#also this does mean that if edgar were to be punched his head would fall right off

[fdsamovie]

anthro edgar is extremely popular in the small but mighty Electric Dreams (1984) community. So it got me thinking: since miles is an architect and builds things for a living, au where he over time learns more about computers and their innards and how they function etc and decides to build a humanoid body for edgar, so he basically becomes a walking talking robot :o)

[soyeahitsmiddleearth]

Elmer's Glue pt.1

Éomer/Reader

God you just can't get his name right, and it's a shame cause's he's cute af

Awkwardness Humor and Fluff

----

Someone like you shouldn't have survived nearly as long as you did.

You first came tumbling into Middle Earth a few days before departing for some big important quest to destroy a powerful ring, having landed yourself in a place called Rivendell that's full of elves and lovely scenery.

You were presented at some meeting and urged to join this 'Fellowship' and became a valuable member of the group even despite your lack of fighting knowledge, because you somehow had some sort of 6th sense regarding things that have yet to happen.

Just barely did you and your friends survive Helms Deep, The Hornburg, after all of those horrible events (losing Gandalf, Merry and Pippin being captured, and Frodo and Sam departing to continue on on their own), but once all is said and done, you're ecstatic to finally have a moment of rest and celebration.

A grand party is thrown in the royal halls of Rohan, but you're none to interested in the drinking or dancing.

Instead, you opt to watch everyone else enjoy themselves.

At some point after Legolas wipes the floor with Gimli in a drinking game, the prince, and brother of the sweet woman Eowyn, ends up meandering over to where you idly sit.

You remember riding with him to and from Isengard during your journey to reclaim your hobbit friends, though the two of you didn't speak much. It was kind of embarrassing for you to sit so close to him and attempt to share a conversation while looking straight ahead, so you didn't speak much at all, and he didn't engage himself often either.

It was surprising to you how comfortable the journey was, though, all things considered.

His horse was huge and he was just as large, but you never felt afraid or feared falling even once during the ride.

It's not a big deal, but it still stuck out to you since he's so clearly a very skilled rider.

Even after all that, however, you still totally blank out on his name when he suddenly approaches after helping Legolas bring Gimili to the resting area.

Your mind begins to race as you try to remember the name that belongs to him, and all too soon do you realize that you're both staring at each other and he's waiting for your to say something (probably after greeting you, which you did not catch).

"L-Lord... Elmer..." You say slowly after a moment, praying to god you got it right since you took inspiration from your favorite brand of kids glue.

He raises an eyebrow when you say his 'name', and a smile creeps on to his face. "Elmer?"

Ah, shit. You definitely didn't get it right.

"Elmo?" You mentally kick yourself for that one, he's definitely not a small red puppet monster, you would've noticed if he were.

He shakes his head this time, amusement painting his features as you struggle to come up with his actual name.

"Emir?"

Another head shake, and also a full on smile.

"It's not Edgar, is it?" It definitely doesn't sound right, but maybe you'll get lucky.

At this point, you know for a fact that your face is on fire, this is so embarrassing, but you simply can't remember.

"Would you like me to tell you?" He offers after you don't guess again for a time, leaning his arm on the table next to you, leaning closer to you.

Getting help at this point would be mortifying, so you deny his offer for the proper answer and take another crack and guessing. "No, no wait. I've got it! Your name is... Elinor..." You mentally smack yourself in the face for that one; he doesn't even look like an Elinor (mostly because he's not a woman).

"Not quite. Eomer is my name may I remind you."

So your first guess was the closest, but still so far away.

"W-Well, this is extremely embarrassing." You stutter out, adverting your gaze from his eyes which have suddenly become so close.

Eomer can't help but to laugh, and the smile that graces his lips is positively dashing.

You glance back up at him and notice right away, and once more your face begins to burn like a furnace.

"I-I didn't mean to forget, I swear! And I definitely wasn't trying to make fun of you either!"

His chuckles die down when your slightly panicked speech betrays your concern of being disrespectful, and he wastes no time in assuring you that it's perfectly fine. "If you are worried that you've upset me, then do not fret. I'm not offended, simply amused."

Well, that's a relief.

"Um... well, that's good- I guess," you tell him your name, then continue, "I feel so bad. You took me on your horse and everything and I didn't even remember your name! Gosh, I suck."

The tall blond-haired man looks at you oddly when you insult yourself so strangely, and you realize that you forgot to keep your other-word slang to a minimum since it can be hard to understand.

"Right, well, I came over to ask if you would like to join me on a walk outside. Are you interested?" He leans down a bit closer when he asks you this, acting as if he doesn't want anyone else to hear.

Typically you'd be more cautious than this, but you find yourself nodding along regardless.

---

Lord Eomer (you'll definitely remember his name this time, you swear it) took your hand in his and led you outside after you nodded your assent, and while you'd normally dislike being grabbed so casually, you allow it for some reason.

He releases you from his gentle hold once the both of you are beyond the party halls and outside in the cool night air at the bottom of the steps, and you finally find your voice to ask about his intent.

"So... did you want to talk to me about something or...?" You look up at him curiously with your hands clasped in front of you, twisting your heel in the dirt to ease the anxiousness.

"No, nothing in particular. I do have questions, but I simply wanted a moment alone with you," he pauses, then adds slyly, "Your friends have taken up al your time since we arrived, so I had hoped to steal you away for a time."

You aren't sure if you should be flattered, flustered, or both.

"I-I see... well, you've got me now." You mean it as a joke but it's hard to sound humorous when you're so flustered.

He only smiles and nods his head once, "I do."

Cue the awkward silence.

It appears that he's once again waiting for you to say something, so you decide to pull no punches and go straight for the heavy hitting topics.

"So, hows about that battle, huh? Crazy..."

His eyebrows knit together as he thinks over your strange speaking mannerisms, but he doesn't question it and only nods his head instead. "You could say that. The men fought bravely and we lost many, but our victory does not go unrewarded."

"Are you talking about the party?"

"Yes. That, and the knowledge that some of my men get to return home tonight and see their families."

His words bring a small, sad smile to your face, and you speak much more softly this time, "I'm afraid it isn't over, though. With everything going on, it's only a matter of time before we're all sent away again."

"We?"

Oh, right, he doesn't really know about your role in this merry group of misfits.

"Um, yes. I fight, er, kind of. I do my own thing really, but I can't afford to stay behind." It's hard to explain since you aren't sure what the extent of his knowledge is.

His uncle, Theoden, knows almost all about your deal, but does Eomer? He should since he's a key part of this whole Rohan operation, but it's not necessarily your place to tell him either.

"A shield-maiden?" He wonders aloud, taking a seat on the stone steps next to you two.

Even when he's sitting down he's taller than you, and it shoots an arrow of envy through you. The bigger you are, the more intimidated your enemies are, after-all.

"Not quite. I'm not the best at fighting really." It's kind of a lie, actually, because you've got some hidden skill that makes you pretty good at that kind of thing, but it has to do with your foresight to you choose not to explain much further.

Your answer seems to only confuse him more, however, for his eyebrows knit together and his smile tugs downwards into a frown. "You are not? But they bring you into battle regardless?"

Well, shit, now you're making them sound like negligent, reckless idiots.

"N-No- I mean, I'm okay but, uh, it's hard to explain." It's like you somehow just know how to affectively fight; it's like something inside of you just takes over and keeps you from dying, and it proved to be both extremely useful and also unexpected.

They found out about this 'hidden ability' (for lack of a better term) during the battle in which Boromir was slain and you first lost your hobbit friends. You were surrounded and everyone else was fighting for their lives, and in that moment of hopelessness, something inside of you snapped and the floodgates were opened.

Your skill lies in defense, not offense, but it was all you needed to make it through the fight alive and intact.

"I-I know it seems like they were being irresponsible, but there's more to the story- I swear!" You try to defend, taking a step closer to his seated form, "Really, they need me, so it'd be even more irresponsible if they didn't bring me along."

He doesn't seem to get it, for his doubtful expression remains and his frown deepens, but he tries not to judge too much either. "I... see."

A subject change seems like the best course of action, so you decide to ask him a question of your own. "W-Well... anyways. Why'd you want me to come out here with you?"

"I simply wished to learn more about the beautiful newcomer that graced our halls, and I find that I'm even more entranced than before."

Lord Eomer's words bring a flush to your face and leave you flustered, and it seems you can't get your brain to form a coherent thought either.

"Have my words troubled you?" He asks when you still don't manage to find your voice.

"N-No, it's not that..." You trail off and cover your mouth and nose coyly, looking off to the side when you find that you can't meet his gaze any longer. "I'm just not sure how to reply to that. I've been here so long I don't even remember how to flirt." Your words are, of course, an embarrassed joke, and it seems to land well for he chortles with amusement.

"If that is all it is, then it must be fine that I say you've caught my eye, and I'm afraid I cannot get it back until I know more."

"Know more about... m-me?" You repeat slowly, simply trying to wrap your head around it all, "Like... Like what?"  

Another dashing smile brightens his handsome features, and this time your heart flutters nervously when he does, "Anything."

You twiddle your thumbs in front of you and dip your head down, racking your brain for any information that would be interesting but not super telling in terms of your 'earth of origin.'

"Um... I can do this-" You raise one of your hands and bend your fingers all the way back until they're perpendicular with your palm, displaying your double jointed fingers effortlessly.

He stares at your hand trick for all of 5 seconds before he's standing up and worriedly asking, "Have you broken your hand?" He takes your hand in his own, delicately turning it around in search of bruises.

"N-No," you pause and look at his larger hands taking yours, then add shyly after, "It's just a trick. I'm double-jointed."

"Double-jointed?" He repeats slowly, not releasing your hand though he does cease his search for damage. "I... see."

He sure does say that a lot.

"I can also do this." You take back one of your hands and reach into your pocket and pull out a lighter that you've had with you all this time, then you ignite a flame and brandish it proudly.

The blond-haired man looks on with wide eyes, and he reaches out towards it, asking with amazement in his voice, "You created fire so effortlessly!'

"Yeah, this little device has, er, oil in it and it ignites it using a spark." It has been helpful many a-night when everyone else has been out and about doing stuff and you were left to tend to the fires. "Don't get too close though, it's hot."

He nods his head once and drops his hands to his dies, watching the small flame dance on the lighter before you blow it out and place it back in your pocket.

"Where did you find such a magnificent contraption?" He asks once it's out of sight, looking down at you with curiosity sparkling in his eyes.

"I, um... made it." You think it best to lie, though he doesn't appear to fall for it, and change the subject. "So, how about that weather we're having?"

Your sudden and shitty subject change makes him raise an inquisitive eyebrow, but after a moment he starts to laugh, "Yes, the night sky's are very clear tonight. As it should be the morrow after a raging battle."

It's strange and none too awkward since you're no good at this, but this normalcy actually almost makes you forget all the shit you've seen up until now.

"I would very much like to see you again." He says suddenly when the conversation dies down and you both just stand there in silence.

You look back up at him and offer a small smile, repeating softly, "Sure. I'd like that as well. But I'm still here, so we don't have to talk about later just yet, right?"

"I suppose not." He reaches down and grabs your right hand gently, raising it up while he also leans down, then he presses a feather soft kiss to the middle of the back of your hand.

Eomer looks up at you while he does so, and you find that your face has begun to heat up once more.

When he doesn't move to stand normally and continues to look up at you expectantly, you ask uncertainly, "Am I supposed to kiss your hand too, or...?"

It seems you're quite the comedian to this guy, for he stands up straight again and bursts into joyful laughter, reaching down to pat your shoulders, "No no, but if you wish to offer me one somewhere else then I would not deny it."

People in this place really waste no time beating around the bush, though you suppose they can't afford to waste much time when things like the Battle at Helms Deep happen every so often.

There are murderous orcs everywhere and danger at every turn for them nowadays, do you actually feel a sense of appreciation for his forwardness.

This time you find yourself laughing too, and you readily reply, "Maybe next time, Lord Eomer. We only just met, you know. I could be trying to steal a place in the royal line, for all you know."

His smile does not waver despite your warning against yourself, for he only shakes his head and squeezes your shoulders gently, "No, such motives always make themselves clear early on. Unfortunately for me, you're honest."

"Unfortunately?"

"Unfortunate for my heart, yes."

[eideticmemory]

EVER SINCE NEW YORK | MATTHEW GRAY GUBLER

Description: I was messaged saying: “If you don’t write a young Matthew enemies to lovers fic featuring an obsession with sucking on boobs then what’s the point 😔.” So, here it is, folks! The ultimate College!Matthew fic.

PART 1! - for Sara [@bravadostyles], the ultimate muse. 

SOUNDTRACK:

Empire State of Mind - Jay Z.

Animals - Maroon 5.

Dopamine - Børns.

Word Count: 4,731.

Rating: M.

Warning/Includes: Sexual intercourse, recreational drug use, a bit of angst.

Spring, Freshman Year. 

Tisch School of the Arts,

New York University.

New York City. 

“You’ve got that face on,” Claire said. 

“What face is that, Claire?”

“Your trademark ready-to-go-home face,” she giggled. “You tired?”

“Just a little,” you whispered, head resting on her shoulder, feet hanging off the bed. “Had a long day at rehearsal.” 

“Ah,” she nodded. “Well, if you wanna go, we can go. I’ll walk you home.”

“No,” you shook your head, and placed your hand on her arm. “It’s fine. I’m having a good time.” 

Soft music played through the small speakers on Jonathan’s desk, mixing in with the chatter of your friends. Everyone sat in different spaces around the room, some on the desk, some on John’s bed, and you and Claire rested on his roommate’s bed. Open solo cups of beer were scattered amongst the room. It was calm, chill, and then the door swung open.

“Yoooooo!” The entering voice rang, instantly earning a happy response from Johnathan, who hopped off his bed and ran towards the entrance. 

“Gube!” John exclaimed, arms open wide to embrace his friend. He always got a little touchy-feely when he was tipsy. “Where the hell you been, man?”

“Consider my good time ruined,” you murmured to Claire.

“Be nice, [y/n],” she responded, patting your leg. “Everyone’s having a nice time, don’t start anything.”

“Me? Me? I don’t start anything, I never start anything. It’s him who starts it. That di—“

“Hey, [y/n],” Matthew greeted, taking a seat beside John. “Hey, Claire.”

“Hey, Gube,” Claire smiled. She gave you a gentle nudge with her elbow. 

You rolled your eyes, “Hi, Matthew,” you reluctantly replied, refusing to make eye contact. 

“Aw, c’mon, that’s all I get?” Matthew teased. “What’s wrong, sleeping beauty? You tired?” 

“Oh, you have no idea,” you told him, finally looking over at him. He wore a white polo, paired with a busted pair of jeans and white converse with his mismatched socks poking out. On his chest sat his trademark gold chain, the medallion set in the center of his sternum. 

“Might be past your bedtime,” he shrugged. “Really. Might be better if you just left.” 

“Me?” You scoffed. “Why don’t you leave? We were perfectly fine before you got here.”

“Oh, God,” someone groaned. “Here they go.”

“John wants me here. I’m a little more fun than someone who falls asleep mid-conversation, so I can see why.”

“Matthew, why are you talking to me? Can you just pretend,” you waved your arms around. “Pretend there’s a wall here.” 

“Don’t mind her,” Claire interjected. “She’s crabby because she hasn’t started editing her project yet.” 

You gasped, “Why would you just announce that, Claire? I didn’t wanna be reminded of that.” 

“[y/n], you’re gonna be fucked if you don’t get that shit done. It’s due next week.” Another friend told you. 

You groaned, “Yes. I know that. But I’ve been killing myself practicing for the show every night. And when I finally sat down to start editing, I didn’t know how to work the damn software!” 

“You don’t know how to work EasyEdit?”

“No,” you sighed. “I missed class that day. I tried to learn on YouTube, and that confused me even more. So, I have since then given up.”

“Hm,” John hummed. “You know who’s really good with EasyEdit?”

“Who?”

“Gube,” John answered. This prompted Matthew to lift his head up at astronomical speed, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “He taught me how to use it. He could help you, [y/n].”

“John...” Claire said. 

“What, Claire?” John replied. “[y/n] needs help and Gube can help. I’m just saying.” 

You cut your eyes over to Matthew, who was watching you, but he quickly turned away when you made eye contact. 

“You’re not clever,” Claire shook her head. “You’re nosey is what you are.” 

“Nosey?” You pipped, tapping Claire’s arm. “What do you mean nosey?” 

“I mean, if you and Gube just...” John said. “I’m gonna say it - fucked - one good time, the two of you could get over this whole rivalry already.”

“And stop arguing all the damn time,” someone added. “The shit’s annoying.”

Your jaw had been dropped since the word ‘fucked’ was uttered. You looked up at Claire who gave you a sympathetic smile. 

“I-“ You stuttered. “I...never say that again, John! Ever. Ew!”

“Ew?” Matthew exclaimed. “You’d be lucky if I tossed you a bone.”

Your jaw dropped even lower, stunned by Matthew’s words. “You arrogant son of a bitch,” you muttered. “And this is who you want me to allow near my final project?” You directed at John. 

“Hey, if you don’t wanna fuck me, it shouldn’t be a problem, right?” Matthew taunted, biting his lip and tilting his head. 

“No. I don’t wanna fuck you! I also don’t want to spend any more time with you than I absolutely have to. So I will learn EasyEdit by myself.” 

“Okay,” Matthew shrugged. “You’re not gonna figure that shit out in time, but fine, princess. Be stubborn.” 

You rolled your eyes at him, shaking your head in annoyance. 

“[y/n], let Gube help,” Claire said. “You’re gonna drive yourself insane with that and the show coming up, plus finals? Just this once.”

You looked over at Matthew, instantly getting angry again. Hate is a strong word. It’s a very, very strong word. And you’d never use it against anybody. Ever. Except Matthew Gubler. That may sound a bit dramatic, so to clear up any confusion, here’s a composite list of every asshole, dick, bastard, bitch-ass move he’s made in one semester:

1. Broke your editing equipment trying to do magic tricks in class.

2. Didn’t apologize.

3. Called your last documentary “uninspired, dry, a little like a lullaby.”

4. Took the last spot for an internship over Christmas break. 

5. Which he knew you wanted.

6. Refused to partner with you on a final project because “you can’t even get to class everyday.”

7. In front of everyone because he’s a jackass.

8. Told you that you were insane for majoring in film making AND ballet. 

9. Proceeded to tell you that you look better in a leotard than a suit.

10. Fucked your roommate.

11. While you were in the room.

12. Insisted that Wes Craven is a better horror director than Tim Burton? Is he dumb?

13. Calls you ballerina barbie, short stack, princess, anything other than your actual name. 

14. Won’t drop dead. 

And, because you’re not going to let anyone treat you that way, here’s a list of things you’ve done in retaliation: 

1. “Accidentally” stepped on his canvas. 

2. 3 times.

3. Uploaded a video of you calling him a dick in place of his documentary. 

4. Yes, he did play it for the class on accident.

5. Told him you didn’t want to be his partner anyway since he walks around stoned 24/7. 

6. Laughed. 

7. Told him he’d be a good ballerina. His tiny dick would fit perfectly in a leotard. 

8. Fucked his friend. While said friend was supposed to help Matthew with his project. 

9. Told him none of Edgar Allan Poe’s work was actually interesting enough for screen time. (He almost passed out, he got so mad.)

10. Told him his mismatch socks were dumb. 

11. Consistently call him asshole, dick, jackass, or just Matthew. All synonyms.

12. Refuse to let him mess with you. 

So, the idea of him helping you with your project, coming into your room, bothering you for hours on end, was a ridiculous thought. You should punch John for even mentioning it. Except. It wasn’t a bad idea. 

“Hey, pants stay on,” Matthew said, giving you a smirk. “Boy Scouts honor.” 

Everyone was looking at you. It made you queasy. Annoyed. Angry. And you couldn’t take it. So, you sighed heavily and cut your eyes towards Matthew. “Fine,” you grimaced. “Fine. Monday night. You will teach me how to use EasyEdit. And then we can all drop this.” 

“Ah, success,” John cheered. “I’m not worried, though. Look at [y/n], she’s so innocent. She looks like she belongs on top of a Christmas tree. She does ballet for crying out loud. I doubt fucking is on her to-do list.”

“And on that note,” you pushed yourself off the bed. “I’m going to my room. Goodnight.” 

Your room was just down the hall, and you showered, changed, brushed your teeth and got into bed in all of 30 minutes. Just about to fall asleep, you were disturbed by the sound of keys jingling in the door. Sloppy footsteps stumbled into the room, accompanied by silly giggles.

Thinking you were asleep, your roommate admired your sleeping frame, “Awwww,” she cooed. “Precious, precious, [y/n].” She walked over to you and rubbed your shoulder. 

“You’re crazy to not wanna fuck Matthew,” she whispered, chuckling. “You don’t know what you’re missing, kid.”

And you stayed still, silent, pretended to snore. All while Claire crawled into her bed. 

When Monday rolled around, you spent the entire day with a chip on your shoulder. Claire kissed the top of your head and insisted you’d be fine, that your project would be done by the end of the night and you’d be grateful for Matthew’s help. But she knew that was a  dead cause in her heart of hearts. You both knew it’d be a miracle if Matthew and you made it through 15 minutes of editing. 

When she left to go to a friend’s place, you changed into pajama pants, combined with a cozy cropped button sweater. You sat at your desk, and waited. You’d told Matthew to arrive at 7. 

He got there at 7:59.

By then, you were laying in bed, pissed and upset that you’d actually been convinced to give Matthew a chance. He knocked on the door, and you answered with an attitude. “Go home, Matthew.” 

“Don’t be like that, short stack,” he sighed, following you as you stomped into the room. “I got caught up. I’m sorry.” 

“Yeah? What’d you get caught up with? A gram?” You spit. 

He laughed, “Haha, so funny. No, I was not getting high. I was working on my own project. That I finished. Ahead of time. Can you relate, [y/n]?” 

“Get out of my room,” you scoffed. “I asked you for one thing. One. And you couldn't even do that. You knew how important this project was to me, and you didn’t give a fuck. I wasted time waiting for you that I could’ve been working or rehearsing! I—Are you listening?” 

Matthew’s eyes had been concentrated solely on your chest, “Are you wearing a bra?” He asked. 

You took a step back, stunned, blinking rapidly as you searched around the room. “I’m sorry,” you said. “I’m just trying to find where the hell that came from?” 

“It came from that itty bitty shirt you’re wearing,” he replied with a shrug. “Doesn’t really leave much to the imagination.” 

“Stop staring at my tits!” You shouted, face turning red. “God, Matthew, I can’t stand to look at you right now. Just, leave. Please.” 

He did not stop staring at your tits. Not for a very long time. But when he did, he had this look in his eyes. Like a wire had snapped. And he kissed you. Cupped your face in his hands, pulled you close, and kissed you. You pressed your hands against his chest, face contorting in shock and confusion. 

You pushed him away, lips retracting with a sharp smacking noise. Saliva dripped from your lips, and you stood there, huffing and puffing like the two of you had just run a mile. “What the hell was that?” You snapped, your fingertips lightly touching your bottom lip. 

He didn’t reply. He was just as speechless as you were. Speechless, and confused, and out of breath, and so, so pretty. He was so pretty. Has he always been that pretty? 

You grabbed onto the hem of his shirt and pulled him back in, pressing your lips together in an aggressive collision. Matthew’s hand gripped onto your hair, his body pushing itself against yours in an eager attempt to get as close to you as possible. His other hand made its way to your waist, gripping onto your skin so hard, his nails left marks. Both his hands began to snake down your body, landing on the back of your thighs. 

Very suddenly, Matthew scooped you up in his arms, yanking your feet off of the ground. You let out a breathy ‘oof’ as you found yourself perched in his grasp, your legs wrapped around his torso, your hands on his shoulders. He supported your weight so easily, all while sliding his tongue into your mouth. 

