actually are. But we do. Please, do your part to educate your friends and the American public on proper flag etiquette. You can find out more at http://www.usflag.org/uscode36.html

 Blame Israel to Shame Israel

By EARL COXX

On the world stage, Israel is constantly being bombarded by unfair criticism and untruthful media reports.  There is no doubt the Palestinians are winning the public relations war. They have honed their skills of manipulation and deception to a science knowing that whoever gains the sympathy of the free world wins.  By capturing the hearts and minds of those who are ignorant of the facts, the Palestinians emerge looking like the underdog with whom the majority always side to include the United Nations and its anti-Semitic Human Rights Council.

Right now along the Gaza border there is rioting and chaos.  The Palestinians are attempting to breach the border in order to wreak havoc on Israeli towns and injure or kill innocent civilians.  They are doing this by setting tires on fire creating thick clouds of black, noxious smoke using it as cover.  As if this were not disturbing enough, explosive devices are being planted along the border fence with trip wires and Molotov cocktails are being hurled at IDF soldiers and Israeli Border Police.    

Determined to put the spotlight on Israel to detract from their own foul play, Hamas has implemented new terror tactics.   Once again they are using their own people not only as human shields but now also as human weapons. Having been warned repeatedly by Israel not to approach the border fence, Hamas militants have embedded themselves among the Palestinian people forcing their women and children to do the exact opposite knowing Israel’s soldiers would be forced to respond and this would play well for the media. It is not possible for even one Palestinian not to have heard Israel’s warnings.  Every Palestinian cell phone user received a text message and leaflets were dropped over every Palestinian community. In addition, public announcements were made on radio and television and all was done in a very good faith effort by Israel to prevent injuries, death or destruction to Palestinians and their property.  Has the world lauded Israel’s exemplary efforts? Quite the contrary.  

Earlier this week the hypocritical and anti-Israel United Nations Human Rights Council voted to form a commission of inquiry of Israel’s treatment of the Palestinians in Gaza, the West Bank and in East Jerusalem.  This inquiry will focus on the Palestinians who were killed by IDF soldiers as they protected their borders from rioters over the past eight weeks.  While the resolution stated that all parties would be investigated, only Israel was named and specifically condemned. Those who made the case for the Palestinians stated they were peaceful protestors and referred to their deaths as a “massacre.”  Nothing could be further from the truth.  Yet, despite having been presented with the facts supported by hard evidence, the UNHRC sided with Hamas, the terrorist organization which governs the people of Gaza.

 What are these hard facts? They are the flaming kites printed with swastikas which the Palestinians are sending over the border fence setting Israel’s farming fields ablaze destroying their harvests and thus their income.  And it’s not just one fire in one place but rather ten or twelve fires in ten or twelve different places. Furthermore, as firefighters and volunteers run to the fields to extinguish the flames, the Palestinians have taken to firing live ammunition at these innocent people.

   Israel is a sovereign nation which has a duty and right to defend and protect her borders and her people.  As hordes of violent protestors continue to menacingly approach the border fence, Israel’s IDF soldiers repeatedly employ every non-lethal means available to disperse the crowd.  Only when left with no alternative do they take up arms. Those Palestinians who were initially killed were not innocent civilians.  In fact, by Hamas’ own admission, 50 of the 62 Palestinians who lost their lives were members of Hamas.  But even when faced with the truth, the world continues to blame Israel in an attempt to shame Israel but Israel has done nothing for which to be ashamed.

[roguenewsdao]

Was Billy Graham Praying for Armageddon?

"On Saturday, February 1, 2003, I lifted my hands to begin praying and the Lord spoke to me ... I wanted to know whether the God the Father's direction was to go to war or not go to war.... The Lord said, ‘I am saying to go to war with Iraq’." -  Roy A. Reinhold as quoted by F. William Engdahl

"They feel that everything from the Nile to Euphrates belongs to Greater Israel." - RM interview with Mimi al-Laham aka Syrian Girl, October 15, 2017

This past month the world mourned the death of arguably one of the most famous Evangelical preachers of the 20th century. I certainly remember him as a fixture and "spiritual advisor" to kings and presidents during my childhood. I am speaking, of course, of William Franklin Graham, Jr. He is better known as Billy Graham.