He carried you over to your bed, where he abruptly dropped you onto the mattress, and looked down at you with a lustful grin. Standing beside the bed, he leaned in as if he was going to kiss you — slowly, with his hands reaching out to touch your body — but he didn’t. Instead, he placed his hands on your ribs and pushed your sweater up, over your breasts to reveal your chest. 

“I knew it,” he whispered. “I knew you weren’t wearing a bra.” 

Your breath caught in your throat, before you released it shakily. His lips wrapped around your nipple, wetting it with his tongue and applying light suction. A soft moan left your mouth, and you gripped onto his hair in ecstasy. He couldn’t stop himself from smiling. He sucked harder, to the point of pain, just to hear you make some noise. Any noise. When one nipple began to pulse between his lips, he moved to the other, leaving a trail of love bites between them. 

The heat between your legs was suffocating, and you rubbed your thighs together for some relief. Matthew noticed this, and proceeded to stick his hands down your pants, fingers sliding underneath the band of your underwear. He smirked at how soaked you were already and rubbed your clit as he licked a trail up to your neck. You tightened your thighs around his hand, gasping at the friction and pulling at the bedsheets. 

The sound caused Matthew to take in a sharp breath of air. His cock was pressed against the zipper of his jeans, and was getting to the point that it was excruciating. So, as he massaged your nerve, he undid his pants and pushed them down his legs. 

He nibbled on your ear, and as you gave him a quiet moan, your eyes flickered down to look between your bodies. Flushed, and horny, and suddenly so desperate, you grabbed onto Matthew’s large erection and pressed the tip against your clit. 

He grunted and pulled back to stare you in the eye, a sly grin creeping onto his face. He laughed, “I knew it. I fucking knew it. Innocent? Innocent, my ass.” 

As you rolled your eyes at him, he kissed your lips softly, hands holding onto your thighs. You positioned his cock at your entranced and allowed him to press into you. He stood up straight, watching his cock disappear inside you, slowly, steadily, before he suddenly slammed into you. The sound of skin colliding on skin mixed in with your and Matthew’s moans, and he watched your head roll back in pleasure. 

He licked his lips, smirking. And he did it again. And again. And again. Pulling out all the way and pushing back into you. Hard. The sensation struck your chest, and elicited vulnerable moans from you every time he pounded you. Matthew instantly began to speed his hips up, nails digging into your thighs as he pressed your legs open for him. His used all his strength to fuck you, your head knocking into the wall with every thrust. It was sloppy and messy and you couldn’t stop whimpering. Your eyes were screwed shut, and when you opened them again, the first thing you noticed with his chain. The gold medallion dangled in your face, Matthew’s lips pressed against your cheek. 

Absentmindedly, you tangled your fingers in the chain, tugging on it as your volume increased. “Fuck,” you muttered. “Oh, fuck.” 

He brought his hand up to your face, placing his thumb on your bottom lip. “Open your mouth,” he ordered, quietly, softly. And you did it without thinking. His thumb slid into your mouth, twirling around your tongue and stifling your moans. 

He removed his hand and placed his thumb on your clit, wetting the skin with your own saliva. You let out a loud yelp at the new sensation, and a bubble instantly formed in your stomach. 

Oh, no, not Matthew, you thought. Don’t let it be Matthew. 

But with his cock and his hips and the way he kissed your neck and rubbed your sensitive nerve all at once. You came, you came with a fit of pornographic moans, trembling and writhing around on the bed. 

And it was Matthew — the first guy to make you come. Ever. 

He licked his lips as he watched you come undone beneath him, proud of himself — to the point of cockiness. Giving you a few more forceful pumps, he pulled out of you and released himself onto your chest, watching the fluid cover the hickies he’d left there. 

He looked angelic on top of you, moaning, panting, swearing under his breath. But the moment he finished, he stepped back, fastened his pants and walked away. You propped yourself up on your elbows, watching him in a daze. 

Matthew logged onto your computer, pressed a few buttons and then closed the laptop shut. Then he left. 

However, the next day he sent you an email. Your project. Fully and perfectly edited. 

Okay. So, that happened. They said it would happen and it happened. Didn’t necessarily make you hate Matthew any less, but it happened. It was good. You hated to admit it. And it was all you could think about. You couldn’t even touch yourself or hold your pillow without thinking of Matthew. It was bad. 

Especially, given the fact that after the whole situation, he decided not to talk to you. At all. Not in class, not while hanging out with friends, not even to pick a fight. Complete and utter radio silence. He looked at you enough though. Not while you were looking at him, of course. So, as far as you knew, you were far off of his mind. But life had to go on. You had to focus on school, and on top of that, you were due to perform in NYU’s production of Swan Lake in less than two weeks. 

You landed the main role of Odette, meaning for the next two weeks, you had to eat, sleep, breathe ballet. You practiced for hours on end, barely saw your friends, which gave you a good break from seeing Matthew. 

Opening night rolled around and you were so nervous, you thought you might puke. Only a freshman, it was a miracle you landed the role in the first place, which meant your performance tonight was a make or break moment. Claire could tell you were sick to your stomach and tried to distract you by taking a bunch of pictures on her phone.

“Smile, pretty girl!” She beamed, the flashing going off in your face as you posed. “[y/n], you’re gonna kill it! I’m so excited! Aren’t you excited?”

“Yeah...” you whispered. “Deathly excited.”

“Aw, poor baby,” she swung her arm around your shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’m gonna be front  and center, cheering you on. Just focus on me, okay?” 

You smiled and nodded, taking in a deep breath. “Okay.” 

Your body was on autopilot out on stage. The movements you’d practiced everyday, for hours and hours on end, just flowed. The lighting in the audience was dark, but you could just barely make out Claire’s figure under the soft hue. 

It wasn’t until the finale, when you stood ready for your closing performance, that the lights switched to their full intensity and you noticed a hand resting on Claire’s shoulder. An arm resting behind her head. Someone whispering in her ear, making her laugh. 

Matthew.

He was here. He was here and he was with Claire. He was with Claire and he was watching you. And it made your stomach feel weird. But then the music kicked up. So, you had to go. You fell into your dance, your rhythm and for some reason, you could not stop staring at Matthew. 

Every twirl, you made him your focal point. Looking at him again, and again, and again. Until the lights went out. 

Supporting ballerinas cheered you on as you walked offstage, throwing flowers at your feet and giving you applause. Your instructor marched right up to you, kissed both sides of your face and embraced you. It was a wonderful feeling, but right then, you were drained, emotionally, mentally, physically, you needed some rest. 

You locked yourself away in your dressing room, taking a seat in the mirror and beginning to remove your tights. Pressing a makeup wipe to your skin, you jumped, startled by a knock on the door. You rose from your seat and walked to the entrance casually, expecting Claire to greet you. 


But you froze, as soon as you opened the door. Eyes glazing over the person in front you, your breath caught in your throat. “Matthew.” 

“Hey,” he smiled. He looked you up and down — your naked legs, your breasts poking through the thin material of the leotard. “You...you were amazing tonight.” 

“Thank you,” you whispered. “Bye.”

You attempted to close the door on him, but his put his elbow against the frame, stopping it in motion. “Whoa,” he exclaimed, pushing his way into the room. “What the hell is your problem?” He closed the door behind him.

“My problem is that I’m very tired, and still need to change, and greet everyone waiting for me. So, I don’t have time for this.”

“Time for what?” He crossed his arms over his chest. 

You ducked your head down, “Nothing. Nothing. You need to leave.”

“Hey, hey, hey, ballerina barbie,” he mocked. “What’s your deal?”

“I don’t have a deal! I have nothing to say to you Matthew. Same way you have nothing to say to me.” You scrunched up your face in a frown.

“I...” he paused, laughing under his breath. “I never said I didn’t have something to tell you. In fact, I’ve been meaning to tell you something.” 

You looked up at him — the gel in his hair, his black button down shirt flowing over his belt buckle, his dark eyes, his lips and the way they were pouting just a little. And like a magnet, you found yourself being pulled towards him. You jumped into his arms, hands on his face, and connecting your lips, mouths open, tongues touching. 

Matthew held you up, moaning against your lips. “Mm,” you hummed. “Wait, what if someone comes in?” 

Matthew thought quickly, hiking you up in his arms and shoving your back against the door. “Well, now they can’t get in, can they?” He mumbled, leaving kisses along your neck.

Your jaw dropped and you started to undo his belt, freeing his cock from his pants. He grunted against your skin as you stroked him, your head leaned back against the door, your chest heaving. You used your other hand to pull your leotard to the side, revealing your throbbing core. 

Matthew smirked, letting you guide his dick to your entrance, and pushed his way into you swiftly. You instinctively wrapped your arms around his shoulders, burying your face in his neck to keep yourself quiet. His thrusts were quick, rough, messy. He was much more vocal this time, making no effort to stay silent.

“Fuck,” he moaned in your ear. “F-fuck, I forgot how good your pussy is. Fuck.”

The feeling was mutual. For the past month, you’d be wondering what the hell about Matthew had you so stuck. So fixated on him. And this was it. He filled you up perfectly, could manhandle you however he wanted, and always, always made sure you came. 

He fucked you harder when he noticed your orgasm nearing — your quickened breaths, frequent moans and whines, and your legs tightening against his torso. “Oh, my God,” you whimpered. 

“Shit, are you gonna come?” He asked. “Good.”

Breathless, speechless, you stared into his eyes helplessly as your body began to crumble. All power left your body and you held onto his shirt for dear life. He gave you a small smile, and flipped his hair out of his face, looking down at his cock. He could pinpoint the exact stroke that did it. The one that sent you into a state of euphoria, sent your eyes rolling back, your body into intense shock. 

You let out a long and weakened sigh as the wave washed over you, and Matthew continued to plow into you like nothing was happening. 

“It’s so cool how your pussy tightens up when you come,” he chuckled. “It’s hot.” 

You rolled your eyes at the sound of his voice, clawing at the back of his neck. His breathing became ragged and hoarse, and he had to pull out of you before he came. He jerked himself off until he exploded onto your clothing. And with you being dressed in all black, his stains stood out perfectly on your costume. 

This time, he gave you a kiss on the cheek before he left.

The week after that was finals week. And neither of you could be bothered to reach out. Despite the not-so-subtle confession of bitterness and the very intense orgasms you shared, you and Matthew simply went back to not talking. Your friends thought it was strange, even commented that they missed the bickering. The two of you shrugged in response. 

Most of your dorm room was in boxes by the time you finished your last final exam. Claire was slower to pack up than you were, considering she only lived an hour away, but she applauded you for your determination. The day Claire did start packing was the day before you left for the summer. The two of you spent the day getting everything cleared out, cleaned, squared away.

While the two of you sat on your bed, watching Netflix, a knock sounded from your door. Claire hopped up and headed towards the entrance, opening it with a grand smile. “Gube!” She shouted, instantly opening her arms for a hug. Matthew wrapped his arms around her waist and picked her up, carrying her into the room with a smile.

 “Are you about to leave?” She asked him, holding onto his arms as he placed her feet back on the ground. 

“Yeah, my mom’s here. So, I wanted to stop by and say goodbye,” he nodded. 

“Aw, Gube, you softie,” she giggled. “[y/n], come say bye.”

“I can say bye from right here, Claire,” you replied. She gave you a look, and you felt compelled to get off the bed. So you did, you approached them, “Bye, Matthew.” 

“Bye, shortcake,” he laughed. “Bye, Claire.” He pulled your roommate into another hug, while you stood there, crossing your arms in annoyance. 

Matthew peeked at you over Claire’s shoulder. One hand rubbed her back and the other reached out to you, holding a small note.

Your eyes went wide as you looked at him, then the note, then Claire. You ripped the paper from his hand, and stuffed it into your pocket right away. He smirked at you, and turned his attention back to Claire. 

“Hey,” he said to her. “Come back to my place, I want everyone there to show my mom I actually have friends.” 

Claire chuckled and nodded, “Okay,” she shrugged. “Let’s go. [y/n], you coming?”

“Uh, no,” you shook your head. “I’m gonna keep packing, but I’ll text you later.”

“Okay,” Claire smiled, and she let Matthew whisk her away. 

You sighed, and as soon as the door closed, you pulled the crumpled piece of paper from your pocket. You opened it up to reveal — not a meaningful message, not even a few words. Just one string of numbers, writing in his handwriting:

505. 

[PART 2.]

[itsthenovelteafactor]

Superhero Gothic

Thanks to everyone who responded to my previous post (special shoutout to @jeyfeather1234 💛 ) about superheroes and gothic media! I know it’s been, like, a month, but here we go.

Here’s a bit of a look into some common gothic themes, and how they apply to Doom Patrol, The Boys, Watchmen (2019), and The Umbrella Academy. This one’s a bit long, not gonna lie, but I hope you enjoy! 

Part I: Let’s Talk About Gothic Media

There is not actually an all-encompassing definition for gothic media, or even a universally agreed-upon one. You’re probably familiar with some well-known gothic works (think Dracula, Frankenstein, Edgar Allen Poe, Stephen King) but there is a lot of debate on what exactly makes them gothic. 

There are some common themes in gothic works, though: families/characters under the control of a tyrannical paterfamilias, the crumbling of the established order/estate, long-buried secrets that have consequences in the present, and supernatural events that are stand-ins for/reflective of the emotional state/past actions of the characters. 

(Note: these aren’t all the themes of gothic works or even most of them, but for purposes here, I’d like to limit this analysis to them. I’d love to talk about other themes/ideas, though, if anyone has them. 😊)

So… superheroes (quick overview in case you haven’t watched any of them… spoiler warnings for the rest of this discussion)

Doom Patrol:

Five misfit superhumans attempt to rescue their mentor figure when he is kidnapped by an old enemy.

They are very, very bad at it.

Also features a singing horse head, a sentient nonbinary teleporting street (who is by far the best character) and the narrator is the fourth-wall breaking series villain. 

Beautifully weird but will also emotionally devastate you. Criminally underrated, tbh.

Watchmen (2019):

Story takes place after the canon of the graphic novel which is too much to summarize.

Alternate history (that should really feel more fictitious than it does) where white supremacist organization the Seventh Cavalry, masked police officers, and former superheroes in hiding all collide in Tulsa Oklahoma

Swept the Emmys this year and ABSOLUTELY DESERVED TO

The Umbrella Academy:

Washed up former child superheroes are forced to reunite when their father dies under mysterious circumstances 

Time travel, dysfunctional siblings, and a killer soundtrack

Basically a family drama with the superhero story as secondary (complimentary)

Probably the most obviously gothic of all of these it is aesthetic AF 

The Boys: 

Superheroes exist but they are corporate sellouts under the control of evil company Not-Amazon (AKA Vought)

Regular human protagonists try to hold them accountable for their actions with varying (read: usually minimal) success

Yes, it’s the one from those weird ads earlier this year

Billy Joel!! 

Part II: Niles Caulder, Ozymandias, and Other Terrible Father Figures

The Tyrannical Paterfamilias: 

Does not always mean a father figure explicitly, often relating to the notion of a patriarchal tradition, or family inheritance that plays a role in controlling the main characters. 

Sometimes, it is a father figure. 

Sometimes, it is a representative of patriarchal tradition/male head of pseudo-family unit.

So, uh, role call: 

Reginald Hargreeves (even in death) holds power over his children, and has shaped all of them into the adults they have become, and that drives the majority of the conflict. Each of the major character individually grapples with the after-effects of his abuse. Luther feels the need to be the leader and protect everyone and alienates his allies as a consequence. Diego constantly asserts himself as a hero (often to dangerous extremes) because it is the only way he was ever valued. Allison has to teach herself boundaries and responsible use of her powers after he encouraged her to abuse them for years. Klaus turns to drugs to cope with his childhood trauma. Five disobeyed his father with disastrous consequences and is constantly fighting to not become him. Vanya spent her entire childhood in the background, and never learned to assert herself in a healthy way. Thanks, Reggie.

Homelander says that The Seven are like a family. While whether or not this is accurate (it isn’t) is up for debate, he does occupy the tyrannical paterfamilias roles incredibly well. Homelander controls every member of the Seven, threatening them and their loved ones whenever they step out of line (read: do not do exactly what he wants in the exact way he wants them to do it.) He is also very closely tied with conservative/patriarchal rhetoric in-universe and at one point dates a literal Nazi. 

William Butcher less evil than most of the other characters on this list but the bar is also like, on the ground. Butcher tries to control the Boys in a similar way (Butcher and Homelander are character foils, okay? it’s actually pretty neat). He’s perfectly willing to sacrifice them in pursuit of his own goals, disregards their points of view and the well-being of their loved ones, and tries to cut loose anyone who disagrees with his methods (recall when Hughie tried to rescue his friends at the end of s1 and Butcher… punched him in the face? Yeah, that.) The difference is that the Boys can push back against his without being, you know, brutally murdered. (And also the Butcher isn’t a literal monster; I’m not anti-Butcher, okay? He’s an interesting character and the fact that he seems constantly on the verge of becoming that which he hates most is part of what makes him interesting.)

Guess what, folks? It’s hating Niles Caulder hours. He engineered accidents to turn the main characters into his test subjects, and then kept them conveniently hidden away in his large manor. Stole their autonomy and independence but paints himself as a benevolent father figure. And that’s not even including what he does to his actual daughter, Dorothy. He’s terrified of her growing up (read: becoming a young woman) and so he locks her away for almost 100 years and, when she is freed, yells at her constantly and makes her terrified of showing any signs of maturation (even though she’s 111 and clearly tired of being written off as a child).

The relationship between Ozymandias and his daughter, Lady Trieu, is integral to the final act of Watchmen. Heralded as the “smartest man in the world,” Ozymandias refused to acknowledge his daughter as his until he needed something from her. While Lady Trieu is more self-sufficient and independent than some of the applications of this trope, she goes to great lengths to prove herself, first to him, and then to herself when he rejects her.

Part III: Been a Long Time Gone (Constantinople) 

Gothic fiction is often associated with change, and particularly, the collapse of established systems of power. For example, many works like The House of the Seven Gables and The Fall of the House of Usher take place in old, crumbling manor houses. There is a reason for this! These kinds of estates are remnants of a past that is irreversibly gone, and their continued presence in decrypt forms serves as a reminder. 

Each of the four series takes place at a moment, either on a wide scale or on a personal scale (or both!), in which an established order is being questioned, and the constant reminders of that failed order are used to gothic effect.

The Umbrella Academy plays this most directly (In fact, there are TONS of parallels between the end of s1 of TUA and House of Usher that I don’t have the time to get into right now... lmk if you want that meta). We can see the Hargreeves mansion as a very literal example of this. While not worn down, the house is notably both very large and very empty. Shelves are filled with merchandise for a superhero team that disbanded over a decade prior, and portraits of a family that no longer speaks to each other. None of the family members ever seem truly comfortable or at ease in the house, and for good reason - every back corner is a reminder of their incredibly traumatic childhood. 

In The Boys, the story begins with the fridging death of the main character’s girlfriend, Robin, at the hands of a member of the Seven, a group of heroes so ingrained in the public consciousness that when they later hide out in a costume shop, literally every single costume is for one of Vought’s heroes. The Seven represent the system in power, which, at the disposal of Not-Amazon means corporate greed, shallow altruism, and the cultivation of public personas at the expense of actual humanity. 

From that moment on, the sheer presence of The Seven on everything from public billboards to breakfast cereal is a remainder for Hughie (and the audience) that this established system doesn’t work and is based on lies, which serves this effect on a personal level. In the broader scale, however, we also see that the Seven themselves are fracturing under an unsustainable business model. Even their name, “The Seven” starts to seem a bit dated when halfway through season one through the end of season two there are notably... less than seven of them. 

The main characters in Doom Patrol are all in recovery after the accidents that irreversibly changed their lives. We see through flashbacks the people that they used to be, and the difference is striking. They were each established in their own elements: Cliff a famous race-car driver, Rita a world renowned actress, Larry a hero pilot, Jane was involved in counter-cultural movements, Vic was a student and athlete. The foundations upon which their worlds were established are completely decimated by the accidents, and now they (save Vic and sometimes Jane) live mostly in isolation in Niles’ manor house, an estate that is far larger than would be necessary to comfortably house a group of their size.

And you feel the emptiness, both in the manor, and in the lives of the characters. They have barely created a shadow version of their own existence when the series starts, so fragile that a simple trip into town devolves into utter chaos. 

Angela Abar of Watchmen has also constructed a life following the terrifying act of terrorism on the White Night. It’s a bit of a double life, and we see that the balancing act is challenging for her, even before the story truly begins. The death of Judd Crawford, and the revelation about him that follows is not only traumatizing on a personal level (but it definitely is that), but also upsets her understanding of the world. People she’s come to trust are not just dishonest but truly monstrous. And the more Angela learns about what has been happening, the more her understanding of the world begins to unravel. Her memories, and the memories of those around her are cast in a much more sinister light, and the effect is genuinely chilling. 

Part IV: “I’m the Little Girl Who Threw the Brick in the Air”

In episode 3 of Watchmen, Laurie contacts Dr. Manhattan on the cosmic phone booth to tell him a joke. It’s a version of what TVTropes calls the “brick joke,” and it relies on set up taking place early on, other stuff happening, and then the response coming at an unexpected moment. 

So, yeah. Events of the past/buried secrets resurfacing with consequences in the present.

Continuing with the theme from Watchmen, the entire series is punctuated with the way the past and the present intertwine, with elements from both the original Watchmen graphic novel, and actual American history. One of the things we talked a lot about in my gothic lit class was the manner in which the overhanging specter of past atrocities casts a shadow over the present, and how many works cannot help but have gothic themes because there are so many horrifying things in the past that cannot be ignored, and provide both context and nuance for the discussions we have in the present. No series tackles these topics quite so directly (and with as much care) as Watchmen. (note: it does not always make for easy viewing, but if you’re in a place where you feel like you can engage with that kind of material, I highly recommend the show.)

In Doom Patrol, the past actions of the characters very much control the storyline (see: previous discussion of Niles Caulder), but the character whose storyline I want to talk about here is Rita (partially for plot reasons and partially because I just love Rita, okay?). We learn when we first meet Rita that in the past she was... not a great person. We know that the trauma of the accident that gave her her powers has changed her, we also know that she still holds on to the guilt and that her guilt has limited the scope of her world for years, but we don’t know what exactly it is that she’s done. 

Enter Mr. Nobody, all-powerful narrator who is not just aware of Rita’s greatest sins, but perfectly capable of manifesting reminders of them into the story. She is confronted with empty cradles, and the sound of crying children in the background of many scenes and we see how much it effects her, without a full understanding of why it does (see: The Tell-Tale Heart). Her past begins to haunt her physically, and she begins to crumble in response to it, until finally she is forced to confide in a stranger (and thus the audience). The past actions do not just inform the audience of Rita’s character - they show up to influence her behavior in the present. 

The ending of The Umbrella Academy season 1 is super evocative of the gothic genre with Vanya breaking open the soundproof chamber (wherein she was silenced for years) and rising from the basement to destroy the last remnants of the Hargreeves legacy (which would be awesome if the last remnants of the Hargreeves legacy didn’t include the rest of her family). Pretty much every mistake the siblings make over the course of the season feeds together to create the finale, but the primary cause isn’t something any of them actually did. It all ties back to Reginald Hargreeves’ complete inability to be nice to children. Any children. His own and random strangers that need help. 

In The Boys, while the extent to which people are making f-ed up choices in the present cannot be expressed enough, we see through the characters of Homelander that many of the present difficulties are a result of past mistakes. Particularly, the profit-seeking corruption within Vought. We learn in s1 through Vogelbaum that Homelander was raised in a lab by Vought as an experiment, only to be unceremoniously thrust into the spotlight and told he was a superhero (which... does not justify a single one of his actions but is still a major yikes). As the head scientist of the project, Vogelbaum is very aware that ignoring his conscious if the name of research has essentially created the biggest threat their world has ever seen. 

(Seriously y’all just stop raising your super kids in isolation) 

Part V: Put Them Together, and They’re the MF-ing Spice Girls 

Having the environment respond to characters’ emotions/mental states is pretty common in gothic works (it was a dark and stormy night = someone is probably not doing super well). One of the advantages of the genre’s tendency towards the supernatural is that, often, those elements of the stories, as well, are reflections of the main ideas of a work of fiction (see: Stephen King’s really unsubtle period metaphors).

Because all of these shows have a ton of supernatural/scifi elements by virtue of being, well, superhero shows, I thought it would be easier (and more fun!) to come up with a short list of elements, what they mean, and what cases they might apply to.

1. A Nonlinear Experience of Time

The Umbrella Academy: legitimately about time travel. Characters are attempting to fix the timeline but are unable to because they are both mentally and sometimes literally stuck in the past. 

Watchmen: In the episode This Extraordinary Being, Angela experiences firsthand the experiences of her grandfather, under the influence of a drug called Nostalgia. The episode touches on many themes, one of which being the impact of generational trauma in marginalized communities. Throughout the series, Dr. Manhatten is cursed with experiencing all time at once, and the episode A God Walks into Abar illustrates that, because of this, he is constantly facing the consequences of particular actions before, after, and while he is preforming him.

Doom Patrol: Mr. Nobody is able to physically travel to one of Jane’s flashbacks via his fourth-wall breaking powers, and gives Dr. Harrison an ultimatum for the future. 

What it implies: Events, particularly events that evoke guilt or conflict, are not as rooted in the past as one would like to think.

2. Powers/Abilities that reflect personal trauma/failings

Doom Patrol: Larry’s abilities/bond with the Negative Spirit have made it so that he is constantly covering himself with bandages/avoiding other people, which reflects his experiences having to hide his identity as a gay man in the 50/60s. Rita forced herself to walk a thin line, betraying everything in pursuit of her image; her abilities require constant effort to keep her entire body from becoming misshapen and out of control. Vic’s father with boundary issues can literally control his perception of the world through his cybernetic enhancements. Dorothy’s abilities manifest as imaginary friends because she was kept isolated for years at a time. 

The Umbrella Academy: pretty much all of the kids’ powers are representative of the interpersonal skills they were never able to develop. Luther is super-durable but also the most emotionally vulnerable of the group. Five can teleport and time travel but always seems to be too late to stop things. Diego can manipulate the trajectory of projectiles but cannot escape the path his father set out for him, not matter how much he resents it. Vanya always forced herself to stay quiet until the sound literally explodes out of her.

The Boys: Annie’s abilities allow her to control light, but she struggles (in the beginning) to bring to light the horrible things done to her behind closed doors. 

Watchmen: Not technically a power, but Looking Glass’ mirror-mask is a constant reminder of the hall of mirrors that both saved his life and traumatized him forever. 

What it implies: from a story perspective, these allow for an exploration of trauma/guilt to occur on a scale much larger than people simply talking about their problems (as if anyone on any of these shows knows how to talk about their problems...) It also means that the trauma/guilt of the characters takes on a physical form that is able to haunt them, and constantly remind them/hold them accountable for their past actions.

3. Diluted Sense of Reality:

Doom Patrol: The first season is narrated by its main villain, and throughout the season we see that the act of narration itself has an impact on the story.

Watchmen: The event that kicks off the plot of the story is hinged upon a paradox introduced by Angela near the end of the series when trying to speak to her Grandfather in the past through Dr. Manhattan.

The Umbrella Academy: The pair of episodes in season 1, The Day that Wasn’t and The Day That Was take the same point in time and explore two possible avenue for the future from there, with The Day that Wasn’t ending with the events of the entire episode being completely erased from the timeline.

What it implies: you can’t necessarily trust everything you see, even from the audience perspective, giving them a position not unlike that of the characters. The character’s uncertainty and confusion is magnified and reflected in the world that surrounds them.

Other examples: an apocalypse (The Umbrella Academy, Doom Patrol, Watchmen (of a sort)), ghosts (The Umbrella Academy - hi, Ben!), immortality/invulnerability (Watchmen, Doom Patrol, The Boys), and characters that look significantly younger than they actually are (The Boys, The Umbrella Academy, Doom Patrol). 

Part VI: Why Did You Write a Literal Essay Don’t You Have Real Schoolwork (yes... shhhhh...)

And... there you have it. I don’t really have some grand conclusion here. This is (clearly) far from a complete analysis but it is the most my finals-week brain can concoct at the moment. 

If you have other ideas, let me know! You can always add to the notes or message me – my inbox is always open!  If you got this far, thank you so much for taking the time to read this! Much love! ❤️

[nat-roman0ff]

a lesson in shakesbeer

drunk!bestfriend shawn [fluff]

wc: 2,680

warnings: overzealous alcohol consumption, some bad words, & confessions.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Shawn Mendes, Lord of Pickering, Prince of Toronto, King of Adelaide Street, whilst thou please remove thy very large body from ye olde table before thoust gets thy ass kicked out?” 

Shawn stands with his hands on his hips staring back down at you from the table he’s perched upon, “you didn’t say it rightttttt!” He slurs. 

 He is (very clearly) drunk and refusing to get down from the table at the local bar you and your friends are occupying. It’s a normal Saturday night, one that Shawn just happens to be home for. You miss him, like, every fucking waking moment of your life that you aren’t next to him. But we can save that for later. 

 Right now, you’re dealing with Drunk Shawn. He doesn’t come out to play very often, but when he does usually resembles a toddler during their terrible twos stage, except he’s six foot two and can usually outrun you. After about his fourth tequila shot, you noticed Normal Shawn starting to fade away, and Drunk Shawn starting to take over. 

 You see, Drunk Shawn isn’t just a giant man baby with no sense of direction, Bambi legs, and a knack for getting punched in the face. No, Drunk Shawn also has made a habit of quoting Shakespeare (completely out of context) while under the influence. 

 “I don’t care if I didn’t say it right. I care that you get off that table before you get your ass kicked or fall and crack your fucking head open,” you reply, hands on your hips and ready to leave.

 It’s almost closing time, Shawn’s already been cut off, and three quarters of your group had already left for the night. 

 Shawn gasps, putting a hand over his mouth, “Princess of Tim Hortons said a bad word!” He points.

 You roll your eyes, “Shawn I’m counting to three and if you’re not off this table I’m calling your mother-” 

 “Don’t call Karen! Ugh - FINE!” He groans and jumps off, barely managing to land on his two feet and still stumbles into you, knocking you into the barstool behind you, “hey pretty lady,” he giggles. 

 “You’re so fucking stupid,” you half laugh, half groan. 

 Shawn rests his head on your shoulder, because of the height difference most of his body is bent in half, his ass sticking straight out, “but you’re my best friend and you love meeeeeee!”

 “Not by choice.” 

 Shawn gives a peck to your neck. It’s nothing out of the ordinary. Shawn has always been a touchy person, even as your best friend. But some days, particularly the dark ones after a certain hour of the night has passed you hope one day his touches mean more. But right now you’re both twenty and he’s an international pop star and well, you’re just you.

 “The lady doth protest too much, methinks,” Shawn replies, his arm curling around you, “that ones from Hamlet,” he whisper giggly into your ear as if you didn’t pass tenth grade English.

 “Didn’t he fuck his mom?” 

 Shawn scoffs, “No, that was Oedipus and that’s Greek mythology you cultureless swine.” 

 You put up your hands defensively, “I’m sorry oh wise one. Put your goddamn coat on so we can leave.” 

 “Alrightttt,” Shawn pouts, “no more fine elixir for me tonight. Did you close my tab?” 

 You pull his credit card from you pocket, “yes I did, thank you for the Shirley Temples and nachos.” 

 He plucks the card from your fingertips, “you’re lucky I love you.” 

 You audibly sigh, “yeah, that’s it.” 

 “Love is a smoke, and is made with the fume of SIGHS,” he emphasises the last word.

 “Honestly I’m impressed. I didn’t think you knew how to read,” you joke. 

 Shawn pushes himself into you while wrestling with his jacket, “I scorn you, scurvy companion,” he says, grabbing your hand and pulling you outside. 

 You fumble with your umbrella, trying not to get hit by the downpouring rain. It’s coming down in buckets, so hard and so fast that the water droplets bounce off the pavement on the road. 

 “This isn’t necessary,” Shawn states, pulling the umbrella from your hands and tossing it into the street, narrowly missing a passing car. 

 They scream some obscenities out the window and the next car that passes crushes it, shaking their fist at the two of you. 

 “Are you fucking insane!?” You squawk, half wet and fully pissed off.

 “Madness in great ones must not unwatched go,” Shawn replies, bringing his face dangerously close to yours. 

 There’s a glint of something in his eye. He has that shit eating grin on his face and his eyes are all glassy and his hair is completely fucked. 

 “Fuck you William Shakespeare!” You shout into the street.

 Shawn pulls you out into the rain. Thankfully it’s warm, but you’re soaked within seconds, “he was a great man, you know.” 

 “He married his cousin, he can’t be that great.” 

 Shawn stops dead in his tracks and glares at you like you just insulted all of his greatest ancestors, “that was Edgar Allen Poe, not Shakespeare. How did you even pass English in high school?” 

 “I cheated off you.” 

 Shawn shrugs, “true.” He pauses for a moment before his smile widens, “Let’s go!” 

 He pulls on your hand, hard, “shit, Shawn slow down you’re going to rip my arm out of its socket.” 

 He can’t hear you over the sound of the rain (or he’s ignoring you, which is also another viable option) and continues to run. At this point, you’re so goddamn soaked that it doesn’t matter how many puddles he pulls you through. There aren’t many people left on the streets at this point in the night. It’s late, and the rain tends to keep most people in cars or condos. 

 You were lucky enough to have neither right now. 

 Shawn continues to hold your hand as you run, your dress now clinging to your body so tightly you aren’t quite sure how you’re going to get it off. Your legs are slick and wet and you thank all of your lucky stars and sensibility that you wore normal shoes tonight.

 He looks back periodically to check on you, his curly hair now sticking to the sides of his face. There’s a look of such fierce fearlessness that you’re taken back by it. Fearless not in the sense that he’d do something reckless and put himself in danger, but that he can finally just take a deep breath and let go.

 Being the best friend of Shawn Mendes hadn’t come without a few (hundred) hurdles. Everything happened so quickly for him in the beginning and you were proud and happy for him. But there was a sense of you that felt left behind. Looking back it seems like it happened overnight; the fame, the touring, the constant fucking ache of missing him. 

 You had determined at a very young age that you were in love with Shawn. Now, hear this out. This wasn’t a can’t eat, can’t sleep without you type of thing. It ebbed and flowed. You’d gotten so used to the idea of never ever being with him that it only crept up on major holidays, birthdays, and some leap years, with a day or long weekend sprinkled in here and there. Brian was the only one who knew, and shockingly he’d managed to keep his fat mouth shut for this many years. This missing Shawn, though, that never left. That shit was constant. 

 The lights of Shawn’s condo building glows in the distance and you’re relieved. You’re soaked, mildly annoyed, and ready for bed.

 “Welcome Home, m’lady,” Shawn says out of breath and opening the front door to the building. 

 The overnight doorman stares blankly at the both of you as you trail small puddles behind with each step to the elevator. Shawn lets you step in first and leans against the wall, his head lulling backwards as he shuts his eyes, “I’m so fucking drunk,” he mutters.

 “No shit.” 

 His head falls forward and his eyes lock with yours, “how come you never drink with me?” 

 “One of us has to be the responsible one,” you answer.

 Truthfully, you drank, sometimes. You suppose it wasn’t your thing and while you’re up for a good time, you feel like you can’t ever get that way with Shawn. God only knows what would fall out of your mouth when inhibitions were low. 

 The elevator opens to his floor and you follow him to the door. It takes him seven tries with his key before you pluck it from his fumbling fingertips and unlock the deadbolt. He trips and falls into the hallway as he pulls off his shoes and you roll your eyes at him. Shawn crawls behind you, grabbing at your legs and ankles, giggling every time he trips you up. 

 God, he really is annoying.

  You stop in the hallway, opening the door to the closet where the washer and dryer are. Your jacket peels off with difficulty. Shawn senses your struggle and clammers to his feet to help you out of it. The dress you’re wearing comes off a little easier, and you throw both items of clothing into the washing machine. Shawn’s eyes are glued to your body as you’re wearing only a bra and underwear. 

 “Eyes up here,” you wave your finger up, “now you strip.” 

 It’s a struggle, truly, to watch Shawn try to wiggle out of his sopping wet clothes. Finally, after elbowing a wall, falling twice, knocking over a framed photo of Drake (don’t ask) and stepping on your foot, you offer to help him undress.

 “Arms up,” you instruct and he grins sideways, his lazy eye more prominent than ever. 

 He follows your command and whips his arms up into the air. Your fingers graze his stomach and chest as you lift his wet shirt that clings to life on him. His skin is so impossibly warm and you resist the urge to run your palms across his broad chest and toned stomach. You look up only to catch him staring at you as you unbuckle his belt and undo his jeans. Slowly, you kneel down and peel the soaked denim away from his skin. Shawn steps backwards out of them and almost falls again. You throw the last of the clothes into the washer and start the machine.

 “Let’s get you a nice hot shower and then into bed, hmm?” You suggest, he still hasn’t taken his eyes off of you.

 Shawn swallows hard, “um, yeah,” he replies more soberly than you’ve heard him all night, his voice a touch deeper than usual. 

 He steps past you and into the bathroom. You’re left with the air of tension he left behind. What was going through his mind when he couldn’t take his eyes off of you? You’ve gotta stop thinking like that, you say to yourself, it’s never going to happen. You take a deep breath and shake off what you can. 

 When you’re in Shawn’s room you find one of his shirts and a pair of sweatpants to change into. You peel off your wet undergarments and are welcomed with the feeling of clean, warm clothes. He’s put on some early John Mayer stuff and you can hear it echoing from the bathroom and floating into the bedroom along with his singing along. 

 You’re thinking too much about it again; these are the types of days and just around the time of night when you let your thoughts get loose and wander around the what ifs. What’s the worst that could happen if you tell him? Oh, just ruin a lifelong friendship because you can’t stand looking at his honey brown eyes and stupid curly hair without feeling like you’re going to burst.

 Maybe one day you’ll get over it, maybe one day you’ll be able to wake up and that dull ache of longing won’t be there anymore. Time definitely makes it easier, and him being gone for most of it. But all it takes is a late night and an overactive imagination and it all comes bubbling back up like it had never gone away in the first place. And you’ll spend days cramming it all back down again and things will be good and normal once again. 

 Shawn shouts your name from the shower and you rush to the door, expecting him to have fallen or something equally as clumsy in his drunken state. 

 “What?! What’s wrong?” You ask from the other side of the bathroom door. 

 “Nothing, just come in here I’m bored.” 

 You roll your eyes, of course.

 “Are you decent?” You ask. 

 “Never.” 

 “Am I going to see your ham and eggs if I come in there?” You groan. 

 Shawn laughs, “just come in pleaseeeee,” he whines. 

 The bathroom is full of steam and you can see the outline of Shawn’s body though the frosted glass shower. You sit on the edge of the sink, letting your legs dangle off the edge, “so what did you need me so badly for?” 

 Shawn’s head pops out when he cracks open the shower door, “just missed you. Come here!” He reaches out with a grabby hand.

 “God, what?” You jump off the counter and stride over to the open shower door. 

 Careful not to look too far south you stand in front of him with your hands on your hips. 

 “Are those my clothes?” He asks. 

 You nod, “yeah, wasn’t about to sleep in my wet ones.” 

 Shawn smiles wide, “I know a way that’ll make them look better.” 

 Before you can formulate a response, he’s pulling you into the shower, your back pressed against the tiled wall. You can feel its hard chill against your back. 

 “Shawn! What the FUCK!” You yell, slapping his chest. 

 For the second time tonight, your clothing is drenched. 

 He takes a step to close the gap between you, his chest pressed into you. You watch the water cascade down his shoulders and disappear behind his back as his wet hair drops fat beads of water onto you.

 “What are you doing?” You ask, your voice just barely a whisper. 

 Shawn curls his index finger and rests it under your chin, forcing your face up to look at him, “we gotta talk.” 

 “We’ve been talking all night -” 

 “I love you,” he blurts. 

 It’s not the first time he’s said it, not by any means. You’re best friends. It’s a normal thing to say to your best friend. 

 “Yes Shawn I love you too -” 

 He cuts you off again, but this time with a kiss. Your whole body freezes and your legs go numb. There’s a brief ringing in your ears and slowly it fades from static until you’re crash landed back onto planet Earth and the sounds of the shower are echoing around the two of you, his lips moving slowly and precisely against yours.

 You place both hands on his chest to push him away, “Shawn, you’re drunk, you aren’t thinking straight.” 

 Your mind is a mess. Part of you is screaming that it’s real, and it’s finally happening. All the while the other is convincing you every which way that he’s just out of his goddamn mind drunk.

 Shawn holds your face in both hands, “I’m not, I’m in love with you. Always have been and don’t act stupid because I know you are too. It just had to be one of us that finally did something about it.” 

 He gives you another kiss and it’s just as tender as the first one. Shawn leaves one hand on your face, and lets the other roam, staring at your hip, and sliding up the back of your wet shirt. 

 “Hold up,” you interrupt, his eyes still closed and lips still pressed together when you poke a finger into his chest, “you weren’t drunk at all this whole time?” 

 Shawn shakes his head. 

 “You absolute asshole!” You stomp, and he pulls you in flush against him for a hug. 

 “That’s my girl.” 

-----------------------------------------------------------

hello friends! this was a fun lil blurb to write tonight after a stressful day at work. i hope everyone else has as much fun with it as i did writing it. let me know what you think! :)

[snowkatze]

These Violent Delights

Link to ao3: These Violent Delights Genre: angst and fluff Word Count: 4357 Summary: Simon is watching 'Romeo and Juliet' in Magic History and he watches Baz write something on a paper. Later, Simon finds the paper and sees that Baz wrote a romantic sonnet. Who is he in love with? Includes one quote from Wayward Son but no spoilers. There’s also quotes  from 'How Do I Love Thee? (Sonnet 43)' by Elizabeth Barrett Browning, '[i carry your heart with me(i carry it in]' by e.e. cummings, 'Love Sonnet XI' by Pablo Neruda and 'Annabel Lee' by Edgar Allen Poe, and 'Romeo and Juliet' by William Shakespeare.

___

Leonardo DiCaprio is one gorgeous bastard. I've always thought so, when I was watching Titanic with Agatha during the Christmas holidays. (I think she wanted me to hold her hand. Maybe she wanted me to see what an epic romance looks like. I missed the cue. On both accounts.) He also makes one hell of a Romeo. Like, I get why Juliet would lay down her life for him. He's wearing a medieval knight costume to a party on screen. He's got a cheap fake sword, too, but unfortunately, he's not using it. It's not really that interesting, right now. Nobody's getting stabbed. Juliet is so enamored with Romeo. She's such a fool, really. Baz' hair is blocking the corner of the screen. It's fluffed up and soft on top of his head.

I've stabbed goblins, trolls, merwolves, a dragon, once... I've never been to a party. Baz would look good in a knight costume. Or with angels wings. Demons wings, maybe. Is that a thing?

Baz is taking notes, because of course he is. Even when we're watching a movie in class. Penny's right next to me, she's not taking notes. I'm not taking notes. I mean, we all know the story, right? Romeo and Juliet fall in love, their families have a feud that any Family Feud host would keel over because of, in the end they kill each other or something... Baz turns his head, and I can see that his hair falls in a swoop over his forehead. How tragic... Maybe I'll end up stabbing Baz. I just hope he'll - ...

I really should have held Agatha's hand when I had the chance.

I try to drag my gaze back to the screen, but the top of Baz' head is pretty distracting. Maybe he sat in front of me on purpose, so I couldn't see. He knows damn well how tall he is.

Baz is well fit – I mean – Romeo is – I mean – Juliet. No, Agatha. I like Agatha. Merlin, what is wrong with me?

Romeo's not that fit, obviously. I mean, in a way, yeah. In a, I'd like to have arms that strong, way. In a, I'd like to have eyes that bloody gorgeous, what the hell? The director's called Baz, apparently. I didn't know there were people called Baz. Not so unique now, are you, Baz? I guess he's not actually called Baz. I don't suppose there's anyone else called Tyrannus Basilton bloody Grimm-Pitch. Bummer. Baz would make a great director, for sure. He's great at yelling people and ordering them around, for starters. He's also great at everything. Wow, they're talking for so long. Someone stab me. Crowley, his hair is so nice. I want - I want his shampoo. What the fuck is he writing? Is he already doing the homework? Sneaky bastard. Maybe I should call him out. Maybe I should start on the homework.

I start poking Penny with a pencil.

“Sod off,” she says.

I turn back to the screen. There's some argument. Two of the guys start punching each other, Romeo tries to go between them...

“Who's that?” I whisper to Penny. “Tybalt and Mercucio,” she whispers back. “Merlin, have you been watching at all?” A scratch? What is happening? Is this guy dying? My eyes are drawn to the screen. Suddenly, I feel unusually cold.

'A plague on both your houses...' he says... I grip the sleeve of my sweater. I watch as Mercucio dies, I watch as Romeo gets revenge on Tybalt... I watch Romeo and Juliet in the chapel... Baz sits up straight. He has stopped writing. I watch as Romeo drinks posion, thinking Juliet is dead... As Juliet reaches out for him... I thought Romeo's eyes were blue before, but in the close-up of his face when he's dying, they look kind of grey, almost like Baz'... I grip my sleeve tighter. I watch as Juliet shoots herself. But I can't watch the back of Baz' head anymore. I focus on the other corner of the screen and don't look away until the bell rings. What's wrong with dancing and parties? The screen goes black and my gaze snaps back to Baz.

Why does someone always has to get stabbed?

He's shoving his stuff in his backpack, all except for the paper he'd been writing on. He crumples it and throws it in the trashcan by the door. I keep looking at the door, even after he's gone. “Simon?” It's not an inevitability, is it? Romeo and Juliet, dying...

“Simon?” I mean, I knew, of course. Everyone knows. Romeo and Juliet die in the end.

“Simon.” It couldn't go any other way. “Simon!”

I snap my head around. Penny is looking at me. Why is she looking at me? “Simon, are you – crying?” Her eyes turn soft now. I try to unclench my jaw.

“No, I -”

I unclench my hand and touch my cheek. My fingers come back wet. Oh.

“It was just...” I start. “Just such a sad story.”

“It's Romeo and Juliet,” she says. “It's the sad story.” “I know,” I say. “I was expecting it, ob– obviously. But it still – still hit me like a ton of bricks.”

A truckload of bricks. A mountain of them. Even though I was expecting it.

I'm overwhelmed with the urge to count the days left until the end of the school year. How many days before...

I shoot up out of my seat. “How many hours til lunch?” I say and smile at Penny. She smiles back, but I can tell she's still cautious.

“You can't go a minute without thinking about food, can you?” she says and we start walking out of the class room. She tells me about what sentences from Shakespeare she thinks you can still make spells out of. She doesn't notice when I stop at the door. No one's left in the class room. No one sees when I duck down and pick up the crumpled paper Baz put in the bin and shove it in my pocket.

I catch up with Penny.

So, that was that for Magic History. I grab the strap of my backpack a little tighter than I usually would.

I think I'll have sour cherry scones for lunch.

___

After last period, I go to the restroom and perch myself up on the toilet seat. With jittery hands, I pull the crumpled paper from my pocket. I unfold it carefully, then close my eyes. Why did Baz throw this away? It can't just be notes, then. Baz wouldn't throw away his notes, unless he'd copied them carefully into his notebook before. Whatever is on this paper, Baz didn't want anyone to see. It's probably nothing. Just scribbles or maybe a sketch. I shouldn't do this, right? But – it's Baz.