F. William Engdahl certainly remembers him too. The title of today's blog is taken from a subheading that appears in Chapter 10 of Engdahl's book "Full Spectrum Dominance - Totalitarian Democracy In The New World Order." Mr. Engdahl was good enough to share the entire chapter with his fan club. I have been wanting to talk about Christian Zionism and the "Greater Israel" agenda ever since I read Mr. Engdahl's kind gift last November [feel free to grab the PDF file here of Chapter 10].

What escapes millions of people today is the underlying belief that the British monarchy fosters about their special bloodline. Someday perhaps we'll speak about this at length, but the short story here is that the British monarchy - who, by the way, is just about the only bloodline to have survived all the other royal bloodlines of Europe - believe that they are the natural heirs and legal claimants to throne of King David and Jerusalem. Even the word "Saxon" is thought to derive from the land of Scythia which could well be where many thousands of Israelites eventually were dispersed following both the Assyrian takeover of the northern kingdom of Israel and the later Babylonian takeover of the houses of Judah and Benjamin 800 years before Christ. [See David Livingstone's research linked here.]

In season one of the Netflix series "The Crown," I hooted and hollered when the show depicted the full, ancient Jewish rituals that are associated with the coronation of the British monarch. This is well depicted in Season One, Episode Five's "Smoke And Mirrors" title. I highly recommend that you watch and pay close attention to the words uttered by the Archbishop as he alchemically "transforms" the woman Elizabeth into a deity. Yes, that is what they believe and the script of the episode makes this abundantly clear.

In season two of the series, the entirety of episode six revolved around the Queen's fascination with the Billy Graham crusade and his visit to London. She requests a private audience with the holy man because she is wrestling with what to do with her favorite but disgraced uncle, the abdicated and former King Edward VIII, a notorious Nazi sympathizer.

Now, what the entire series "The Crown" as well as every other pro-British-monarchy drama will never, ever reveal to you is that the heart and soul of pretty much all Illuminati Secret Societies in Europe is this agenda they have to thwart God's choice for ruler of the throne of David and, instead, seat their own choice. Their choice for Messiah and King has been engineered to bleed some very - uhh - shall we say, "interesting" DNA through his veins. This belief that they hold dear is the cause of every war that has been fought since the fall of Rome and is even running as a prime motivating force behind the "Singularity" human-hybrid civilization that is currently being imposed on you.

So I just had to roll my eyes when I saw the true-life encounter of Billy Graham with the current holy grail of the bloodline, Queen Elizabeth II, back in 1955 depicted in the popular Netflix series. Then came along Rogue Money friend and highly respected researcher, F. William Engdahl. What Mr. Engdahl has to say about Billy Graham and other men of his ilk, religious leaders like Jerry Falwell, needs to be broadcast far and wide. You will never understand the motivation behind the coming battle in the Middle East until you understand how mainstream organized religion in America has been used as a staunch and loyal tool to bring it about.

Rapture Theology and the 'Greater Israel'

In Chapter 10 of his book cited above, Engdahl reminds us that the popular Evangelical concept of a coming Rapture is a relatively recent teaching dating back only as far as the 1850's. Oh, yes, they did find a single passage in the Bible on which to build the idea. How better to secure a popular base for your warmongering agenda than to take advantage of the public's devotion to sacred scripture? It's the ol' Problem-->Reaction-->Solution formula, in play, again.

In the mid-19th century, John Nelson Darby, a renegade Irish priest of the Church of Ireland, created the idea of "the Rapture" as he founded a new brand of Christian Zionism. His invented doctrine promoted the idea that "Born-Again Christians" would be taken up to Heaven before the second coming of Christ—their "rapture." Darby also put Israel at the heart of his strange new theology, claiming that an actual Jewish state of Israel would become the "central instrument for God to fulfill his plans for a final Battle of Armageddon."

Keep in mind the political and financial history of that time period. The West has just come through a period of anti-monarchist revolution. City of London and Amsterdam banksters are firmly in control of a vast planet-wide economy. Half the authority over armies and treasuries now sits in the hands of elected Parliamentarians, not Kings. The other half, whether that be pertinent to the ruling body of the UK or that of the USA, sits in the hands of Lords or Senators whose loyalty is given to the Banksters. Therefore, to control those armies and treasuries, you simply need to control the thinking and the voice of the proletariat.