I open my eyes and read. I am your Petrarchan sonnet, you are my Shakespearean tragedy

We are no star-crossed lovers but (You were the sun and I was crashing into you)

Ne'er dare there escape me no greater sigh and ne'er there be a lost soul more forlorn than me, gazing into thy pale blue eye, thou art my most cherished oxy-moron I call you tedious fool though the only fool is me you are my downfall (it's not the only way I fall) How unfair for thy image to be fair

Sanguine, for thy hope, for I am out for blood I will bear this burden, for I am bare

to the snow that burns me, the words that cut I wish we could run, my love runs deep, Fearing how soon we will run out of time Thy face when thou say'st 'wow' makes me say 'woe' I, your antithesis, thou art my rhyme There's no reason Stake my heart, deliver thy killing blow Upend me with bronze curls, torturous lips When thou bitest thy thumb but never thy lips Upend me with smiles, the beauty thou art, fuck you and curse what thou doth to my heart I read it twice. Except for the words he's crossed out, I don't really know what it means. But I do recognize the form and rhyme scheme. We talked about it in Magic History just last week. It's a sonnet. We're watching Shakespeare, and what does Baz do? Write a fucking sonnet. The pretentious arsehole. The complete wanker. Maybe it's a coded message and this is the key to uncovering one of Baz' plots. That would make sense of the fucking gibberish it is. Maybe someone else was meant to pick it up out of the bin. But there'd be easier ways if he wanted to pass something on to Dev or Niall. Maybe he meant for me to find it. No.

I don't fully understand, but my throat runs dry when I read it again. I feel cold again and I bite my lip because I feel like I'll make some noise otherwise. Love. He crossed it out, but it's still there. Baz is talking about love. Aleister Crowley.

Baz doesn't love anyone, or anything. He's a vampire. They can't. Maybe he was making fun of sonnets. Or of Romeo and Juliet. It could be like – creative writing. Fictional. Unreal. But it just feels a little too – honest.

Baz loves his mother. He talks about her like she hung the moon. He loves playing football. He's so fucking good at it, too. He loves school, he puts his entire soul into it. (He has a soul.) He eats Salt and Vinegar Crisps at night.

Crowley. He's in love with someone. No. He's tragically in love with someone. I don't know what to think.

Who? Who would Baz Pitch write tragic sonnets about? Who does he love so much? Is it Agatha? It has to be Agatha. Maybe he thinks he can't be with her. Crowley, why does he make it sound like such a tragedy? He's in love. He should be soaring. He should be happy. He could have anyone. (Well. Not anyone. But it's not like he wants me.) I realize I've hidden here for quite some time; Penny will be worried. I fold the paper carefully in put it back in my pocket. I make my way into the dining hall. Penny is frowning at me, but she's saved me some sour cherry scones.

“Where were you?” she asks.

“What's a Petrarchan sonnet?” I reply.

She pushes the plate with the scones to me.

“They're usually about unrequited love,” her frown deepens. “And they often include oxymorons.” Unrequited love... Baz is in unrequited love? Impossible.

I know what a Shakespearen tragedy is, obviously. It's the plays that don't have a happy ending. The ones that are... tragic. “Oxymoron,” I say. “What's that?”

“It's a self-contradiction. Loving hate, and that kind of stuff. Why? You need help studying? We can meet up later.” “No, it's fine,” I say and start picking one of the scones apart. “Was just wondering.” I am your antithesis... your opposite... Agatha isn't Baz' opposite anything. They're both posh and fancy. Only that Agatha's nice, and Baz is not. (Too much, anyway.)

Stake my heart... That's so dark. Why would Baz write stuff like that? He can have the dances, and the parties, and the fool-headed love. He can have everything.

I wonder why he's underlined the 'moron' in 'oxymoron'. Is he calling them a moron? Maybe they're thick... Baz probably thinks anyone not as smart as him is a moron. That could be anyone, except for Penny.

I've pulled the scone into tiny pieces. I'm not hungry right now, which never happens. But I don't need to eat. I need to know who Baz is in love with. I need to.

“Simon?” Penny says. She's frowning again. “Are you alright? You're not eating?” No.

“Of course. I just, uhm... Need to get some homework done.” “Are you keeping something from me? Remember, no secrets.” “It's... It's not my secret, okay? Just trust me.” If I showed Penny, she could figure out for sure who it's about. But for some reason, I don't want to. Baz is not in the dining room.

___

Baz is sitting on the bed, and all I can think is that he's in love with someone, and he writes sonnets about them, and he calls them moron and the sun and beautiful.

And he thinks he's going to run out of time.

Baz is a hopeless romantic. I didn't think he was before, but now I can see him on candlelight dinners, with roses on Valentine's day, Baz going to the movies, Baz holding hands... Baz has long, slim fingers and his hands are rough and beautiful. Beautiful. I wonder if I could write a sonnet. Not a fancy one, but...

“Baz,” I say and clear my throat.

He looks up from his book and cocks an eyebrow at me.

“Get lost,” he says.

“I just – I -” I pull the paper from my pocket. He drops his book and his eyes widen. He must know what it is, even before I've shown him what it is.

“Where'd you get that?” he demands, but his voice is shaking. He sits up and walks towards me. Not confidently, like usually. His gaze flickers around. His hand reaches out, but he doesn't grab it. (Juliet's hand reaches out...) “I just – I found it -”

“Crowley, Snow, you ever hear of privacy?” Usually, he would snarl at me. Usually, he would just grab the paper from me. I've never seen him lose composure like this.

“Who is it?” I say. My voice is shaking, too. Suddenly, his face snaps shut and his hand shoots forward. I let him take it. It's his. (I know it half by heart.)

“None of your business. None of this is.” “Who is it about?” “Nobody.” He stalks back to his bed, conversation over. Not for me.

“Tell me.” “No.” “Please.”

He stops talking and picks up his book. I know he's trying to ignore me, but I'm not going to let up. I can't. “Why do you even care?” He's not giving me an inch.

The arch of his brow is perfectly formed.

Romeo kills Juliet's cousin. Doesn't that make him a villain, of sorts? It was self-defense, in a way, but still. Shouldn't she hate him? But she loves him anyway... She's such a fool.

“I think you should tell them.” “Have you read the poem at all?” “It's not...” I say. Swallow. “I think you're wrong.” “I'm never wrong.” “Agatha and I aren't together anymore, if you're worried about that.” He's staring at me. His mouth is hanging open. It's Agatha. It has to be.

“Simon...”

“It's Agatha, isn't it?” I feel like crying. His jaw snaps shut.

“Merlin, no,” he says. Is he denying it? No. I think he's serious. (He's giving me an inch.)

“I just... I just think you have a chance.” Agatha doesn't have blue eyes, or bronze curls. I don't know why I didn't think of it earlier. Who has blue eyes and bronze curls? “I don't,” he says. “Did you tell them?” “Ha.”

“Then how do you know?” “I just do. Leave me alone.” He turns away. I won't let him.

“I just want to help. Let me help.”

“Snow.” He sounds so exhausted. Of course he is. He's yearning for someone.

“You don't understand anything.” I want him to call me Simon again. I want to go over to his bed and – do – something. I sit on my own bed and growl at him.

“Maybe I could ask them,” I say. “What they think about you.”

“Merlin, Snow, you want to be my wingman?” “I guess.” “You're ridiculous.” “I'm right.”

Call me Simon.

“We're not even friends.” Right. But not even my worst enemy should be so – so desperately in love. It must hurt so much. (It hurts so much.)

“We could be.” “Don't be insane.” I wonder why he's not picking a fight with me. He's dismissive, but not vicious. I think I've made him vulnerable.

“I'm not going to fight you,” I say then. I'm not going to cry again. I won't. I draw my knees to my chest.

“Of course you're going to fight me,” Baz says. His voice is almost soft.

“You're not going to run out of time,” I whisper. “Is that why it's a tragedy? Because you think you're going to die? You won't. I won't let you.” “Simon,” he says.

Stop calling me Simon. I'm going to cry.

“Are you having me on? Do you really not know who it is?” “No.”

“Are you trying to spare me...” “What?” “Nevermind. Not even Bunce could figure it out?” “I didn't show her.” “Then stop thinking about it.”

“I cant,” I say. Baz' whole face is tense.

“Just pretend this never happened. Treat me the same as before. It doesn't matter. It doesn't change anything.”

It does, though.

“It's not just your poem,” I say. “I just... I don't want us to be Romeo and Juliet.”

“Do you even hear yourself?” “You know what I mean. I don't – I don't want to hurt you.”

“These violent delights...”

I flinch. These violent delights have violent ends is a forbidden spell. When someone is fighting, it kills or heavily wounds both parties. Baz curls in on himself on his bed, but he keeps his gaze fixed on me. “I don't want to fight you. Are you going to fight me?” I ask.

He pauses and keeps looking at me.

“You really haven't figured it out, have you? Crowley, you're such a moron.” A moron? My breath hitches. No. What am I thinking? What the hell am I thinking?

“Who is it?” I say again. “Who's your downfall? Your rhyme? The bloody sun?” He closes his eyes, lips drawn together.

“Stop mocking me,” he rasps out.

“I'm not. Please. I just want to know.”

He opens his eyes a crack and sighs and I know that he's giving in. I'm holding my breath.

“It's you, you fucking numpty.”

I freeze. Everything freezes. I must have misheard. I must have a brain disease. It's impossible. (But I have blue eyes. And I guess my hair could be described as bronze. And if anyone's going to end Baz, it's me. Nobody's going to end Baz.)

“The snow that burns me...” he whispers. “It's your fucking name.”

Baz is not in love with someone else. Thank fuck. Thank Merlin. Thank Aleister fucking Crowley. I can't do anything but stare at him. Baz shakes his head.

“I never should have written that stupid sonnet. But... I couldn't help myself. It was Romeo and Juliet.”

I'm his Shakespearen tragedy. Nicks and slicks.

I sit up and am over on his bed in an instant. He looks alarmed.

“Snow – don't,” he says quietly. He's laid his heart in my palm. He's written a sonnet about me.

“Lets do this, then,” I whisper. I want to lean in and kiss him.

“Do what? What are you talking about?”

He looks like he wants to scoot away from me, but he doesn't move. I want to grab him by the shoulders and never let go.

“Today in class, all I could think about was you,” I say.

I want to let go of his shoulders to bury my hands in his hair.

“About how much you want to kill me?” he says, a self-deprecating tone in his voice.

“No. About how I don't want to kill you. Mostly about your hair.” “What about my hair?” He touches it self-consciously. I want to take every bad thought out of his brain and throw them to the merwolves.

“About how I want to touch your hair.” I lean closer.

“About how you're more beautiful than Romeo.” I carefully raise my hand. He doesn't move away. His hair is so soft.

“About how Juliet is a fool for being in love with a villain.” His eyes are so beautiful. He lets me take his hand.

“But he's not a villain,” I whisper. “Not really.” “Snow,” he says stiffly. “You do know – that Romeo and Juliet is a cautionary tale.”

“If it's really – if you're really – then I don't care. Is it really about me?” I lean in even closer until my nose nearly touches his. Does he want this? Do I want this? I do. So much. For how long have I wanted this?

“Yes,” he chokes out. “Of course it's you. Who else would it be?” “How? How can you -”

I want him to lean forward. I'm so short of grabbing him by his shirt. And then he gives me another one of these sighs, and I know that I have him. Just give me the word. Just give me the word, and you can have it all.

“How do I love thee?” he says and his hand comes up. My nose brushes against his. “Let me count the ways.” He runs his fingers through my hair. It's so good.

“I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach,” he says.

He's reciting poetry at me. Merlin.

“And this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart,” he mutters. “I carry your heart. I carry it in my heart.” His lips are cool against mine. I press into him. I want him to have it all. I want to put my heart on a platter and let him take it.

“I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair,” he says. It's like he's singing. “I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your  lovely body. I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.” Is that a vampire thing? I don't care, he can have it all. “Our love it was stronger by far than the love of those who were older than we, of many far wiser than we,” he says. He's singing into my mouth. “And neither the angels in heaven above nor the demons down under the sea,” his breath goes heavy, “can ever dissever my soul from the soul of the beautiful Simon Snow.”

His voice is enchanting. I grab him and pull. I want to tie our hearts together. Chamber by chamber.

“What's in a name?” he says. “That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”

It's Romeo and Juliet.

“With love's light wings did I o'erperch these walls, for stony limits cannot hold love out, and what love can do, that dares love attempt: Therefore thy kinsmen are no stop to me.”

“Do you mean that?” “Yes. I mean it all. The Mage, his men, my family, no one can stop me. No spell can stop me. No sword.”

“You need to stop,” I say, but I'm smiling. “You're going to make me cry.”

That only spurs him on, of course. Baz has always loved making me cry.

“My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep; the more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite.”

I'm addicted to his lips, and to the smell of cedar and bergamot.

“Dost thou love me?” he says then and pulls back a little to look at me. There's a question in his eyes. And I don't know any poetry by heart. (But I want to give him everything.) I make a noise in the back of my throat and try to think of something stupidly romantic to say. He's reciting love poetry at me. He wrote me a sonnet. He's given me every love confession there is. How am I supposed to top that?

Baz' lips turn down at the corners.

“Sorry,” he says, squeezing my hand. “I got carried away. You don't need to answer.”

He goes in for another kiss, but I put my hands to his chest and push him away.

“Sorry,” he says again. “It's just part of the play. I forgot myself.” He swallows and looks down. If I took every single dark thought of his, the merwolves could have a feast. I grab his face and he looks back up at me. His heart is in my hands. He's so eloquent, he knows a thousand ways to say that he loves me. He loves me. He loves me. I can't believe I've never thought of this before. (Maybe I have.) It's the best idea ever.

I only have one word.

“Yes.” “What?

“Yes, I dost love thou.” He smiles.

“That is so not how it works,” he says.

“Then how?” “I can't remember,” he says and giggles. Aleister Crowley. He's my Romeo.

“Do we have to be a tragedy?” I say and pull him in again. “You think?” “No,” he says and laughs. It's the most beautiful sound. “We can be anything you want us to be. I could cast a sonnet right now.”

“You wrote one. You wrote me a sonnet. That's embarrassing.”

I laugh, too.

“Shut up,” he says. I'd cross every line for him. And I embrace him and his hair tickles my neck and I tell him to talk poetry to me and deep into the night he whispers sweet everythings into my ear. I'm a fool for him. I'll take him to the school dance. I'll put him in a costume. I'll keep him safe and sound. I'll hold his hand. I'll run my fingers through his hair.

I refuse to believe we're star-crossed lovers.

This time, I believe, the stars are aligning just right.

[justicebones]

✍ ☕ ⌚ ♿ ☺ ⚡ ⚠ ☃ ☂ ☼ 🏨 ❤ ☘ ⚯ 👓 ♨ ❀ ♬ 📐 ♞ εїз 📱 ☆ ✝

Answered under the cut:

✍ : What is your muse’s handwriting like? Is it neat? Sloppy? Fancy?

Amelia’s handwriting is my favorite. She’s left handed, so most of the time the side of her hand is covered in ink. There’s two handwritings for her, technically; work: which is when it’s neat, readable, and shows that she takes her time to make it fancy. It slants to the left, and her loops and lines are more flourished. However, her handwriting for not at work and not as concerned with making sure someone else can read it? It’s a goddamn MESS. It’s large letters, slants further to the right, large loops, very connected letters with little spacing between words. Think very busy with how it looks.

☕ : Does your muse prefer coffee or tea?

Coffee. Amelia loves her coffee. She will drink tea too, of course, but she doesn’t like it nearly as much as coffee. Every day when she goes to work, she has to have at least one coffee.

⌚ : Is your muse good with keeping on schedule for meetings, appointments, or events, or are they always late? Or, are they always a bit early?

Amelia is now always very punctual, making sure to show up a few minutes early. Now, when she was younger, it wasn’t nearly as often that she’d ever be punctual. Mostly she was late. But, as she got older, and especially with her job, she got a lot better at being on time.

♿ : Has your muse had any injuries in the past?

Absolutely. Considering how much of a rough and tumble, whirlwind that Amelia was when she was younger, constantly jumping on and off of things, rushing around and crashing into things and people bot… not that she’s really stopped much of that anyway, considering she’s injuring herself by punching bookcases and everything.

☺ : What is your muse’s smile like? Do they smile often?

Amelia’s smile is bright and wide. She smiles a lot, and tries to make other people smile. It’s genuine and infectious.

⚡ : How does your muse feel about storms? Are they afraid of them, or do they calm them?

Amelia loves storms. They’re both calming and invigorating to her, depending on when the storm is. Daytime storms are invigorating to her, making her energetic. Nighttime storms are calming for her, and she loves nothing more than to curl up with a book and watch the storm out the window.

⚠ : How does your muse react to possibly dangerous situations? Do they face them head-on, or do they plan out their actions first?

Oh, Amelia. She tries, she really tries to plan out her actions first. Most of the time, it tends to work out; she plans and works to make sure the danger is lessened and people are safe. However, if the possibly dangerous situation contains or concerns her family or people she loves, especially Edgar, all bets are off, and the likelihood of her rushing into that dangerous situation with only the thought of saving who she cares for and not herself, goes through the roof.

☃  : What is your muse’s favorite season? What about their least favorite season, if they have one? 

Amelia loves the summer. The sun, the warmth, the energy, everything about it appeals to Amelia, and she pretty much thrives in the summer. And, despite loving the holidays, winter is her least favorite season.

☂  : Does your muse like rain?

Amelia loves the rain, as she does storms, and enjoys watching it, and sometimes playing in the rain.

☼ : Does your muse like daytime or nighttime more?

You’d think with her working during the day and loving her job, Amelia might be more of a daytime person, that’s when so much is happening, right? She is very much a night owl though, awake when she should be sleeping, enjoying either the quiet or going out, and basically getting into trouble.

🏨  : How well does your muse sleep?

When Amelia sleeps, she actually sleeps really well. If that’s from the fact that she absolutely exhausts herself into passing out most of the time, or when Edgar is there (listening to his voice and heartbeat is the most calming way for her to get to sleep), she tends to sleep deeply.

❤ : What are your muse’s thoughts on love? If they are not in a relationship, do they believe that they will ever find a perfect someone for them?

Amelia’s take on love is interesting. She loves love, adores getting to see couples and people happy together, and think’s that it’s amazing… unless it’s herself and someone, or Edgar and someone though, apparently. Amelia is a pro at sabotaging relationships without meaning to. And she hates seeing Edgar falling for anyone, because she knows that it means he’ll start ignoring her again and she can’t deal with that. It’s not that she doesn’t’ want to see him happy, she just doesn’t want to lose him. It’s probably why she seems to sabotage her own relationships too. Does she want to eventually fall in love with someone? Of course. But they also can’t take away from her and Edgar though.

☘ : Does your muse believe in luck? How about fate?

Amelia’s view on luck is basically the same as Edgar’s ‘coincidence that humans pay more attention to’. However, she’s not as sure about fate. There are things she believes in that could be considered close though.

⚯ : Does your muse have good eyesight? If not, what is it like? Are they nearsighted or farsighted? Or both? Do they use glasses? Or do they prefer contacts?

Amelia has great eyesight that she’s very proud of.

👓 : If your muse wears glasses, what are their glasses frames like?

N/A

♨ : Does your muse have good table manners? How do they feel about bad table manners?

Amelia actually has not so great table manners. Not on purpose, of course, but Amelia is always on the move and always talking, so there are plenty of times that she’s either spilled things on herself, or has talked with her mouth full. Add being rather klutzy to that and it doesn’t help. As such, she’s not really concerned with other’s table manners.

❀ : What is your muse’s opinion about flower crowns?

Amelia absolutely loves flower crowns, and is very skilled at making them. There were two solid weeks in her second year that she was constantly making and wearing them. She hasn’t made them in awhile, but given the thought and time, she would totally make them again.

♬ : Does your muse sing well? Regardless of whether they sing well or not, do they enjoy singing?

Shockingly, unlike her twin, Amelia is actually a good singer. Not great, she’s not going to win any awards or anything, but she can carry a tune. Sometimes loudly and a little off-key, but she enjoys it.

📐 : Is your muse good at math? Do they like it, or do they hate it?

Amelia is not so great at math, and honestly tries to avoid it if at all possible. She really, really doesn’t like math, and would rather someone else do it for her.

♞ : What is your muse’s favorite animal?

Amelia has always had a soft spot for dogs, especially the Westhighland Terrier. She thinks that they’re absolutely adorable, and would seriously consider getting one as a pet if all this wasn’t going on. She’ll just have to be content with having one as her patronus, though.

εїз : How does your muse feel about bugs and insects?

She isn’t too bothered by them, except for spiders.

📱 : Does your muse prefer calling or owling?

To be honest, Amelia can’t sit still long enough to try and figure out how to use a phone, let alone actually use it. Writing fast though, she can easily do.

☆ : Of the sun, stars, and the moon, which is your muse’s favorite?

Amelia’s favorite has to be the starts. There is something about them that is just absolutely fascinating and makes her want to know so much more about them. She loves finding the constellations.

✝ : Is your muse religious?

Not really.

[coryperlaportfolio]

Artie Lange: Crazy Funny

(Originally published 8/30/2012)

For comedian Artie Lange, heartbreak and catastrophe go in, and humor comes out. It’s really that simple for the 44-year-old best-selling author, comedian, radio show host, and actor. Lange has learned to take the pain of addiction and depression and turn it inside out. He hasn’t had the easiest life, as anyone who has read his New York Times best-selling book Too Fat to Fish has learned, but Lange has persevered if only to make people laugh, and work out his problems on stage.

Lange and his radio show partner Nick DiPaolo will perform comedy on Saturday, September 1, at the Seneca Niagara Events Center in Niagara Falls.

When you sit down to an interview like this are you ready to answer anything thrown at you or are you just sitting there thinking "For the love of god, don't let them ask me about drug addiction or suicide"?

Artie Lange: I’m ready for anything. Whatever you want to talk about brother.

I think most of your fans know by now that you attempted suicide a couple of years ago. You spent some time in a psychiatric ward for a while. Obviously those were some dark times. Were you thinking about comedy at all while you were going through that?

AL: Was I thinking about comedy?

Yeah, when you were sitting in the psyche ward did you ever think about comedy or your career?

AL: Oh well yeah, when I was in the psyche ward, sure. Everything that I had ever done that was normal was on my mind. I was wondering if I would ever do any of it again. It’s funny because no matter how dark it gets you never stop being a comedian. Stuff would happen to me on the ward and I would go “God this would be a great story to tell on Letterman or a funny thing to put in my stand-up act.” So sure, you never stop thinking about it, but at that point I didn’t know what was reality or what wasn’t. I thought maybe I did die and I’m in fuckin’ hell, because that place was disgusting. The biggest thing in my mind was how the fuck do I get out of here?

What popped you back into reality?

AL: Time, really. Everyone who I talked to who was clean or in some sort of program told me that everything that I was thinking at that point, I couldn’t really count as being real because of how warped my mind was from drugs, specifically heroin. They said the longer that you’re off that shit, every single day that you’re off it you’ll start to think clearer. You’ll start to think normal; you’ll come back to the real world. You’ll realize that there is a chance that you could get back into life and maybe be as good or better than you were. That’s what it was for me, being literally locked down in a facility where I couldn’t take drugs. It took time; it took almost a year and a half of not being on dope to get back to normal. Time is what happened.

When did you realize you were funny?

AL: When I was really young. I grew up in an area that had a lot of tough kids. I realized I could get out of fights with someone who I knew could kick my ass by being funny. I can remember there was this black chick, Tanya Davis, and she was big. In the fourth grade she was big and she broke my friend Joey’s nose in a fight. Joey was a tough kid but she punched like Muhammad Ali. She came over with a right hand. I tried to break up the fight but then she wanted to fight me so I started doing a Howard Cosell impersonation, like I was the announcer of the fight or something, and I made everybody laugh. That sorta freaked her out a little bit and she didn’t know what to do, so she didn’t break my nose. That’s when I first learned I was funny.

As a stand-up comedian you're essentially talking to yourself on stage. You have audience reaction but there is no conversation really, at least hopefully not, unless someone is heckling you. As a radio personality it's all about having an interesting or funny conversation. Which do you prefer?

AL: That’s a hard question, radio or stand-up. I love stand-up comedy but when stand-up comedy goes well—and by that I mean not just killing. I’m talking about when you’re killing the material that you actually like and respect and it’s not just something you know people will laugh at so you can get out of there and get a check. When that’s happening, it’s fantastic. But you know, I never really did radio until I sat in on Howard (Stern’s) show. I’ll never forget what Howard said to me after that first show. I knew I did really well because everyone was laughing, and Howard looked at me and said “it’s fun, isn’t it?” and I said “my God, yeah.” Just sitting in front of that microphone and just goofing around and it’s going out to all of these people live. It’s amazing. I got to learn how to do this radio stuff by literally sitting four feet from the best guy who has ever done it for nine years. Talk about a training school for radio. I would see the way he would handle callers or guests, and I’d see the way he’d change and what he would do. There is nothing about radio that I don’t like. If I could only do one thing for the rest of my life, it would be a radio show.

Is radio more spontaneous?

AL: Oh God yeah. Absolutely. Stand-up is supposed to seem spontaneous, but normally it’s an act you’ve been doing forever on stage. It’s a comic’s job to make it seem like he’s thinking of all of this stuff off the top of his head. Even heckler responses are something you’ve done a million times. But radio is. It has to be spontaneous.

Tell me about one of your favorite moments on the Nick and Artie show.

AL: A woman called up, it was probably a woman doing a character because nobody could be this crazy, or maybe she was just crazy, who knows. But she said that if you kill and boil a cat, and eat its bones you would become invisible.

Was she a witch?

AL: She claimed to be a witch, yeah. She had a really funny voice, I think her name was Jen and she was from Naples, Florida. She kept saying that she was stalking me and she wanted to kill me.

When you talk to someone like that are you thinking like “Yes, this is the caller I’ve been waiting for” or are you just a little freaked out?

AL: No, with this person I wasn’t freaked out at all. I could tell she was either too crazy to pull it off or it was a joke. She had a real entertaining voice and I wanted to bang her by the end. But anyways, I tell her that I want to try the cat thing and Nick makes a really funny cat sound—he can make a sound almost like you’re choking a cat. So he started doing it into the mic and she started almost having an orgasm and she’s screaming “kill that thing, kill that thing!” That’s the hardest I’ve ever laughed.

You appeared on Louie this month as a Chemical Truck Driver. I see a very, very subtly ironic message there, you being a Chemical Truck Driver. How was it working with Louie CK?

AL: I’ve known Louie for a long, long time, from the comedy scene or whatever you want to call it. He would always tell me he wanted to do something with me on the show, and I would always tell him that I’d love to do the show. He called me probably about 12 hours before he wanted to shoot the thing and told me “Tomorrow I’ve got this thing you can do, it’s a small thing but I think it’ll be funny. Would you want to do it on the show?” and I said “Heck yeah, whatever you need.” So he gave me his address in the East Village—it’s funny because we didn’t go through an agent or anything, he just called me on the phone—so I stopped by and he told me what to do and it was hilarious. Louie has the perfect combination to become successful. First of all he’s brilliant, second of all he’s really funny, and third of all he does everything. He’s got a work ethic like a Mexican who comes here illegally and wants to stay here. I’ve never seen anything like it. He holds the camera, he directs the stuff, he writes it, and then he acts in it. I’m going “My god I just don’t have the energy.” It was impressive to see a buddy of mine doing all of that. He’s a true sort of auteur, and he’s got a deal with FX—what they call the “Woody Allen” deal—where he just tells them; “look, give me money for a season of shows and you can’t give me any notes, no one from FX can come from the set, and at the end of the year I’ll give you 13 episodes and you can’t change anything.” That’s impressive to see. I’m very, very happy for him.

I have some friends who won't watch Louie because they say it's too depressing, which is funny because it's a comedy show...

AL: [Interrupts] Well it is and it isn’t. I understand where they’re coming from but I mean look, those friends sound like pussies. They gotta man up and just watch it. Here is how I describe a Louie episode: It’s like an Edgar Allen Poe short story. Louie is great because he knows how people behave. Even in a Woody Allen movie you’re going to get unbelievably funny stuff or you’re going to get depressed because he’s a realist. This is how people act. People act in ways that are very, very disappointing most of the time. Louie keeps it real like that in every episode and also gets hilarious comedy out of the way people really act. The episodes have both, so I don’t think you can call it a comedy show. It’s just its own thing. If you read Edgar Allen Poe, some of the stuff is so dark it’s funny, but ultimately it’s depressing. That’s what I think it’s like. If those buddies of yours appreciate art it’s a chance to actually see it happening on TV. They’re not going to see it on Two and a Half Men.

I feel like you kind of walk that same line, taking something that is very depressing and working it into your comedy. Is that a tough thing to do?

AL: Yeah, sort of. I’ve dated girls who have told me that when they watch my act and I’m telling a story about, you know, shitting my pants on heroin or drunk driving—and even though everybody laughs—they wish that I could do something more like Jerry Seinfeld. For the people that love me it could be depressing to hear because maybe they were there the night that that happened and it was anything but funny. It’s like being in the psyche ward. I have jokes in my act about being in rehab and being in a psyche ward. I do an impression of a counselor I had in rehab in Miami. While it was happening it was anything but funny, but people laugh at it during my set and the people that are close to me are thinking “well shit, I wish it was that funny when it was happening.” It depresses them but I’d rather tell my tale in a funny way and maybe people will get something out of it.

Looking at the way your life has gone, it seems like there is nothing you could do but be a comedian.

AL: [Laughs] I’m not going to be on the police force. Now a days, with background checks—you’re right man—with my background, forget it. I can’t even vote for Christ’s sake. You’re right when I think about it. I better make this work.

Tell me about the best thing you've ever done in your life, and the worst thing you've ever done.

AL: Well the worst thing I’ve ever done in my life was stabbing myself in the stomach that morning because I knew that the only two people who could have found me were my mother and sister. I wasn’t thinking like that, I wasn’t rational, but in the back of my head I had to know that. They did find me and I’ll never get over that guilt. Thank god they seem better and everything seems fine but the guilt of that will never fully leave my body, so that’s a no brainer. The best thing I’ve ever done I think was going to do stand-up in Afghanistan for those guys. I always said I wanted to do it and my agent kind of called my bluff and told me there was an opportunity to do that. I said to myself “Wow, I can’t pussy out here. I gotta do this.” I realized I was going into a war zone and my mother was worried but I was with Marines and everything. Guys would come back from missions doing God-knows-what, and they’d sit down in all of their gear, in that heat, and they would just be like “Ok make me laugh, dance like a monkey or something.” I would have done anything at that point, dance around like a monkey or whatever. How grateful they were. So if I had to pick one thing, it would probably be that and I would do it again if I could. I just hope we get all of those guys the fuck out of there soon.

Can you tell me a little bit about your new book, Crash and Burn?

AL: It picks up where Too Fat To Fish left off. It’s about what happened to me. My stand-up act has a quick snippet, a comedic version, of some of the stuff that happened. Crash and Burn is what happened in long form: What I was going through and the darker side of the rehab and the psyche ward, and what was going through my head the morning I stabbed myself. What I was thinking afterwards. What it was like waking up after that. It’s got a lot of comedy in it that comes from that, but it’s the real, full story, which has a lot of darkness in it. The title comes from when I was working at a port as a longshoreman. I was deciding whether or not I should quit the port and become a comedian. I was sitting at the bar with my buddy’s older brother, Chucky, and he goes “fuck it man, go for the good life. If you got talent just go do it. If you crash and burn at least you tried. You’ll feel better if you crash and burn than if you never tried.” So every time I’d see him after that he’d shout “crash and burn!”

[nickireadstfc]

The King’s Men, Chapter 2 – Welcome Back, I Guess

In which the squad is reunited in the usual heartfelt fashion, Andrew has inquiries about learning curves, we finally find a hashtag for Abby, and Neil gets a makeover.

Sounds good? Then it’s time for Nicki to read The King’s Men.

Hello hello hello! It’s been almost exactly three months since I last updated this trainwreck of a blog, holy shit. I have no one to blame but my own lazy ass.

But none of that matters because – here we are! The hellride continues, fucking finally.

In other news: We hit 1,000 followers during hiatus!

Wowzie. I’m still stunned by the number of people who want to read my bullshit antics.

So, if you’ve only found this blog during my hiatus – welcome! If you’ve been around for this shitshow since the beginning – welcome back!

Here’s to the rest of the series.

(Oh boy.)

             [Neil] needed his teammates to think he was okay. That meant going about the day as if Christmas had never happened. He bought himself time to lock his thoughts down by going for the world’s slowest run down Perimeter Road.

Neil, I love you, I truly do. You are a brave, defiant, proud soul, armed with a battalion of wit and a truly unbreakable spirit.

But you are also an absolute, absolute cockhead.

DO NOT JOG WHEN YOU JUST HAD EVERY BONE IN YOUR BODY BROKEN, YOU MASSIVE FUCKING SHITBRAIN.

Neil’s body is apparently an inkling smarter than his mush brain, because it immediately punishes him by making him fall asleep in the library. Serves him right.

And how does he wake up? By my absolute, absolute favourite line in this book so far.

             Fingers digging into the back of his skull startled him awake. (…) “Is your learning curve a horizontal line?” Andrew asked. “I told you yesterday to stop making my life difficult.”

IS YOUR LEARNING CURVE A HORIZONTAL LINE, holy shit. Andrew, my boy, my man, never ever ever let me doubt your sass capabilities.

(Not that I ever did, because honestly.)

This may not only be my favourite line in this book so far, but also my favourite line Andrew has ever let past his small rage-filled lips. Is your learning curve a horizontal line.

Tattoo this on my body, paint this on my walls, print this on a blanket and bury me in it.

On a more somber note – this is how our boy Neil wakes up, en detail:

             Fingers digging into the back of his skull startled him awake. He grabbed for a gun, for a knife, for anything close enough to buy him room to flee, and sent the computer mouse skidding across the table.

Does that violent, alert way of waking up ring any bells? Like, any?

The Neil/Andrew parallels are real, you guys, and I am so here for it.

Andrew and the gang fetch Neil to drive to the stadium for fun Fox reunion times, and in the car, Neil makes an interesting discovery:

             A car key was fastened to the adapter head with a rubber band. (…) Either Andrew had confiscated Nicky’s copy or he’d gone out and gotten Neil one of his own. Neither option made much sense to Neil. He’d only used Andrew’s car because Andrew needed a second driver in his absence.

Oh… my… actual… fuck. How can anybody be this OBLIVIOUS. Harry Potter who?

Whether Neil realizes it or not, they are now Car Sharing Boyfriends™ and I am loving the fuck out of this development.

Upon arriving at the Foxhole, Abby confiscates Neil in order to look him over, meaning we’re in for some good good healthy Abby lovin’ in this time of stress.

             “You won’t ask [about the contact lenses and the hair]?” Neil said.

             “I’ve seen you scars, Neil. I’m not as surprised as I should be to find out they’re not the only things you hide. I want to ask, but you told me once already not to pry.”

Excuse me, why is Abby such an actual angel descended from the heavens. We do not deserve her and her absolute kindness. No one does.

(Lies. Neil does. Neil needs that shit.)

And because Abby is a kind and responsible woman with her head screwed on, she benches Neil for a week until he is at least marginally better – which of course, Mr Dramatic Cockhead over here does not enjoy.

             “A week,” Neil echoed. “That isn’t fair.”

             “No,” Abby said, and cupped his face in her hands. “This isn’t fair. None of this is.”

             The pain in her voice killed Neil’s argument in his throat.

Ouch.

             “Sometimes I think this job is going to kill me,” Abby said. “Seeing what people have done, what people continue to do, to my Foxes. I wish I could protect you, but I’m always too late. All I can do is patch you up afterward and hope for the best.”

Oh, ouch.

And then –

             Abby folded her arms around him and pulled him into a hug. (…) The only people who’d ever hugged Neil were his teammates, and those were quick squeezes throughout a good game. His mother had pulled him close before, (…) but she’d never held him like he was something to be sheltered.

Abby, I have never loved you more than in this very moment.

I wanna make a joke about any of this, but I can’t. I’m crying.

Just – #hugsoutforabby

We’ve been searching for three books, and now we finally found a hashtag. Excuse me while I dry my tears with it.

And not enough with that – the Best Hug Ever also makes Neil think on some important stuff:

             [His mother] was gone. Even if she was here, she wouldn’t have comforted him for this. She wouldn’t have held him like he was a hard breath away from shaking apart. She’d have cleaned his wounds because they couldn’t risk being slowed by infection, but she’d hit him for choosing the Foxes over his own safety.

Breaking news: Mama Josten is an actually awful human being, and Neil finally experiencing what real motherly love feels like makes him realize that.

To that, I have nothing to add.

(I do have some hands that Mama Josten can catch if I ever come across her.)

As Neil is released from Abby’s care, he finally meets up with the Foxes, and the usual heart-felt greeting formalities are exchanged – that is to say, Andrew punches the fuck out of Matt for hitting Kevin (Neil intervenes and easily stops Andrew, because, well, obvs), Nicky has exactly 0% sympathy for Matt, Matt calls Andrew crazy and Nicky a monster, and the goalie BFFs have a warm reunion by means of a curt two-second head nod.

So, you know, same old, same old.

             Wymack quirked a brow at Matt, then looked to Neil and Andrew.

             “Didn’t we have a talk about not killing your teammates?”

When. When has a talk like that ever worked, David.

             “[Allison] is not crying,” Neil said.

             Nicky grinned. “Five bucks says she is.”

             Neil should have brushed it off. Maybe a month ago he would have. (…)

             Neil kept the edge out of his voice, but barely. “Don’t you dare bet on someone’s grief.”

HECK YES.

My boy Neil’s development of Not Taking Any Bullshit Anymore has already begun last book and continues to grow, and I am so here for it.

Shortly before Wymack can commence his usual motivation talk, a lil unexpected something happens: As Andrew takes out a knife (which is not unexpected), Neil has War Flashbacks to his father (which is neither), but as he makes a comment about it – Renee drops in.

             “I’ve never understood why he likes knives.” (…)

             [Renee]’d stopped mid-sentence to stare at Neil, but the Renee studying him wasn’t the Foxes’ redeemed optimist. Her sweet smile was gone and the too-blank look in her face reminded Neil of Andrew. (…)

             [Renee and Andrew] stared each other down, soundless and still, oblivious to the bewildered looks their teammates sent between them.

Uhm. What?

I thought we were done with backstory on Renee’s part. Don’t tell me my sweet murder princess has past beef with Mr Chop Chop himself. DO NOT.

What is happening.

But, alas – the moment passes, and Wymack finally starts giving them the ol’ Listen Up, Fuckers, Here’s How We’re Gonna Not Die This Season Speech.

Heads up: They’re most definitely gonna die this season.

The good news: The only reason they’re only most definitely gonna die is because the USC Trojans, the Edgar Allan Ravens and U of Penn – you know, the Three Main Fuckers – are up against each other before semi-finals, meaning one of them will bite it before they have a chance to bite the Foxes.

Yoo-fucking-hoo.

Neil “I’m Fine” Josten, of course, tries to make his case for being let off the health leash once again, but is quickly silenced by, well, every present person with half a brain.

Also – this.

             “A fierce season and ample tragedies means we’re the talk of the town, and this year people might actually root for the underdog. The board want us to encourager that fever with more publicity. Expect more cameras at games, more interviews, and more nosiness in general.”

Oh yeah, because that has always worked out so goddamn well.

Let us reward your charming talent for attracting death threats every time you do so much as smell a camera by supplying more cameras.

             “If I could ban some of you from ever opening your mouths in public, I would, but this is out of my hands.”

At least Wymack agrees.

And last order of today – Mission How To Get Neil To Look Less Like An Actual Punching Bag, which is elegantly solved by everything that solves every problem in a good high school/college movie:

A makeover.

Yup, you read that right, Allison swoops in like an makeup goddess descended from the high Sephora heavens (which, like – she is) and covers up Neil’s bruises like an absolute badass.

10/10 would learn how to contour and colour-block again.

             Neil took [the mirror] from her outstretched hand but let it rest glass-down in his lap. Allison motioned for him to take a peek. Neil shook his head. (…)

             “Not scared of Riko, but scared of your own reflection?”

Clearly, Allison has never looked into the mirror after a night spent getting thoroughly fucked up.

Or like, she just looks naturally flawless even after partying her brains out, which is honestly the more plausible answer.

Also please give me all the fanarts of Neil getting makeup tips and talking about boys with Allison, Renee and Dan, please and thank you.

             Neil was tired and sore and not at all looking forward to his week off the court, but for a moment none of that mattered.

             “We’re okay,” he said to the empty hall. “We’re going to be okay.”

And I’m not.

Happy fucking holidays to all of us! No matter what you’re celebrating - if aynthing at all - I wish you a wonderful time and I hope you’re all well.

Updates will - this time for real - continue in the new year. It’s my resolution, and for once I’m actually set on pulling through with it.

Have a lovely time everyone, take care.

And as always: If you like what I do here and you want to help me continue writing fun things for you, please consider buying me a coffee. Every lil bit helps, getting me through uni and all that jazz. Thanks so much!

[im-abanana]

-The Demon and The Angel- ch.3

I was inspired, I dunno, don’t even mind me and my author block. Here’s another Fluff/Domestic Bendy x Alice One-Shot.

Summary: If you’re a dancer, pulling a muscle can be the worst thing ever.

AO3 link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/12736851/chapters/29507064

-Muscle-

“What? Com’on! It was just an innocent accident Joey, for God’s sake!” Charley kept saying for an entire hour in front of his angry boss, the cartoon’s deep and irritated voice echoing in the empty corridors as his old fellows Barley and Edgar nodded silently without saying a word, to prove their leader’s point. “We didn’t mean to push Bendy against the corner of that chair, but he started the fight! It happens, the fault isn’t ours this time.”. “It’s not true, you did that on purpose! Liars! Mobsters!” Bendy yelled back with a cracked and pissed voice, holding his aching spine with both hands and dropping heavily on his sofa, a sad and desperate pout painted on his round face. “My poor back… assholes.” he concluded, groaning. “Wanker.” the three antagonists replied spitefully, frowning deeply and cracking their knuckles, aggressive. “You want some more, sissy?”. “Stop it, I’ve had enough!” Joey snapped all of the sudden and punched the study table to shut them up, evidently tired of all that screaming and bickering between those four, taking his final decision and huffing. His creations jumped in fear and closed their mouths as they heard the unexpected thud, sitting down and listening to their dad’s scold closely. “Alright guys, first of all I don't care who started the fight, or why it happened in the first place. You all are guilty, and this means that you all are grounded for two weeks.”. At that exact moment, hearing the previous noise and the complaints that followed Joey’s last phrase, the wooden door behind the group’s shoulders swung open and a very confused Alice peeked through it. “What’s happening here? Henry just told me that- oh.” she mumbled and then smirked, spotting The Butcher Gang standing next to Bendy, the little demon pathetically laid on the reddish couch with a contorted expression. “Henry wasn’t lying then, it’s true. You idiots seriously injured each other before an important performance that, I’d like to point that out, takes place in three days. My sincerest compliments, boys.”. “Great, gang: first the demon bitch, now the wingless cunt. Where’s the pussy wolf, uh?” Barley rolled his pitch black orbs and crossed his muscular arms to his hairy chest, clearly not happy to see the fallen angel or pay attention to her sarcastic comments. “Don’t you have anything else to do, Angel? Like, I dunno, go fuck yourself for example?”. “Says the one who’s in trouble. And not really, I’d rather stay here and quietly enjoy the little show you put up for me, especially the part when Joey shames you all.” the beautiful singer of the band lifted an eyebrow with a satisfied motion, calmly sitting down next to her dancing partner and making herself comfortable. “Oh, please Joey, don’t stop reminding them how stupid and irresponsible they are just because I’m here. Don’t mind me, I beg you.”.

“Alice, not you too, please. This is not a joke, and I need your help.” their annoyed creator sank his head between his fingers, groaning out his frustration and explaining his worst worries to the tall girl, to his only beloved daughter, who was definitely the most mature of the toons: “Bendy probably twisted a muscle in his back, and if he can’t dance or even stand in three days max, we’ll be ruined. We should give the money for the tickets back and apologize to the parents, and I don’t want to do that; I know it’s late and you’re tired, I know that you two don’t get along so well, but I’m kindly asking you to prepare him some herb tea and send him to bed. I’ll deal with those three in the meantime.” the man angrily declared, shooting an icy glare to The Butcher Gang. “I hope you understand.”. “I do understand, don’t worry. I can’t say I’m happy about this job, but I’ll do it anyway.” Alice immediately obeyed to her boss’ orders, sighed out and took Bendy in her thin but strong arms, ignoring his enraged protests and trying not to drop him as the demon squirmed wildly. Oh, she wished she could indeed drop and trample over him… “Goodnight, Joey. Fuck you, Charley, Barley and Edgar. See you all tomorrow morning at dawn.” she said before walking outside the busy room and closing the door behind her, heading for Bendy’s private room. “Ehy, hands off, Angel Cake! Let me go! I’m not a kid anymore, and I can walk by myself.” the short devil screamed and kicked the air like a mad horse, offended and in a bad mood because of the stinging pain. “I don’t want some stupid tea, and I won’t go to bed just because you’re ordering me to do so.”. “Honestly Bendy, I couldn’t care less about what you want or not. You don’t want my herb tea? I’ll simply shove it down your fucking throat when it’s still boiling, at least you’ll shut up and won't wake the others that way.” the fallen angel shrugged it off and placed the dancer on his own bed, making sure not to hurt him more despite the intimidating threats. “And if you don’t want to sleep, I’ll just hit your skull with my horns and knock you out for the next… let’s say twenty-four/forty-eight hours. How does it sound, my dear?”. “… on second thought babe, tea and nap sound nice. But I prefer lemon tea.”. “That can be arranged.” Alice happily agreed to those terms with a sly grin, satisfied and proud of herself, as she opened the thick door before her.