In a world where The People still generally regard the Bible as authoritative, nobody directs their thinking better than the voice of the Clergy. Engdahl goes on to write:

Christian Zionists like Reverend Jerry Falwell and Rev. Pat Robertson could be traced back to a project of British Secret Intelligence services and the British establishment to use the Zion ideology to advance Empire and power in North America. American Christian Zionists in the period of American Empire in the 1950’s and later, merely adopted this ideology and gave it an American name. 

These American Christian Zionists, just below the surface, preached a religion quite opposite to the message of love and charity of the Jesus of the New Testament. In fact, it was a religion of hate, intolerance and fanaticism. The soil it bred in was the bitter race hatreds of the post-Civil War US South held by generations of whites against blacks and, ironically, against Catholics and Jews as ‘inferior’ races. Their religion was the religion of a coming Final Battle of Armageddon, of a Rapture in which the elect would be swept up to Heaven while the ‘infidels’ would die in mutual slaughter.

Do you see the Hegelian Dialectic in play? "The soil it bred in was the bitter race hatreds of the post-Civil War" South. That's how this works. You keep two polar opposites grinding at each other. Out of their conflict, a new path arises. Then you wash-rinse-repeat the cycle again.

Therefore, out of this period arose charismatic preachers like Billy Graham, Jerry Falwell, Pat Robertson, and others. Either wittingly or unwittingly, these leaders served the needs of that Babylonian Priesthood who is steadily moving an ancient football down the field toward a goal of ultimate one world government. The Priesthood has no qualms about hijacking sacred scripture and twisting their own blueprint of power out of it.

Regarding Billy Graham's son, Franklin, who also became a preacher in his own right, Engdahl goes on to say:

Echoing the anti-Islam fervor of Falwell and Robertson, Rev. Franklin Graham, son of the famous Christian evangelist and Bush family friend, Reverend Billy Graham, declared after September 11 that Islam was “a very evil and wicked religion.” The large US Southern Baptist Convention’s former President, Jerry Vines, called the Prophet Mohammed the most vile names imaginable. It was all about stirring Americans in a time of fear into hate against the Islamic world, in order to rev up Bush’s War on Terror.

Graham, who controlled an organization known as the Samaritan Purse, was a close religious adviser to George W. Bush. In 2003 Graham got permission from the US occupation authorities to bring his Evangelical anti-Islam form of Christianity into Iraq to win “converts” to his fanatical brand of Christianity. 

According to author Grace Halsell, Christian Zionists believed that “every act taken by Israel is orchestrated by God, and should be condoned, supported, and even praised by the rest of us.” It was all beginning to sound far too much like a new Holy Crusade against more than one billion followers of the Islamic faith.

I would add to Engdahl's last comment there about a "Holy Crusade against more than one billion followers of the Islamic faith" to include also the adherents of Jewish faith. In fact, during the 1970's, Billy Graham got caught in the revelations of the infamous "Nixon Tapes" and was even accused of being anti-Semitic [linked here]. I know that this is a point that many people struggle to come to terms with: how can an a person be pro-Zionist and yet anti-Semitic at the same time? 

The answer leads you to the very heart of the global network of secret societies. The key to reconciling such an apparent oxymoron is to realize that this entity that I refer to so often, this Babylonian Priesthood, sees itself as supra-human and actively in communion with supernatural beings or their human-hybrid avatars. When you look at the western history of the 19th and 20th centuries, it is easy to see how the Zionist agenda of British leaders like Lord Palmerston and documents like the Balfour Declaration were all stepping stones whose path has been carefully directed down to our day, a Sabbatean path whose cause has been somewhat gullibly supported by the powerful American "Bible Belt" puppets to wipe out anybody in the Middle East, Jews and Muslims alike, who gets in the way of the Priesthood.

To bring our discussion full circle and firmly cement it in the roots of that Babylonian Priesthood network, I'll present below another section from Engdahl's Chapter 10 to summarize the role that Freemasonry and Christian Zionism have played in moving that Priesthood's bloodthirsty anti-human manifesto forward.

Mr. Engdahl included a section in Chapter 10 entitled "Bush, Christian Zion and Freemasonry." Here are a few of his points:

A most difficult area to illuminate regarding American relations to right-wing Israeli Zionists and the ties between Israel and Christian Zionists such as Jerry Falwell, Rev. Franklin Graham, Pat Robertson, James Dobson, Gary Bauer and other US backers of the Right-wing Israeli Likud policies, was the role of international esoteric freemasonry.