“Ehy toots, back off this second!” Bendy cried out in pure terror as his elegant jacket was quickly removed and tossed away by force, detail that made him feel terribly exposed as his naked chest brushed against the greenish blankets that covered the comfortable mattress. He tried to jump off the bed and run away despite the ache, but found that option unattainable when Alice gently sat down on his spine, her greater weight blocking the thin cartoon. “No! Don’t touch my back, you’re gonna make it worse!”. “Trust me Bendy, I know what I’m doing. I might not be a dancer like you or a doctor, but I sprained a lot of back muscles as we moved into the new studio.” Alice patiently explained and pinned the boy down without any effort, her smaller thumbs energetically pressing against his dark skin and working around and on the knot, trying to loose it and ease the pain at the same time. She also kept a close eye on the water on the stove as she eased his pain: the most incredible thing about their rooms was that they looked like small houses, provided with a bathroom, a small kitchen and even a sort of living room. Being a star surely had its advantages. “And I never complained about it, not even once. I guess I’m stronger.”. Feeling the young woman’s fingertips massaging the sore spot with such care and self-assurance forced the small demon to let out a quiet and relaxed moan, and his blurred mind barely registered what the black haired girl just said. The tension and irritation disappeared all of the sudden, and every single fiber of his previously tense body fell limp under her lovely touch. The boy asked in hilarious submission: “W-what do you mean with that, toots? Joey and Henry did all the work when we moved here… right?”. “Wrong. Do you really think they could transport and place all the boxes, stuff and furniture around all by themselves? No, not at all. Without me and Boris the process would have been much more complicated and long. We worked as a team, as the family that we are.” the horned angel explained in composed silence, putting more strength in her precise and careful movements and pressing deeper, earning another content yelp from her calm partner. That sound made her smile a little, but the slight frown carved on her slim visage showed how concentrated she internally was: Alice knew that a single imprecise touch could damage the musculature even more, so attention and composure were the key words. “You and The Butcher Gang are the lazy ones here, that’s for sure. You don’t like working or helping the creators and the crew, I get that, but at least try not to cause any trouble or get into those violent fights ever again. Now you have a sprained muscle, and that’s bad enough for a dancer, but next time you could find yourself with a broken bone or worse, a concussion.” the stunning cartoon sadly sighed out and deeply stared into his guilty eyes, severe, sweet but assertive, almost like a maternal figure. “Don’t make things more difficult for Joey and me. It’s tough enough as it is, we don’t need other problems because of your egoism.”. The last and cold sentence hit and slaughtered Bendy’s soul to its very core, forcing the demon to look away and rest his face against the soft pillows, in pure defeat and inner humiliation. “Who am I kidding? It’s true, everything she said is true.”, deep inside the star of the show knew there was a ring of truth in those words, and that hurt. It hurt like Hell. “Alice is right. We always say that we’re independent adults, but at the end we behave like brats.”.

A respectful silence filled the room as a thousand thoughts and faults invaded the devil’s mind, the only sound the fallen angel could clearly hear was the wall clock ticking, gradual and inexorable. “Are you ok, Bendy?” Alice questioned when she counted at least five hundred ticks, tilting her neck and watching her co-worker with puzzled eyes; that kind of behavior wasn’t like him, she knew that cartoon too well to fall for it. “You’re oddly silent tonight.”. The black demon snapped out of that state of trance and shook his big head with vigor, struggling to hide his worries and speak up: “I’m just… thinking.”. “About what?”. “About stuff.”. “Could you be a little more specific, pray tell?” the raven-haired girl groaned a bit and crossed her arms, interrupting the relaxing massage and waiting for him to open up and confess what was evidently torturing his conscience. “There’s something wrong with you, you wouldn’t just shut up for entire minutes. Not that I’m complaining, but you know… I’m here to listen.”. “Oh, for Satan’s sake Alice, stop it! Leave me alone!” Bendy literally boomed at that point, feeling enraged and defensive, a visible grey blush covering his cheeks as the inky blood pumped in his veins. “Why do you care so much?”. Blinking a couple of times in confusion and disorientation, Alice replied to that nasty question with spontaneity and slight rage, standing up and yelling her answer right in his face: “Because I care about you!”. Boom, crash and burn. “Well, I do not… I…” the little demon opened his mouth and pointed an accusing finger at Alice, ready to shout back without even thinking, to insult the singer or at least preserve his dignity, but he immediately perceived his own artificial heart sink deeply in the middle of his chest and his throat dry up, like a river during a hot summer day. But worst, he felt shit about himself; everytime something went horribly wrong, someone scolded him for something he did, or even when he fucked things up, Bendy always found a way to blame someone else for his mistakes. The Butcher Gang? No, the pride was probably his worst enemy. “I’m sorry, Alice. I was unfair to you while you only wanted to help me.” Bendy whispered sadly as he realized how much of a dick he had been, staring at his knees and nervously playing with his moving and pointy tail, avoiding eye contact. “I’ll try to do better.”. “No, don’t try to do better.” the fallen angel wisely declared and forcefully grabbed both sides of his round head, turning it and literally forcing her amazed co-worker to stare into her serious pitch black irises. “You have to do better. You can do better than this, than fighting all day and cause trouble. You’re the protagonist, our leader, and we all look up to you.” she forced a tiny smile and gently caressed his left cheek as her delicate traits appeared sweeter, more sympathetic. “We all count on you, Bendy. Don’t let us down, please. I believe in you.”. We count on you, Bendy. Don’t let us down, please. I believe in you.

“Well… it’s pretty late, here’s the lemon tea you requested, big baby. Drink it before it gets too cold.” Alice smirked smugly and offered a white, piping cup to the demon, helping him up and covering his tired form with scented sheets and thick blankets, making sure he was warm and comfortable enough for the entire night. “Try to get some rest and don’t move around too much, your muscles need a break. A long break.” the fallen angel laughed mercilessly and ignored his still reflecting expression, scratching her nape and stirring as she was done preparing her injured partner’s refined bed. “If you need something or if you’re simply bored, just punch the wall beside you or talk to yourself for a while. Your voice is so damn annoying that I will surely hear it from my room.”. Despite her sincere words were still echoing in the short demon’s mind, and they’d probably keep doing it during the whole night, he managed to take the joke and grin. “Very funny, toots! You know, you surprise me, teasing your own boss, who’s even suffering, is a risky move indeed.” Bendy snickered back in front of the young woman’s audacity, admiring the brazen singer as he was admiring the most beautiful and breathtaking masterpiece inside an art museum. “Sometimes I forget who’s the devil and who’s the angel, here.”. “Look again, Bendy. Maybe I’m both, and maybe I’m not as generous or kind as I look.” Alice promptly stood up and winked endearingly, pointing at her curved horns and shiny halo with a tapered finger. “Don’t ever forget it.”. “Oh, I wouldn’t, toots.” Bendy shrugged it off, playful and grateful. “I wouldn’t.”.

[holmjanson-blog]

Sponsored

I stared at Arenal shrouded in clouds; it looked the same as it did when I visited in 2003. However, the town around it – La Fortuna – had changed immensely. It was more established and ready to handle tourism. The restaurants all had English menus, and served cappuccinos. Humans and society change fast, while nature seems to change slowly.

I love revisiting countries I went to before I was a writer. I enjoy seeing how they’ve changed, and developed from a tourism perspective. Plus – I think when I travel as a writer I tend to take much more in and really experience the place in a different way than I did when I was escaping for my annual vacation.

I first went to Costa Rica in 2003 with my girlfriend Angie; we traveled independently. I was a novice traveler, but Angie and I made our way through the country hiking, zip-lining (I question the safety of that now in 2003!), enjoying wildlife, drinking lots of cerveza, meeting boys, and working on our tans at the beach (likely with spf 10)! Travel was different back then…and apparently so was my metabolism and waistline.

Costa Rica By Small Group Tour

“I’ve never taken a small group tour; I normally travel independently.” That’s the normal reaction I get when I tell people I’m going on a small group tour. It’s as if all they hear is the word “group” and they immediately get visions of coach buses and following a guide with a flag. I get it – it makes me cringe too. But don’t overlook the word “small”. Small groups are normally around 10 people; my Costa Rica tour only had 5 on it! There is no coach bus and flag-carrying tour guide herding you up. Instead, it’s actually a lot of fun!

Our group spotting animals in the rainforest!

I understand the trepidation though – as I too like to travel independently and have done a great deal of travel that way. However, I have found small group tours to be just as fun and immersive as my independent travel. The key is that the small group trip still allows you time to be individual and make your own script. And the recent trip I took with Club Adventures was a good example of how small group tours can be an incredible way to see and be immersed in a country, while still remaining an individual.

The Route

This return trip would take me back to some of the same places, but this time there was more local interaction, local experiences, and of course more spf, less beer and boys.

Costa Rica is in a prime location; think of it as the little, narrow center of an hourglass – where the sand squeezes through and connects the two primary parts. That is Costa Rica’s role to North and South America; the land bridge. When the land bridge formed it provided a way for all animals to pass from one area to the other. Because of that, it’s left with an incredible amount of biodiversity. It may only have 0.03% of the surface land in the world, but that small area packs a big punch.

My stops this time included La Fortuna (Arenal Volcano), Tortuguero National Park, and Puerto Viejo. This was a perfect diversity of locations; inland volcanoes for hiking and rugged adventure, canals and wildlife viewing, and a stop in a laid-back beach town.

Never too Old for Adventure

One thing that hasn’t changed in the last 15 years is my love of being active when I’m on vacation. This trip to Costa Rica was full of adventures in each region we went to.

Hiking at Arenal

How does it feel to hike on some of the newest land on the planet? Well – it doesn’t have that ‘new car smell’, but it was pretty cool knowing that the soil beneath our feet was the result of a 50-year transformation from lava rock to soil to forest. Arenal Volcano last erupted 50 years ago and lava flowed down the side forming the land that we hiked on!

With a Local Insider we took off on a beautiful hike up to a great viewing point of Arenal Volcano. When I first went to Costa Rica this was an active volcano that occasionally had lava seeping out of it; that was the big draw. However, the lava stopped in 2010, so now it’s the hiking and hot springs that draw people in!

Ziplining

Ziplining has come a long way since I went back in 2003! While at La Fortuna we did a ziplining tour that had us flying through the rain forest at great speeds! I think it’s so important to push yourself into things that scare you, and that’s exactly what I did while ziplining in Costa Rica. It seems that ziplining companies are now adding ‘extras’ and somehow I got talked into an ‘extra’ on something called the Tarzan Swing. While in the zipline harness, you basically jump off a platform (short free-fall) and then swing super high in the tree like Tarzan! I’m scared of heights and was totally freaking out prior to being let go and falling off the platform! But I did it…and after the initial loss of my stomach, the screams turned to laughter!

Kayaking for Wildlife

We also got some beautiful time on the water kayaking at Tortuguero National Park. The Park is full of little canals that wind back into the forest where you can see birds, monkeys, caimen, and more. I loved all of the wildlife, but I think what I loved the most was maneuvering the kayaks back into the narrow canals where regular boats couldn’t go. It felt as if you had entered a whole other world with vines hanging down and trees draping overhead.

Local Experiences

I’m pretty sure that the only locals I met back in 2003 were my guides or driver. Presently, one of my goals when I travel is to always get a feel for what it’s like to live in that country. This is mainly accomplished by meeting local people and doing more local experiences. Luckily, we had a lot of opportunities to do just that while in Costa Rica giving me a better understanding on the day-to-day life of locals.

Local Guides

Our Local guide, Edgar, was phenomenal at bringing us deeper into his culture; and he was genuinely excited to share it! It started simply with a fruit stand stop where we were able to touch, feel, and taste all of the different exotic fruits in Costa Rica. This wasn’t a part of the itinerary; it was a surprise stop. In addition, Edgar would take us to places he ate at and frequented in his home town of La Fortuna; he always chose places off the main tourist squares and he’d even go as far as inviting his friends to lunch with us so that we could meet more locals.

In addition, as we traveled from one location to the other, we had a number of on-the-road lunches that were unplanned. Edgar took a lot of pride in bringing us to places where locals eat showing us that the cuisine was much more than just rice and beans. My favorite stop was at a ‘soda shop’ (very local outdoor cheap/fast cafes). There wasn’t another tourist in site as we sat at the little bar seats in the outdoor setting. Part truck stop, part café and juice bar – it was delicious!

Cooking with Veronica

While in Puerto Vieja we were invited into Veronica’s kitchen and home to learn how to cook Caribbean flavors of Costa Rica. We met her whole family, learned how to make fresh coconut cream (starting with opening the coconut!), and we learned about rural life and organic farming. It was a lovely night of fresh, healthy food, and wonderful company!

Unscripted Moments

The unplanned things that happen on a trip are always the most memorable to me. It’s important that you find an itinerary where there is time to let those things develop and happen. If you are go, go, go with every activity and moment planned the vacation loses something if you ask me. One thing I immediately noticed from the Club Adventures itinerary is that they leave you free time…and plenty of it. You were able to let adventure happen!

We had free time to explore La Fortuna on our own and I chose to head into a local grocery store. Going to food markets is one of my favorite things to do to get a deeper glimpse into the local culture – and local snack food! As I walked down the aisles, I got a feel for different food, and what locals cook with. In addition, I learned about the price of items; something you can’t tell from eating at a restaurant. It was there that I learned if you want to take coffee back with you as a gift then buy it in the grocery store. It’s half the price of what they sell in tourist shops! In addition to coffee, I picked up a couple of great new chip styles I had never heard of before to try!

“Can we stop and look at the banana fields?” This was my favorite thing to ask as we drove through the Costa Rica landscape – “Can we stop…”. Our itinerary had a lot of driving included in it as we made our way from location to location. But we had built in free time and a guide who loved to teach us about local culture, so Edgar always was excited to have us stop and get a closer look at things. I find this to be the ultimate in freedom when you are traveling, to be able to stop when you want to. We stopped and observed the banana packing plants, we checked out the cool living fences much closer, and we even stopped along the roadside to see a coffee field close up! This was a great way to get closer to the local culture and not just simply watch it from the window of a vehicle!

The Group

The ‘group’ in small group travel is always the ‘wild card’ that you never really know how it will go…but I hit the jackpot on this trip! We had a small group of 5 people; I was the youngest. I always find that when I travel with people older than me, I tend to learn more. Maybe they are just more inquisitive – I’m not sure. But one thing that did surprise me about our little group of 5 was that everyone was up for trying new adventures. I was so proud of Nils and Linda for ziplining; they were in their late 70’s/80’s and they were up for trying anything! It was a reminder that you are only as old as you act. The group definitely was a big part of why I loved this trip so much – we were all young at heart.

Cost Rica Pura Vida

Pura Vida were the first words Edgar taught us when we arrived. It’s the backbone of the Costa Rican culture meaning good life, pure life, or simple life. It’s used as an answer when someone asks how you are doing. Thanks to the people I traveled with, and our guide Edgar, my revisit of Costa Rica was pura vida!

In the past 15 years, Costa Rica had become more developed and travel savvy – and so had I.

How You Can Book This Trip

Club Adventures has done the research, sorted the logistics and made the connections. But, the narrative that unfolds is entirely yours to create.

Learn more at Club Adventures

The post Experiencing Costa Rica the Second Time Around appeared first on Ottsworld Unique Travel Experiences.

[nekojitachan]

More Raven!Neil! This is coming on in in bits and pieces, but sooner or later I’ll have a complete chapter which means I’ll HAVE to start writing the thing properly.

Andrew POV for now (probably because most of H4 is Andrew POV).

*******

Andrew thought it had been tiring enough, dealing with Kevin back in June when he’d discovered Riko’s little stunt with the district switch and everything, with the Foxes finding out that they’d be facing the Ravens on the court that season. Dealing with the coward swinging back and forth between ‘we’re not good enough’ and fighting with the rest of the rejects as he struggled to make the Foxes into some sort of team ‘worthy’ of their Class I Exy status – fighting literally with Boyd and Gordon most days, to the point that Andrew was getting rather annoyed with having to remind those two morons about his ‘don’t touch’ rule.

Not even Kevin’s little shadow, Mitchell, could put him in a good mood, not when Kevin spent half his time griping about Mitchell’s lack of skill, about how he wasn’t learning fast enough. There’d been the failed attempt at joining in on the late night practices on the kid’s part, until he’d shown up twice the next morning with his arms blown out and Wymack had put his foot down.

A pissy Kevin was almost as bad as a sniveling Kevin, which was still better to the almost catatonic Kevin staring at the computer screen in Wymack’s office just then; the old man had called Kevin in after they’d finished their morning workout, something about the Raven’s finally announcing their season’s line-up – something about a new striker.

Andrew gave Wymack a flat look as he went around the man’s large desk, deliberately reaching out to push over a precariously stacked pile of folders along the way, to see what it was that had set off the coward that time – what, had they managed to recruit Knox from the Trojans? “This better be worth the effort, I want to wash off,” Andrew warned as he came over to stand beside Day.

Kevin didn’t say anything, he just made an abortive motion at the screen with his right hand, so it was Wymack who spoke. “I just found out a few minutes ago myself. All I knew was that they’d recruited someone but had asked the ERC to keep the name quiet until today, something about avoiding unwanted attention so the kid could focus on training. But they had to release it today because of the line-up for the game.”

Wymack had pulled up the player’s profile and stats, which were displayed on the screen, and Andrew found a rare jolt of surprise flaring inside of him as he looked upon a mostly familiar visage – mostly because unlike back in Millport, Neil Josten now sported striking pale blue eyes instead of insipid brown and bright auburn hair neatly trimmed along the sides with the longer strands falling into loose curls down his forehead instead of a dark unruly mess. The changes didn’t stop there, either – there was a black ‘4’ tattooed high on his left cheekbone and a deliberate blankness to his expression that the rattled yet defiant runner hadn’t possessed back in the locker room.

“Huh, the rabbit grew wings rather than become a fox, how interesting.” Andrew pulled on a grin as he poked a still silent Kevin in the side of his face, right against the ‘2’ tattoo. “Guess he was serious about not playing with you.”

Hmm, it was also interesting how Kevin didn’t smack his hand aside or yell at him, he just flinched and closed his eyes as if to block out some horrible sight. “You still in there?” Andrew taunted.

“He….” Kevin finally spoke as he opened his eyes, his complexion waxy as he motioned again at the monitor. “He joined the Ravens.” Somehow that sounded more like a question than a statement.

Wymack frowned as he nodded, busy righting the pile of folders that Andrew had knocked over but not bitching about the fact, which was oh so telling. “They’re not giving out much information, just that he spent the summer training with them and he’s on the starting line-up.” His frown deepened when Kevin flinched again. “Guess you were right about the kid having talent.”

“Yeah.” Kevin swiped his right over his face as he laughed, the sound quiet and strained. “Yeah, he does. Uhm, I’m gonna… I gotta shower and get to class.” Then he was moving out of the office in a hurry, which left Andrew and Wymack alone.

“Okay, that was fucked up,” Wymack said after a slight pause. “I expected him to be angry at Edgar Allen for swiping his pick, not that.”

Andrew quietly agreed, but he didn’t say anything, just knocked over another stack of folders before he left, which finally made Wymack curse him out. He found Kevin in the showers, but the man was quiet and didn’t say anything to him as they washed off and went to their classes.

Good at biding his time, at knowing when to exert minimum effort for maximum reward, Andrew let it go for the moment, content to allow others do some of his work for him, to let Kevin stew for a while longer and for things to build. Because word soon got out that Neil Josten had ‘gone over’ to the Ravens, and it wasn’t pretty when that happened.

Gordon was smug as fuck, which just reinforced that he’d been behind the leak in the first place. Wilds and Boyd were pissed off, furious at the Moriyamas for snatching up what should have been the Foxes’ recruit, Mitchell was indignant that people were talking about the player who’d turned his back on the Foxes rather than him, the guy who’d signed on with the team, and Nicky egged them all on, the moron. It got to the point that Andrew was a few seconds away from locking them in the changing room and pulling the fire suppression system, except Aaron was sitting in the middle of the fucking annoying lot.

That and Renee may have noticed him glancing over at the system and had gotten up at one point to lean against the wall right next to the alarm. She met his flat gaze with a too-sweet smile and held it for several seconds, until he had to look away and still the twitch in his right leg as the damn drugs slowly worked their way out of his system. Just a little longer for the shit to pass through and no more buzzing to pull at his thoughts or emotions, even if he would have to play some stupid game to earn it. Then he could ride out the crash with some alcohol, could use those and the sharp edge of curiosity to push back the nausea and need a little longer.

Answers were so much better than false euphoria, especially when they hurt others more than him.

Wymack had to yell at everyone to stop fighting amongst themselves and to pull their heads out of their asses so they could get ready to beat Breckenridge (Andrew scoffed at that, at how the man never seemed to accept the team for the lost cause that it was). There was some stupid speech which he ignored and soon enough it was time to go out onto court, to listen to the lousy music and cheers and then take the goal for the first part of the game.

At least he had a decent spot to watch the Foxes lose to one of the better Class I teams, to watch Kevin snap out of it for a little while – only to be hampered by Gordon getting into fights as usual, by Mitchell being too tentative and uncoordinated whenever he had the ball. When it came to halftime, they were down three to six.

It didn’t get any better in the second half, when Andrew sat out the game, with Breckenridge taking it five to ten when it was all said and done. Once the Foxes were back in the locker room, Wymack gave his spiel that it was just the start of the season, Wilds went on about how they hadn’t done that bad against a tough opponent while Mitchell apologized for his fuck-ups when Gordon punched a locker and snapped at the kid that the team could do a hell of a lot better if they hadn’t been dragged down by his rookie ass. That led to Boyd shoving Gordon away and even Reynolds yelling at her sometime boyfriend, while Andrew motioned to the others to grab their stuff so they could get ready and leave.

Nicky winced a little at all the yelling but shook his head. “So loud. Really, what did they expect would happen tonight?”

“Especially with the way you play – or don’t play,” Aaron remarked in a deadpan manner as they entered the showers.

“Hey! I didn’t see you trying too hard out there, either,” Nicky complained.

Andrew waited for Kevin to make his usual ‘you both suck and should be ashamed of yourselves’ comment, and arched an eyebrow when the Exy addict merely entered a stall so he could wash off. Even Nicky noticed Kevin’s silence and sent Andrew a look, then hurried into his own stall when Andrew narrowed his eyes.

Kevin spared them a recount of everything they’d done wrong during the game on the drive back to the dorms, where they were staying for once because a certain someone had agreed to go on a television show the next day. A certain someone who was going to stay up all night, rather than Andrew have to put up with dragging him out of bed in a few hours.

Nick and Aaron joined in to have some drinks once they got back, but Andrew watched over Kevin to keep him from doing his usual ‘drink until passed out’ routine; his intent was two-fold in that if the alcoholic managed to drink himself into the usual Friday night stupor, Wymack was going to find him face down in the toilet when he came to pick up his precious media darling – and not from Kevin being hungover, oh no. That and Andrew needed a few brain cells to remain unpickled if he wanted answers.

Him snatching away the almost-empty bottle of vodka from a scowling Kevin was the sign for Aaron and Nicky to go to bed, since they were remaining on campus in the morning. “Either I take it or I smash it over your head,” Andrew told Kevin with a slight smile, which made the coward give up with a muttered curse and sit down at his desk to watch something on his computer instead.

That ‘something’ turned out to be an Exy game, a recording of the Raven’s game from earlier in the night, a game where they’d played UT. There was some irony there, watching Edgar Allen in their black and red uniforms go against UT in their orange and white, a precursor of things to come, so to speak. How nice of Fate to help Andrew out (if he believed in such things).

He went off to brew some coffee, and returned with a mug for him and one for Kevin as well, some whiskey in both to nurse them through the remaining hours until they had to leave for Kathy Ferdinand’s show. The Exy addict appeared riveted by the sight of the players with the numbers ‘1’ and ‘4’ on their backs, with the way they raced across the court. While Andrew held no love at all for the sport, he knew it well enough after the last few years to recognize the skill which Riko displayed, the technical ability behind the seemingly impossible shots, the control in how he flung the ball across the court.

Compared to him, Neil Josten didn’t seem like much – at least not at first. But the kid was fast, damn fast. He could clear the court in a blink of the eye, could make those ten steps count by grabbing the ball and getting the hell out of the opponent’s way before he could be pinned down, aided by long legs for his height and swift feet. He didn’t seem to need to look to know where to throw the ball, either, and he was more than willing to take on opponents bigger than him (basically everyone else on the court) if it got him the ball or the shot.

He wasn’t Kevin, but he worked well with Riko due to that speed and flexibility, that determination and self-sacrifice. Especially when it was clear that he didn’t mind taking the hits and giving up the goals so Riko could shine. During the time that Andrew leaned against the wall and watched the game, Neil had scored one goal to Riko’s three.

“He’s improved,” was all Andrew said.

“He was holding back,” Kevin answered after taking a long swig of Irish coffee. “Maybe not intentionally, but… the Master got it out of him.” That prompted another long swig of coffee.

Andrew gave it a couple of minutes, gave Kevin a little more time to stew, then spoke up. “He’s not the only one holding back, is he?” He shifted forward to stand closer to Kevin. “What did you see in his team photo?”