Freemasonry has been defined as a secret or occult society which conceals its goals even from most of its own members, members who often are recruited naively as lower level members, unaware they are being steered from behind the curtains. The most powerful Freemasonic Order in the United States is believed to be the Supreme Council of the Scottish Rite, or the Ancient and Accepted Scottish Rite, with its world headquarters now in Washington, DC....

There was a special role played by one of the two major branches of Anglo-Saxon Freemasonry....The Scottish Rite enjoyed an active branch in Israel, even though it was nominally a Christian society. It spoke of its tradition going back to ‘the early masons who built King Salomon’s [sic] Temple.’ The fact that American Christian Zionists typically were concentrated in the South and came from the similar white racist strata as the Scottish Rite, and that they actively backed the Israeli fanatics who seek to rebuild the Third Temple of Salomon at the site of the sacred Al Aqsa Mosque and thereby ignite the Final Battle of Armageddon cannot be coincidence. All evidence suggested that the Jewish advocates of destroying Al Aqsa and rebuilding the Temple of Salomon there were being supported by the Scottish Rite masons in the United States and Britain.

Indeed, there was circumstantial evidence that much of the organized American Christian Right that backs Israeli right-wing policies was secretly backed by Scottish Rite masonry. The Southern Baptist Convention recently had a heated debate over allegations that some 500,000 of their members were also masons, reportedly most Scottish Rite. The Southern Baptist organization is well-known for its racial hatred of blacks. Cecil Rhodes, the man who was backed by Rothschild to create the mining empire of South Africa was a Scottish Rite member as was Lord Palmerston, also himself a British Israelite.

That, in a nutshell, is how you connect the dots between the the 17th century rise of the Rothschilds at the same time that the Illuminati, Rosicrucians, Jesuits, Sabbateans, and Freemasons were growing in power, and the modern-day Hegelian Dialectic opposition of Liberal Leftists and Conservative Rightists.

Satanism Boils Down to Lying

The takeaway of this blog is to show that there are hundreds of people who, either knowingly or unknowingly, have allowed themselves to be used as pawns by that Babylonian Priesthood. The Priesthood is actively promoting a vast deception. Millions of people have fallen under the spell of belief that they are the "chosen" who will be commuting to heaven. The cruel joke is that the Priesthood sees itself as the "chosen" who alone have the right to affix themselves to the heavenly realms of supernatural beings. By directing these charismatic leaders and their flocks to publicly "evangelize" that belief, the Priesthood has now verbalized the spell in order to effect its realization, a very Kabbalistic notion.

What the flock doesn't see is that the perpetuation of this spell is designed to lead themselves to a slaughter that likely will emanate from the territory of the 'Greater Israel' that Syrian Girl referenced in the opening quotation of this blog. When Jesus Christ walked the earth, he openly faced the agents of that Priesthood who even at that time exercised great influence over that same territory. Christ clearly exposed the root of their agenda. "You are from your father the Devil, and you wish to do the desires of your father. That one was a murderer when he began, and he did not stand fast in the truth, because truth is not in him," was the clear declaration that Christ broadcast in public. (John 8:44).

(Bill Graham, a long time spiritual advisor to President Nixon, delivered the eulogy at Nixon's funeral on April 27, 1994. And yet, according to the recent @DarkJournalist interview with Bob Merritt, the only men that Nixon trusted were Merritt and Kissinger - not Graham?)

It does not take a rocket scientist to figure out that if an institution is actively perpetuating a lie that will leads millions of people into a bloody war, then that institution is not aligned with the principles of Christianity. People often think of "Satanism" as referencing those dark ugly rituals of sex orgies and child sacrifices. To be sure, factions within those secret societies mentioned above are indeed participating in those acts. But Christ's definition of "Satanism" was much more broad: any ideology that promotes a deception and the murder of humankind is just as much a component of "Satanism" as the more obvious abhorrent practices.

In the next blog this week, I will include comments by W. The Intelligence Insider that speak to his opinion that the New World Order thugs are very much on track for launching that slaughter. #NoMoreSecretSocieties !

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