Kevin’s face became flushed and he paused the game. “I don’t… I should get-“

“No.” Andrew reached out in a flash to snatch away the mug from Kevin’s weak grip, which made the drunk sink back in his chair. “What did you see?” He wanted answers now, especially while Aaron and Nicky weren’t around.

The question provoked a blurry stare from Kevin, who then shook his head. “No, you don’t want to know that, it’s better that you don’t know.”

“I don’t think you understand how we play this game,” Andrew remarked with a mirthless grin while he waved the half-empty mug in the air. “I keep you safe, keep you out of Moriyama hands, and you tell me the truth, among other things. I ask you questions and you tell me no lies. Now, what the hell is going on with Neil Josten, hmm?” Why had the kid reacted so strangely around Kevin? Why had he refused to play with Kevin, yet signed with the Ravens – a no-name rookie with one year behind him?

Kevin moaned a little as he clutched his left hand to his chest while staring at the laptop’s screen with a mix of longing and grief. “It’s… that’s just it, it’s the Moriyamas,” he stressed. “It’s things you don’t want to know.”

Andrew’s eyes narrowed upon hearing that. “Oh, but I disagree. They say confession is good for the soul, Day, something a nice Irish boy like you should know. So start confessing.”

There was a quick, longing gaze at the mugs held in Andrew’s hands and then Kevin slumped even more in his chair. “What do you know about Nathan Wesninski?”

That was an odd tangent, wasn’t it? “Nothing,” Andrew answered as he held off on returning the one mug for the moment. “Why?”

Kevin huffed a little and shook his head. “Because he’s Neil’s father – Neil’s real name is Nathaniel Wesninski. I didn’t realize it until I saw the photo of him earlier with the tattoo; he’d changed his appearance back in Millport.”

Why wasn’t Andrew surprised that it wouldn’t be a simple story? “Why would he do that?” he asked as he handed over the coffee, which the coward immediately snatched and finished off in a couple of swallows before he continued with the ‘lovely’ tale of a boy and boring Exy.

“Because… because Nathan Wesninski is also known as the Butcher,” Kevin mumbled as he wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. “He works for the Moriyamas and runs a large criminal empire on the East Coast.”

Oh, now things were getting interesting, weren’t they? “And yet his son is in some shit-hole town in Arizona playing Exy? Elaborate,” Andrew commanded as he sat down on the edge of the desk.

Kevin scowled at the order but wasn’t too drunk to not realize that it was in his best interest to comply. “Because about ten years ago, Nathan brought Nathaniel to the Nest so the Mast- ah,” that time he caught Andrew’s displeased look over the name, “so Tetsuji could evaluate how well Nathaniel played Exy.” His green eyes grew unfocused as he seemed to think back on that time. “Nathaniel played as a backliner then and was really good, so good that Riko and I knew that Mah- uhm, Tetsuji would take him on. Only he never returned because Wesninski’s wife apparently ran off with Nathaniel during the night and several million dollars as well.”

Andrew dwelled on the story for a minute or two while Kevin seemed to drift off into memories or unpleasant thoughts, considering the drawn, pensive look on his face. “So this Wesninski was going to give Tetsuji his son?” Kevin had talked a little about the things that went on at the Nest, about how some of the players such as Moreau were basically indentured servants because their parents had given them to the Moriyamas to pay off debts; Andrew suspected he’d done it more to convince Andrew to keep him from going back there than anything else.

“Yeah.” Kevin shook his head as the mug slipped from his hands. “I think… I think Nathaniel’s a bit like Riko. He can’t take over for Wesninski, so the Master found a use for him.” He frowned as he appeared to think of something. “Was gonna find a use for him. Oh, found him after all, yeah?”

Perhaps found him thanks to the shit Gordon had pulled, was more like it. Andrew had to wonder if ‘Neil’ hadn’t tried run after seeing Kevin, hence his disappearance, and then the Moriyamas had tracked him down thanks to the forum posts.

For a moment Andrew reflected on the possibility of someone having worse luck than him then scoffed. “Whatever, all that matters now is he’s there now. He’s there and you’re here.” He gave Kevin a cold smile as he gestured to the room around them. “He turned you down so he’s not our problem anymore.” As he spoke, he leaned forward. “Or are you under the mistaken belief that this is a halfway house for Raven runaways?”

Kevin stared at him for a couple of seconds before shaking his head. “He can’t… no, he can’t come here.”

“Then shut up already,” Andrew told him before moving to go sit down on the couch; he had enough of Exy for the day.

Kevin resumed watching the game while Andrew split his time between reading a book and watching Day, and amused himself with throwing pillows at the pain in the ass whenever he saw that dark head begin to nod or droop forward. One time he even startled Kevin enough to knock him out of the chair, a rare burst of amusement filling him at the sight of those long limbs flailing and loud curses filling the room.

Soon enough they had to get ready to leave for Raleigh, North Carolina, with Kevin being even more of a surly asshole than normal until they got on the bus where they could sleep for the drive. Andrew managed to get a little rest, and once Kevin hit the studio, he lost the zombie-like effect from too-little sleep to pull on his ‘charming’ fake persona which always made Andrew’s fingers twitch to slide free a knife and cut off that too-bright smile. Yet Kathy Ferdinand seemed to eat it up, to fawn all over Kevin, and soon she and her assistants took him back to get him ‘ready’ for the show.

Andrew wasn’t pleased with having Kevin out of his sight like that, but Kevin said the show was necessary, was important to give the Foxes some positive publicity, to highlight how far they’d come in a season and not let the Ravens overshadow them. To not let Riko win. Like Andrew gave a shit about any of that, especially when he could be in his own bed in Columbia at the moment, instead of sitting in an uncomfortable chair surrounded by a bunch of strangers with Renee on one side and Matt on the other.

At least Kevin was the first guest so they could leave once his interview was taped, though Andrew felt like gagging as he sat through Ferdinand acting like a bitch in heat with the way she kissed up to Kevin, laughing and smiling at everything he said. Andrew fought to sit still, to not get up and walk away, while Renee murmured to him that it would be just a little longer.

Then Ferdinand started in about Riko, about how hard it must be for Kevin to play on a new team without him, to see Riko move on with a new striker and everything. Kevin’s smile became a little strained but he kept his answers for the most part diplomatic (except for a dig at Seth), to attempt to distance himself from Riko and Edgar Allen. Except Ferdinand didn’t seem willing to let it go. She even asked Kevin about the school switching districts, to which Kevin proclaimed no knowledge to their reason why, the liar.

Andrew felt something twist inside of him at the way the woman smiled in anticipation just then, and Renee must have sensed something because she latched on to his right arm while calling out Wymack’s name. “Then I have a treat for you!” Ferdinand all but purred, right before the Edgar Allen’s fight song filled the studio.

*******

So, still have to edit H4. This weekend is REALLY busy, but I’m hoping things get better after Monday.

[flauntpage]

Khalidov Vs. Narkun: A Champ Vs. Champ Superfight

Mamed Khalidov has spent half a decade atop those lists of “Fighters Who Should Be in the UFC.” Khalidov has been a fixture on KSW’s cards since 2008 and now that business is booming for the Polish promotion, Khalidov has fallen into the strangest position of his career. "The Cannibal" is KSW’s middleweight champion and finds himself at 37 years old taking fights built around the simple hypothesis of “What can we have Mamed do?”

That’s not a bad thing. Khalidov still defends his title against Polish fighters you haven’t heard of, but they’re trying to give these fights a bigger feel. In his last match, Khalidov met KSW’s reigning welterweight champion Borys Mankowski in a champ vs. champ bout. Khalidov cruised to a decision victory, but his next bout takes that idea and carries it on to its logical conclusion: if Khalidov is the best thing going in KSW, why not have him fight the light heavyweight champion?

The light heavyweight in question is Tomasz Narkun. Just twenty-eight years old, Narkun is entering his prime as Khalidov is well into the later days of his career. The bout is going to be fought at a catchweight of 198 pounds but Narkun is bigger than Khalidov, younger than Khalidov, and is a wicked grappler to boot.

The Cannibal

It’s no secret why KSW love Khalidov: he is the kind of fighter you want to build your shows around. He’s explosive, and spins a lot, and built his last title defense around the axe kick seemingly on a whim. But aside from all that he is maddeningly inconsistent and often fights in ways that make you wonder how he doesn’t end up on the losing end of decisions more often. During his fight with Mankowski, he would throw himself out of position and as Mankowski came back he would be sent stumbling or barrel roll onto the floor. Watching it live it looked disastrous, watching it back on the replay it became clear that Khalidov wasn’t actually caught by many of the punches, but judges don’t have the benefit of slow motion replay and flopping to the floor under fire hasn’t helped very many fighters.

What Khalidov does have is a slick kicking game and a big right hand. And those two play into each other nicely. Take, for instance, the fight in which he won the KSW middleweight title. He went to his bladed stance, showed his intention to spin for a back kick, and then cracked his man with a right hand instead. A simple set up but, like many of Andy Hug’s weird set ups, it only works if the guy knows you’re willing to do the weird thing that you’re feinting.

Khalidov is also a force of nature when he senses he has his man hurt. Luke Barnatt had racked up four wins on the trot since leaving the UFC, and was always a decently composed, thoughtful striker. Khalidov cracked him with a right hand in the opening seconds and as soon as Barnatt made a tell-tale stumble, Khalidov was on him and finishing the TKO.

But some nights Khalidov will just come out and behave bizarrely. Against the unheralded 8-6 Aziz Karaoglu, Khalidov was awkward on the feet, ate unnecessary punches, and flopped to the floor time and time again, pursuing a grappling match with someone he was reckoned to be leagues ahead of on the feet. Khalidov won a majority decision over and plenty of fans were convinced he didn’t deserve it. It was almost fortunate for Khalidov that Karaoglu’s choice to enter to the apparently official "Al Quaeda theme music" was noticed by press and Karaoglu was sent packing from KSW with no prospect of a rematch. Karaoglu hasn’t fought since.

The Giraffe

Tomasz Narkuns is a grappler but not in the tedious sense. More a grappler in the Street Fighter sense—leaping on strange armbars in immediate movements—than a grappler in the systematic Demian Maia sense. He is constantly hunting for a finish rather than positional advancement. There’s a touch of Liam McGeary in him as he throws up armbars and triangles from his back, often being stacked or rolled over his shoulders only to scramble back to guard and try it again. What Narkun has that McGeary doesn’t is a slick elbow game from the bottom—something we also discuss in our Tactical Guide to Brian Ortega Vs. Frankie Edgar.

Narkun has a decent single leg, works well from the head outside position and uses combinations effectively, chaining his takedowns to wind up on top. But takedowns certainly aren’t his bread and butter, and he doesn’t use them as often as you would hope to see from a man with that many submissions on his record.

As far as striking goes, Narkun is still very much a rough product. He stands and moves well, but when he is under fire he will often just duck or cover up, eschewing or perhaps not recognizing the opportunities to counter punch. The one occasion that he did counter punch effectively was in his rematch with Goran Reljic, wherein he knocked Reljic out.

For the most part, however, his boxing is an afterthought. Much of Narkun’s best work on the feet is done with front snap kicks and push kicks to the midsection, and a sharp step-up inside low kick which rarely goes on to set up the right hand which is often begging to be thrown afterwards.

Narkun has also shown himself to be very willing to foul. Against the ghost of Rameau Thierry Sokoudjou, Narkun repeatedly grabbed Sokoudjou by the braids in order to stiff arm him away from guard, and in order to hold him in place for uppercuts for the finish. When Sokoudjou complained to the ref, Narkun tried to illegally upkick him while the referee was talking.

And illegal upkicks are all too common in Narkun’s fights as well. Cassio Barbosa de Oliveira ate an illegal one on the knees which stopped the contest momentarily. But as a former training partner of Gegard Mousasi, upkicking is as much a part of Narkun’s game as you would expect. Oliveira stood over Narkun’s guard a little too long and found himself stunned by legal upkicks before being kneed for a TKO.

He throws in the odd headbutt, and a cheeky fence grab. He pushes every advantage he can and while plenty of fighters cheat, Narkun seems to do it flagrantly in almost every bout, drawing attention to how shoddy the officiating can be in KSW.

Hypothetical Gameplans

Tomasz Narkun might not be as dangerous as Mamed Khalidov on the feet, but it seems like he has a good number of advantages in this fight. Being the bigger man he will have a physical edge in the clinches and the wrestling to begin with, even if taking down light heavyweights has never been one of his great strengths. More than that, his striking might not be up to par with Khalidov’s, but Khalidov’s recklessness—the constant barrel rolling and stumbling off balance—means that he is always flirting with the disaster of getting stuck on the mat underneath Narkun.

We mentioned that Narkun’s front kicks have looked decent, particularly his right front kick. Against Khalidov it would be good to see him get trigger happy with this. Khalidov’s love of right leg spinning kicks means that the right front kick matches up as a balance breaker. Any time you see a man looking to spin, poke a straight kick in and if he opts to spin he’s likely to get knocked over. It’s not pretty, and a poke to the back or side isn’t going to cause any damage, but it does make turning kicks harder and often opens up the path to the back or the mat with a stumble. As Khalidov often back kicks and flying knees on the counter—and is regularly knocked off balance doing this—floating in behind a raised lead leg would get a great way to wedge inside Khalidov’s flashy counters. If Khalidov isn’t looking to spin at any time, the front kick is a weapon that maximizes The Giraffe’s range advantage while affording few counters that can’t be quickly turned into a clinch.

Most importantly it would be good to see Narkun apply the pressure. Against Karaoglu, Khalidov was made to look very uncomfortable simply by Karaoglu moving him towards the fence before attacking in flurries. It would be good to see Narkun walking Khalidov down, ducking under his single-shot right hands, and trying to wedge into a standing clinch or come up swinging as he’s out of position. Khalidov throws himself so badly off balance after every right hand that the openings should be plentiful if Narkun gets in his face. Simple catch-and-pitch right hands might work a treat if Narkun has the confidence in them. Khalidov throws his right hand, Narkun takes it on the left forearm, Khalidov is left leaning well off to his left—refusing to close the door with the left hook or get back to his guard—Narkun lands the short counter right straight to his right side.

When talking about a hypothetical gameplan for Khalidov one of the important things to remember is that this man seems to fight however he wants to, whether it is the smartest course of action or not. The great thing about Narkun—being not only a bigger man, but the best bigger man available in KSW and a top tier grappler—is that he might be the man to make Khalidov fight a little more cautiously.

Ideally, Khalidov would avoid the tumbles and throwing himself to the mat when he is out of position because he is unlikely to just be able to wing it on the ground with a technician of Narkun’s ability and also giving up a size disadvantage. In terms of the range and the reach, the Khalidov that turned up against Barnatt would be handy. Rather than trying to get in Narkun’s face—offering up clinches and giving away easy counters because his boxing is so one-punch-at-a-time—it would be good to see Khalidov take a step back and make Narkun come to him.

Narkun’s hands are awkward and he tends to fall back on the front kicks and an inside low kick. Khalidov’s overhand is a monstrous weapon and his timing has always been great—it would be good to see him make like the Machida boys and simply avoid exchanges until he has Narkun overstepping the mark—then he can step in and crack him with the overhand, rinse and repeat.

Tomasz Narkun has proven a quick finisher and the toughest fight of his recent career was the three round decision he lost to Goran Reljic back in 2014. Narkun had never gone the distance before that bout, he hasn’t gone the distance since, and he obviously slowed down in the later second and third rounds. In fact with the exception of that Reljic bout, Narkun has never even been into the third round—always a concern on a champion who is being booked into five round fights. Add to the that the reported 198 pound catchweight this bout is being fought at and Narkun will be doing some extra work to drain himself before the bell. But the catchweight also plays against Khalidov here—according to KSW’s official card the bout is only going to be three rounds rather than five rounds as in a title fight. That means that rather than getting three rounds of a tired and slowing Narkun, Khalidov will likely only get one.

Time management and long term strategy is not a Khalidov strong suit but in an ideal world, Khalidov would be looking to limit exchanges, draw Narkun forward, and connect on big counter right hands. Khalidov would keep his elbows tight and project the top of his head when Narkun tried to grab him off exchanges, and try to make Narkun work harder to achieve less. If Khalidov ends up in the guard, disengaging should be the priority but stalling Narkun out should be just as important—though with Khalidov you might just see him jump up and try to reap a leg for a heel hook.

Given Narkun’s often-open full guard and constant hip movement, we are still waiting to see someone drive him into the fence, stack his hips, and drop punches on him. As Khalidov will want to get the right hand off as often and hard as possible in this fight, a takedown and a push to the fence might not be the worst idea in the world—but it would probably be better to wait until the second round when Narkun isn’t quite as active and dangerous.

Mamed Khalidov is the savvy veteran in this bout, but the deck is stacked against him. For the last few years he has been winging it and besting his opponents seemingly however he feels he wants to fight. Tomasz Narkun represents the kind of fighter who should make Khalidov pay for failing to dot his Is and cross his Ts. For Narkun, a victory even with a size advantage would be his most significant to date and would make those in the know pay far more attention to him—at present he is considered a strong prospect in a very weak division with some glaring holes in his all around game. For Khalidov? Stepping up and beating the KSW champion in the weight class above his own, and doing so at thirty seven years old, would not just be the most impressive thing he’s done in a few years, it might be the performance for which we remember him once he hangs up his gloves for good.

This is without a doubt the most exciting and compelling match up KSW has put together to date. Champion vs. champion is always a brave chance to take, and perhaps in making the catchweight they are doing it the more sensible way. The only downside is that the bout is being robbed of its main event feel by only going three rounds. With fighters of this caliber there is really no excuse to not let them run the full twenty-five minute gauntlet. If the bout is anywhere near as good as this writer hopes, we will look into the finer points and the outcome on Monday.

Jack wrote the hit biography Notorious: The Life and Fights of Conor McGregor and he podcasts and writes at The Fight Primer .

Khalidov Vs. Narkun: A Champ Vs. Champ Superfight published first on https://footballhighlightseurope.tumblr.com/

[marauders1971-1978]

Marauders 1971-1972 Chapter 3 (Part 2/3)

Remus parted ways with Peter, James and Sirius after dinner, the latter with their deep robe pockets weighed down with various desserts they’d slipped from the dinner table and wrapped in napkins. The three remaining boys took to the Gryffindor boy’s dormitory where they hid the snacks in James’ bottom drawer of the bedside cabinet. Sirius then attempted to perform a tricky climate control charm on it to stop the cream from melting out of the cakes, but it proved too advanced for him and he merely succeeded in freezing a Battenberg into an icy brick.

James picked up the solid cake and examined it.

“Well I’ve no idea how to reverse the spell without just melting it with an ‘incendio’ but I suppose it could be a strong weapon to lob at the Slytherin seeker if they get too far ahead in the first match.”

“I’m going to go and do McGonagall’s homework, thanks James,” said Peter, handing James back his essay. “Will I find that book in the muggle studies section or the alchemy section?”

James slotted his essay into his transfiguration textbook. “We found it under alchemy.”

Peter beamed, hitching his bag up over his shoulder. “Thanks a million, James. I don’t think I could have got away with another shoddy piece of homework from McGonagall.”

James and Sirius heard a clatter a few moments later as Peter stumbled clumsily on the stairs and undoubtedly dropped his transfiguration textbook.

“I think he’d clumsier than me,” said James, hauling himself up onto his four poster and inviting Sirius up next to him. “What do reckon that whole thing was about Remus? And what did you mean about family honour? The only time I ever heard ‘family honour’ was when my dad would go on about the Malfoys being all about ‘upholding family honour.’ But I don’t think he ever said it in a nice way. Do you think Remus’ family has a matter to discuss with Dumbledore about him not ‘upholding family honour’ at school?”

Sirius bit his lip in thought and hummed. “I doubt it. Remus’ family would have no cause to want to make sure Remus upheld any honour among pure-blood society, because even though Remus has a pure-blood surname, his mother is a muggle. The name doesn’t hold any worth within the sacred 28.”

James scowled. “My dad doesn’t agree with the sacred 28.”

“Yeah, I can imagine, since he’s not in it,” said Sirius. “My mother always said that the only people who disagree with pureblood society are those who are out casted from it. She said it’s all jealousy and low-class attitude.”

James rolled his eyes. “Your mum sounds like a right laugh.”

Sirius ignored him.

“So, if he doesn’t have a discipline meeting with Dumbledore, what were you getting at?” James asked.

“I just meant,” said Sirius, pulling the tie out of his hair, “that it’s rude and unbecoming of Peter to pester Remus the way he did. If he has a secret, he should have a right to it. All families have secrets.” Sirius finished with a pompous finality that made James cringe.

“It makes me gag when you say words like unbecoming.” James said. “It makes you sound like the Minister’s second deputy.” When Sirius didn’t fight back, he moved on. “Anyway, I disagree. I think Peter’s right. “We’re friends. We shouldn’t have secrets.”

“We’re not really friends though, are we?” said Sirius. “I mean, we barely know Remus and Peter and you and I have only known each other a month or so. We don’t have anything in common with them other than circumstances beyond our control.”

James pulled a rather unattractive face. In his opinion, they were friends. Remus and Peter were as kind to them as Dorcas, Marline and Mary, often kept them company and stepped forward as a willing wizard chess or exploding snap partner. He though Sirius was being rather cold, but he supposed at least he was being honest. Perhaps Sirius had a higher standard of what made a friend. Perhaps that then meant that earning that friendship was a sweeter reward.

“Well even if we aren’t friends, I want to know what’s troubling Remus, if he’ll tell us. For him to meet with Professor Dumbledore… that’s something big. McGonagall usually handles anything within Gryffindor house. This must be a problem that affects the school at large.”

The two sat in silence in the otherwise empty dormitory for another five minutes or so, listening to the occasional autumn leaf flit against the tower window in the wind, wondering. Eventually, Sirius shrugged off his cloak and rummaged in his trunk and pulled out his chess board and pieces and invited James to a game in the common room until Peter returned.

When Peter returned with his homework, they sat around the fire as the common room slowly emptied around them until their only company were a few sixth and seventh years in the far corner. The fire was low by eleven o’clock when the portrait hole swung open to reveal a tired looking Remus being dropped off by a tall, thin man with dark hair and a kindly face who waved him goodbye as the Fat Lady swung closed again.

“Remus!” Peter exclaimed, standing up immediately and dislodging their exploding snap tower and causing a substantial amount of singing to the hearth rug.

“Was that your dad?” asked James from his seat on the carpet. He was attempting, tentatively, to pick up the smoking cards from the fireplace. Remus picked his way across the common room.

“Yeah, he came to meet Dumbledore and then got him to agree to extending my curfew as long as he promised to walk me back to the tower to spend some time with me.”

“That’s pretty nice of him,” James commented.

Remus smiled. “Yeah. He even said it was lonely at home in the evenings without me. My mum’s been working late recently.” He removed his cloak, draped it across a nearby chair and joined them in front of the fire.

“Say, Remus, what do your parents do?” Peter asked. “I don’t think you’ve ever told me.”

“Oh. My mother works at a local high school as an English teacher and my father works… for the Ministry.”

“Really?” James exclaimed. “What department?”

Remus opened his mouth to answer, but to his surprise, Sirius did for him.

“He works for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Dangerous Creatures, doesn’t he?”

Remus looked a little taken aback. “Yeah, he does. How do you know?”

“Well I knew I recognised your surname from the sorting, but I couldn’t think where. I thought my mother must have mentioned your family to me at some point because she talks about other families a lot. But I recognise your father’s face – wasn’t he in the paper about five years ago? My mother kept the clipping. Something to do with the regulation of werewolves…? His name is Lyall Lupin.”

Remus had gone quite white. “Y-yes, that’s right. How did you remember something from so long ago?”

Sirius pulled a grim face. “My mother has a long memory for such events. And wishes for everyone else in the house to remember it as she does.”

“Why was your mother so interested? What does she do?” Asked Peter. Sirius looked bitter.

“Oh she doesn’t do anything. Her role is to mind other families’ business and keep me and my brother in line.”

“You didn’t tell me you had a brother,” James accused, a bit put out. “Is he coming to Hogwarts soon?”

Sirius nodded. “He’ll be here next year.”

“Oooh! Fantastic! What’s he like? What’s his name?” James asked eagerly.

“His name’s Regulus. And he’s fair, I suppose. We get along, but my parents get more joy out of him than they do out of me.”

James grinned and punched Sirius lightly on the arm. “I knew you had a streak of rebellion in you.”

Distantly, the clock tower could be heard to chime in midnight. James rubbed his hands together eagerly.

“It’s midnight snack time!” He exclaimed, jumping up with a sudden burst of energy. Together the little group made their way up to the boys’ dormitory, Peter rubbing his eyes but grinning contentedly despite his sleepiness, James falling up the stairs in his eagerness and Sirius poking light fun at his clumsiness. And at the back of the group, Remus followed, a small, comforted smile on his face, holding his Gryffindor scarf aggressively tightly in his hands.

~*~

It was Monday morning at breakfast and James was scanning the Gryffindor table as he slowly spooned an absurd amount of scrambled eggs into his mouth. He’d thought, when he, Sirius and Peter had left the dormitory, that Remus had merely woken earlier than them and set off alone. He couldn’t see his familiar, sandy head anywhere along the table however. He turned to Sirius.

“Have you seen Remus this morning?” James asked.

“No,” Said Sirius thoughtfully, also casting a glance along the table. “Maybe he went to the hospital wing. I thought he looked ill yesterday. He went to bed early, didn’t he?”

“I suppose…” Said James. “We’ll see if he turns up for potions.”

Remus failed to show in Potions, then Transfiguration and by the time the Gryffindors were walking down to Herbology they were feeling distinctly concerned.

“Suppose he really is ill?” Peter wondered, looking towards the first floor as though he could see into the windows from their distance.

“Or perhaps his father came to see him again.” Sirius suggested.

“Speaking of Remus’ father,” whispered James as they filed into the stuffy greenhouses under Professor Sprout’s watchful eye. “What was that business you mentioned yesterday about him being in the papers?”

Sirius cast a sidelong glance to Edgar Bones, who seemed to be pairing up with Peter in Remus’ absence. Once he’d determine that the Hufflepuff couldn’t hear them over Sprout explaining how different growing conditions for knotgrass could affect its properties in potion making he leaned towards James conspiratorially.

“Well I haven’t a particularly good memory of the details, but I do remember my mother lamenting his position being criticized in the paper because she thought he had the right idea about half-breeds.”

James looked up at his friend quizzically. “What do you mean, like half-bloods?”

“No, it means creatures with human qualities, like centaurs and vampires and werewolves. He must have advocated for something against them, or my mother wouldn’t have been interested. She hates the idea of magical blood being watered down. The idea of allowing part-humans to live like wizards is about as abhorrent to her as mud-bloods.”

“Your mother sounds like a fine woman.”

The boys’ whipped their heads up so fast they appeared to have snapped their necks. Lily and Marline were on Sirius’ right-hand-side and apparently Lily had heard their little whispered conversation though Marline looked none the wiser and was watching Professor Sprout intently.

“Butt out, Evans,” muttered James. “We’re trying to have a conversation here.”

“You disgust me, Sirius Black.” She hissed savagely. Sirius merely rolled his eyes.

“A person is not always the sum of their upbringing. Surely you must realise this; standing, as you are, in a wizarding school.”

Lily narrowed her eyes at him before turning back to her notes – for once not bothering with a sharp retort. James raised his eyebrows behind her back.

“Wow, can you teach me how to do that?”

“I’m just starting to wish people wouldn’t make wild guesses about my morals when I’m not even sure what they are yet,” Sirius sighed. “Anyway, he’d been attacked or something as a result. I suppose it must have been from an advocating group – or a werewolf itself – but my mother was worried the Ministry was going to bend and fire him, but in the end they just rejected whatever he’d put forward.”

“He was attacked by a werewolf?” James hissed, any interest he might’ve had in the lesson having disappeared quite abruptly.

“Oh I don’t think he was bitten. I would have remembered that. And if he is a werewolf, would Dumbledore have allowed him to come to Hogwarts yesterday?”

“Werewolves aren’t dangerous on days other than the full moon though, Sirius.” Said James, frowning disapprovingly at his friend.

“No, of course not, but it’s full moon tonight – and werewolves are recorded as being temperamental on the nights surrounding the true full moon.”

“Oh Merlin, you’ve just reminded me that we’ve got astronomy homework for tomorrow.”

“And now you have Herbology homework to complete for Thursday, Potter and Black, because judging by your empty parchment, you’ve failed to take in a single word I’ve said to you today.”

Professor Sprout had appeared behind the pair. “Now I asked you to raise your sample of knot grass in the appropriate conditions to be used in Polyjuice Potion. If you had been paying attention you would have known this. I expect immaculate results and then perhaps I will not have to inform your Head of House of your inattentiveness.”

“Yes, Professor,” the pair conceded shamefacedly.

[nickireadstfc]

The Foxhole Court, Chapter 11 – Orange Sportsball Gets The Fuck Real

In which the Foxes play their first match of the season, I have questions about American college sports, my Percy Jackson obsession has a brief cameo, and I’m sadly less excited about Actual Sportsball Games than I should be.

Sounds good? Then it’s time for Nicki to read The Foxhole Court.

           Thursday’s excitement had nothing on Friday’s. The whole school got decked out overnight with vibrant orange and white streamers. Ribbons and banners hung off every sidewalk lamp. Live student bands took over the amphitheater for short concerts and the student newspaper released that morning gave details for the afternoon parade.

Is that, like…………. Normal behavior on game days?? Actual American high school/college students, please confirm. Is this an actual thing???

I mean, I know y’all are big on sports and school spirit, but this big??

Please understand my confusion: At my school, no one fucking gave a shit about the sports teams. I didn’t even know when anyone had games/competitions unless we got told afterwards who won what brilliant award now, and even then like 5% of us cared. And I can’t speak for my uni yet, but I’m pretty sure it’s the same there as well. Do German unis even have sports teams?

I always liked to make fun of High School Musical 3 for having those giant ass banners displaying the athletes hanging in the halls. I am now starting to realize that might be perfectly normal for American schools.

What the fuck.

Also, Neil officially came out now – as a member of the Foxes, that is, of course.

           Neil wanted to cut class and hide at Fox Tower until game time, but athletes weren’t allowed to call out without a legitimate medical excuse. Someone from the athletics committee went around all day counting heads through classroom windows, and Wymack would be the first to hear Neil was absent.

They seriously stalk their students all day in fear they might be skipping class? And these students are in college, they are grown adults, not 14-year-olds. Again, is this a thing, what the fuck??

Then again, we’re talking about the country who invented hall passes. This is probably not the craziest thing around.

Fortunately, the Foxes decide to display their first sign of group solidarity in these trying times and guide Neil from class to class. This is a really small detail, but I love it.

I’m imagining Neil as a lil baby duck who obediently follows a big spikey-haired Matt duck, a small white-pastel-y Renee duck or a glamorous blonde Allison duck, wagging behind them in a tiny duck-sized jersey.

Although, when you think about it, they’re all just lil baby ducks following a big Wymack momma duck.

(Someone draw me fanart, I’m BEGGING YOU.)

I’m getting off track. Back to the plot.

           Andrew hadn’t lied to Neil back in May. In almost every article that talked of Neil’s pathetic experience Kevin was quoted as having high hopes for him. Kevin really had said that Neil would one day be Court.

Because this is the second time this has come up: What exactly does “being Court” mean?? Like, being Captain? Being MVP? Also, is this a regular sports expression or is is Exy-exclusive? Exyclusive?? Help.

A small silver lining of future hilariousness appears on the horizon: An Exy kickoff banquet is going to happen sometime in the next few chapter, and I am HYPED. This chaotic mess of a team + all their rivals + dates + drinks can only equal a Massive Fun Time™.

Fun for us, not for them, might I add. I am dying to see this.

           “[Renee] hasn’t asked [Andrew] yet, but it’s inevitable. (…) Money’s on the table as to whether or not he says yes. Pot’s getting pretty big, so get your bet in fast.”

           The only thing the Foxes had in common besides Exy and hardship was their strange obsession with betting on the stupidest things. Neil had figured that out only two weeks into practice. A week didn’t go by when there wasn’t money on something or another.

A team after my own heart <3 Can I join? I can never find anyone to bet on dumb things in my own circle of friends.

Will I throw this piece of paper in the bin on my first shot? Will the bus be late? Will Friend A and B hook up tonight? Will I lose my (nonexistent) emotional sanity to this series before the last book is over?

I don’t know about the others, but the last one is 100% happening.

           “There’s something we haven’t told you yet,” Dan said. (…) “So Andrew’s technically legally required to take his medication, right? (…) He struck a bargain of his own with Coach. The only reason he signed with us is because Coach agreed to let him come off his drugs for game nights.”

Is this supposed to come as a big plot twist? Because I kind of saw that coming. 10 bucks says Andrew comes off his meds for all Important Moments.

*insert yet another rant about the negative portrayal of mental health meds as barbaric mind-numbing, mania-inducing ~happy pills~ here*

Anyways, back to game day!! Our beloved foxy nutcases are playing against the Breckenridge Jackals, which is shaping up to be a Fun Time™ as they are apparently the biggest bullies around (second only to the Edgar Allan Murder Mob Clique, of course).

However, when faced with his impending wipe-out on the court, our favourite Sassmaster McSavage reaches new levels of Hell Fuckin Yeah:

           “[Gorilla] will break every bone in your body if you give him the chance.”

           “Don’t worry, though,” Matt said. “He’ll probably be too busy killing Kevin and Seth to notice you.”

           “This is my reassured face,” Neil said, pointing up at his blank expression.

SAVAGE.

I actually laughed so hard at that. This is some Percy Jackson level of sass right there.

Come to think about it, I want the entire AFTG series narrated by Percy Jackson, especially the chapter titles.

“I Am Offered A Foxy Deal”

“My Troubled Past Comes Back To Haunt My Ass”

“I Get Dragged Into Some Gay Shit”

“We Kick Serious Jackal Butt, Sort Of”

Remind me to make a full post of that once I’ve finished the series.

Off topic again. Sorry.

Before we finally begin the actual match (and wow, it’s 1.1k words already), Nicky seems to finally get the mental slaps I’ve been sending him since a few chapters ago:

           Nicky looked at Neil. “Hey,” he said, sounding uncharacteristically hesitant. “We haven’t really had a chance to talk after… Well. I wanted to say sorry, but I kept chickening out. Are we okay?”

           “I don’t know yet,” Neil said.

           Nicky weighed that for a minute, then sighed and said, “Fair enough.”

Deep sigh. Who are we kidding, I can never resist a self-aware comic relief, Nicky, you’re still one of my faves. At least he knows he fucked up.

And now, finally: It’s Orange Sportsball time!!

Time for fast-paced sports action, balls flying, racquets hitting, body-checks left and right, a flurry of energy and emotion… that I simply can’t get behind.

I’m sorry, you guys, but I found myself having to double- and triple-read passages here in order to keep up with who is standing where, who is passing to whom and just generally what exactly is going on. Maybe it has to do with my own lack of interest for any sports involving balls (or actually any sports that isn’t dance, cheer, or anything involving performance), but I’m not really excited about this whole game part, to put it mildly.

Don’t get me wrong: I am loving the emotions attached to it. Solidarity, passion, group dynamics and character development shown on the field, give me all that good shit. I just couldn’t care less about who’s passing to who. Forgive me.

Did someone say passion and group dynamics?

           Neil’d watched his teammates fall apart to in-fighting all summer long, but now he finally saw them as a whole. As much as the Foxes disliked each other at times, they disliked their opponents more. They were still too fractured to be truly great, but they were good enough to give him chills.

This is shaping up to be good, you guys.

I can only imagine the sheer gloriousness in the upcoming books when Kandreil finally get their shit together and play on the field as a beautiful unstoppable three-way killing machine. I WILL DIE.

Twenty minutes into the game, Seth is crushed against a wall by three hundred pounds of pure douchebaggery – and I actually do feel sorry for him, not gonna lie – which means it’s time for the moment we’ve all been waiting for:

           “Going on for Seth Gordon is freshman Neil Josten, number ten, of Millport, Arizona.”

           Neil wondered if casket lids sounded like court doors being shut.

Ah yes, thank you for reminding me, even in the face of impending doom, how incredibly extra our boy Josten is.

           “A national champion and an amateur? South Carolina’s gotten even crazier than usual.”

           “An amateur and a cripple, you mean,” the dealer said.

           Andrew slammed his racquet against the goal, making several athletes jump and drawing more than a few wary looks his way.

This is such a small detail but it’s the /best/. Nobody insults my boyfriends in front of me, fuckface.

Bla bla bla more sports bla bla, I’m putting everything remotely interesting that’s happening in a bullet list because let’s be honest, it’s not fucking much.

Neil scores! Twice! Good boy.

Matt takes a card for the team by punching the fuck out of Gorilla, what a babe.

Also, his mom is a professional boxer? When can we meet her. I’m always a sucker for strong women who could kick my ass.

Gorilla has been hitting Kevin’s hand on purpose all the time, which is not cool, yet not surprising, ain’t no honour in Exy injuries, apparently.

That is it, my dudes.

Writing the next chapter on a coach (yet again) as I’ll be visiting some friends in NRW, so I’ll be coming to you live from my Prime Flixbus Office Space, let’s see how that works out. Till next time, ily all. <3

[flauntpage]

The Tactical Guide to Yoel Romero versus Robert Whittaker

The middleweight division has been on hold for a while. His Fistic Majesty, Michael Bisping, pulled off the upset of the year in his manhandling of Luke Rockhold on June 4 th 2016, but has since rested on his laurels looking for money fights which are almost always easier prospects than jumping back into the shark tank that is the top end of the 185 lbs division. At UFC 213, the UFC have once again committed to setting up that played out 'champion versus champion' angle down the road by having Yoel Romero and Robert Whittaker meet to fight over the interim middleweight title.

Soldier of God

Yoel Romero has been the man haunting Michael Bisping since the Englishman won the belt. Already the presumed number one contender, Romero went on to starch Chris Weidman in November of 2016. This was just weeks after Bisping struggled through a defence of his crown against the decrepit Dan Henderson in Manchester, at 4am so that the American market could watch it at their normal time, and is still estimated to have sold less than 300,000 pay-per-views.

Romero came into MMA as an Olympic silver medallist in freestyle wrestling, with a list of other tournament accomplishments as long as your arm. A genetic marvel, Romero moves better at forty than most fighters do in their athletic prime, tainted supplements or no. Twenty years of wrestling at the highest levels has given Romero a sixth sense for takedowns and agile, heavy hips. Watching a Romero fight you almost hope that his man shoots a takedown just so you can see Romero smush their face into the mat with his sprawl.

Romero doesn't have the mechanics perfect but he understands that wrestling and striking have a good amount of cross-over. Just as with wrestling, the idea is to try to draw the opponent out of position or dull his senses for when you intend to commit to your shot. There are men in the UFC who have boxed or kickboxed for twice as long as Romero who don't seem to understand this as well as he does. Romero's faked shots are constant and he is just as happy to physically unbalance an opponent before blasting in as well. Against Tim Kennedy the quick, skip-up foot tap took Kennedy out of position and lined up Romero's left straight on several occasions:

And if your intentions are obvious enough, Romero will happily knee you in the face as you step in.

In almost every Romero fight the commentators will remark that his musculature and explosive movement will trouble him over the distance, and yet many of Romero's stoppages have come in the third round. Romero does end up breathing hard in many of his fights and noticeably slowing at points but one of his great strengths is in fighting in bursts. There are long, long stretches of inactivity in almost every Romero fight, before he leaps in with a flurry.

Bobby Knuckles

While all eyes have been on Romero since he first appeared in the UFC, Robert Whittaker is an unlikely contender for the middleweight crown. A decent welterweight, Whittaker went 3-2 in the UFC before making the uncommon decision to move up in weight in hopes of revitalizing his career. Since his middleweight debut Whittaker has rattled off six victories in a row and has looked slicker and sharper from fight to fight. It has often been argued that too much of a fighter's time and energy is used in struggling to make weight and Whittaker can now stand next to the great Frankie Edgar as a testament to there being another way.

Whittaker was already one to watch by the time he met Ronaldo 'Jacare' Souza in April of this year, but that performance cemented him as a worthy title challenger. Jacare had been in with Romero and dropped a controversial decision, he had beaten the division's best and was spinning his wheels waiting for the Bisping logjam to clear. Then Whittaker boxed his ears off. Coming in behind the jab and getting down behind the lead shoulder in anticipation of the right hand, doubling up the jab and exhausting Jacare with volume and pressure. He turned back Jacare's pressure with stiff straights and front kicks to the solar plexus, and when Jacare himself was on the run Whittaker decked him with a right high kick to end the show. For more on the specifics of Bobby Knuckles' game check out Rise of the Reaper and Whittaker vs Jacare: Pace Over Power

Jacare possessed many of the same threats that Romero does and many thought the fight was a foregone conclusion. Hopes are now high that Whittaker can pull the upset against Romero just the same way, but what would he need to do?

Hypothetical Gameplans

Yoel Romero has taken to punching people like a duck to water but his game is still what is sometimes termed an 'attribute based' one. Romero relies heavily on his speed of hand and foot and on his power, rather than his placement and sound defences. Of the two men, Robert Whittaker is considerably more economical on the feet where Romero often throws himself wildly out of position and over-reacts to attacks. That being said, speed and power with a little bit of cunning will still allow you to walk right through someone with a much better striking pedigree if they don't mind their Ps and Qs religiously. The first champion of London, James Figg had business cards made that advertised him as a 'master of time and measure' and for the most part that is where the difference between the sweet scientist and the banger can be seen: over time and over distance.

Yoel Romero's game in recent bouts has been pressing forwards and retreating a step as soon as his opponent lashes out. Against Lyoto Machida, Romero went largely untouched because offence is not a Machida strong suit. Each time Machida stepped up to kick, Romero would take a step back and Machida would be left with nothing to hit and no way to catch up. But that is the extent of Romero's defensive acumen—stepping back.

He'll take a big step back and then he'll immediately step back in. This means that Romero can be tricked by manipulating rhythm. Rafael Feijao, Tim Kennedy and Chris Weidman all demonstrated this either by design or by accident. Convincing Romero to give ground, pausing, then scoring a body kick to the open side just as Romero was stepping back in. Feijao's were neater:

Where Kennedy often ended up reaching for Romero:

The key difference is the timing: convincing Romero that you have already lashed out and he can go back to pressuring you. Simply going forward and chasing just results in him continuing the retreat:

Jacare wasn't too different, the same simple method of moving forward, pressuring his man and then stepping back to let his opponent's attacks fall short. Whittaker showed his understanding of rhythm and anticipation in that bout, using nice double jabs and feints to legitimate jabs and hooks to keep Jacare on edge. No one wants to run a mile from a flinch of the shoulder, which is how feints dull a fighter's senses as he waits later and later to ascertain whether the strike is legitimate before he moves.

Not Jacare, but a gorgeous demonstration of Whittaker's fake to legit jab and covering of distance.

And this comes back to the question of Romero's gas tank. Fighting Romero at Romero's pace, a fifteen to twenty five minute stroll around the Octagon with occasional sprints, won't wear him out. Tim Kennedy did a fantastic job of winding Romero just by staying in his face while getting his butt kicked. Kennedy was sprawled on each time he shot for Romero's hips, and largely ineffective in the stand up, but by continuing to chase Romero and put in short punches in the scrambles, Kennedy had Romero breathing heavy.

Kennedy was also exhausted but the point was more that Romero will get tired and slow when made to work. When his long retreats start disappearing and he is standing there to be hit, you know that Romero is feeling the pace.

Robert Whittaker's gameplan against Jacare was built entirely around making Jacare work. Whittaker wasn't throwing knockout punches, he was probing Jacare and encouraging him to work. Jacare—like Romero—doesn't do half measures, he always punches for the knockout and shoots with the intention of finishing. If Whittaker can make Romero swing for targets that aren't there and shoot for takedowns from too far out as he did with Jacare, he can almost certainly tire the Cuban.

The few occasions that Romero has moved his head to evade blows he has done so in the leaning, awkward style that you would expect from someone who has spent most of his life not striking. The kind of deep slips he was performing in front of Derek Brunson's swings are the kind that guys like Whittaker will want to get him doing with jabs and feints, then follow up on with well-placed uppercuts or even high kicks.

But even if Robert Whittaker can stop the takedowns, he has some exploitable of his own. While he understands the use of the double jab and the feinted jab to real jab, Whittaker will often lean forward at the waist and reach for his opponent where a more upright stance and a focus on the feet might allow him to cover the ground more quickly. Leaning to punch is not something you typically want to be doing against a guy who is known for trying to time jumping knees.

Whittaker often makes use of a low lead hand in his stance. For a boxer this saves some energy and draws right hands to the head, which can be slipped or shoulder rolled and then returned. For Whittaker, Junior dos Santos and a few others in MMA, this also means that when the takedown attempt or clinch comes, the left hand is already in position to take an underhook. We often discuss shortening the lines of strikes to get a head start in the race, the same is true here—the underhook is there waiting for the opponent, not something being dug in once the guy is already in on the hips.

Against Jacare, Whittaker was in position to shoulder roll after his leads, expecting Jacare's booming right hand response to everything:

But with his left hand in position to create an underhook, Whittaker was able to shoulder feint, draw the shot from Jacare, and attempt to land a counter right uppercut. Timing counter right uppercuts on strong takedown artists is dangerous, but with the underhook already there it's considerably less risky.

The problem is that once that low lead hand becomes an underhook and the shoulder rotates out, the fighter is no longer down behind the stonewall. Forcing Whittaker to dig for the underhook and coming up with a tight right hand could prove a free connection. Jacare almost caught Whittaker hard in the above clip. Whittaker circled out away from the right hand, probably aware of this opening, but a good left hook to catch him on the way out would work just as well—notice that both of Whittaker's hands are down at the time he circles out. The low lead hand is discouraged in kicking sports generally because taking a kick across the hanging arm can cause tremendous damage. A couple of good punches across the upper arm can rapidly stiffen it up and make guarding, jabbing and wrestling far more difficult.

In summary, for Whittaker distance is crucial. Romero will often open up the distance willingly when shown an attack, he's a patient fighter, and Whittaker should take advantage of this with double jabs, body kicks as Romero believes it is safe to step back in, and constant feints to confuse Romero. Using feints and leads to keep Romero moving is the most important thing to a long term gameplan, but if Romero stops moving the chance is always there for that Bobby Knuckles left hook, or a high kick as Romero uses his unpolished head movement.

For Romero, measuring the action is important but getting to work early might give him the best chance of a stoppage. Whittaker's counter wrestling has proven brilliant, but Romero might find success in simply pushing Whittaker to the fence and making him work. Georges St. Pierre famously tired out B.J. Penn's arms by forcing him to dig for underhooks along the fence, then boxed him up out in the open. Anything Romero can do to take away Whittaker's hand speed would be a good decision.

Of course, perhaps Romero scores a flying knee in the opening seconds or Whittaker catches a triangle from his back, but we have tried to stick to the habits that the fighters have repeated most often in their previous bouts. The middleweight division can't stop lining up compelling matches and this might be the best of the bunch. Whatever the result, get back here Monday and we'll look at how it went down.

Pick up Jack Slack's hit dissection of the Conor McGregor phenomenon, Notorious from Amazon.

The Tactical Guide to Yoel Romero versus Robert Whittaker published first on http://ift.tt/2pLTmlv