#except for the bust a moves those are unforgivable

[kappatater]

What if Slider

Was politer?

[the-lonelybarricade]

Take My Hand, Wreck My Plans - Chapter 2

Summary: Fresh after her third, and final, breakup with Tamlin, Feyre decides a one night stand is exactly what she needs to get him out of her system. Except, her one night stand with a violet-eyed stranger ends up being far more than she bargained for.

-

Or; the one where Feysand gets knocked up from a one night stand.

Read on AO3 ・Masterlist・Previous Chapter

-

Feyre couldn’t look at her phone. Not without feeling nauseated.

There had been many—countless, Nesta would argue—idiotic, brainless things that Feyre had done in her life. There was the time she’d left her passport locked in a hostel safe and had driven three hours on the motorway before she’d realized. There was the time when she’d snuck one of the bottles of vodka her father used to keep stored in the freezer and decided she’d get away with it by replenishing what was consumed with water, only for their father to discover a frozen bottle the following evening. Or, worst of all, there was the summer she’d given herself bangs.

They were all inconsequential in retrospect, now knowing how each of those little mistakes panned out. But at the time, they had felt world-ending.

And maybe there was a solace to find in how trivial those moments felt in reflection. Like one day in the future, Feyre would look back on herself now and laugh softly, saying, Remember how scared I was? I thought the world was coming down around me, but it was only just a new path forging.

That was a nice idea, except this new path was not solid stone, steady underfoot. Nor was it gravel, rough and uneven, easy to slip and unforgiving beneath a fall. No, this new path was quicksand. There was no standing still; there was no scraping together her bearings. This path decided that she was moving one way or another—either sinking to the bottom, suffocating in her own indecision, or scrambling forward in an attempt to keep her head above the surface.

And maybe there wasn’t a way forward at all. Maybe there was only going down, like she was trapped in a sand dial, feeling the ground shift and fall away, every ticking second measured. It certainly felt like there was glass sealed behind her—she knew there was no going back. There was no undoing the purple eyes and velvet laugh and stupid black dress.

Would she one day laugh about this? Who was to say. She wasn’t laughing now. She was fighting the bile creeping up her throat as she sat on the cool tile of her bathroom floor, glaring at the porcelain bowl because it was better than glaring at her phone. Feyre couldn’t say for certain if it was morning sickness that had triggered her nausea or the text that had woken her up.

Feeling better?

Feyre was running out of excuses. A stomach bug only lasts for so long. It was becoming a matter of time before someone busted down her door and demanded she go to the emergency room.

Yes, she texted back.

The response was immediate. I have the day off. Breakfast at 10?

Sure.

It was an effort to heft herself from the floor. It was more of an effort not to grimace when she saw her reflection in the mirror. She fixed her eyes on the faucet, on her shaking hands cupping the water, scooping it into her face, and then into her mouth to rinse out the bile.

She didn’t look that different, not really. There was no pregnancy bump yet. If anything, she’d lost weight. Nausea could do that, but so could guilt. Six weeks ago, she’d had sex with a stranger, with Rhysand, and now there was a life growing in her stomach.

Google said a baby was roughly the size of a pea at six weeks. If that was true, then the weight of keeping this secret made it the heaviest gods-damned pea in existence.

“Have you told him?” Alis said in greeting as Feyre ambled into the kitchen.

Steam curled from the mug in her hands, carrying the scent of freshly roasted coffee. Feyre resisted the urge to cover her nose.

“No,” she said, evading her roommate in a wide arc.

Alis arched a brow. “Will you tell him?”

The bitter smell was so affronting that Feyre could think of little else. A gag built in her throat, which she did a poor job of hiding by darting for the fridge. It was the empty stomach. She needed to eat something, or she was going to puke again.

Feyre settled for an apple and took a long time chewing before she turned back to Alis. She swallowed. “Eventually.”

“The longer you wait—”

“I know,” Feyre interrupted.

Of course she knew. It was all she’d been thinking about. But how? How did she look him in the eyes and say, I’m pregnant? She couldn’t even do it in the mirror—and she’d tried. There were a thousand versions of the script she was constantly writing and rewriting in her head, all those words swirling until they had become a living creature of mist and shadow. One that loomed over her shoulder at all times of the day. She’d somehow convinced herself it would only become real if she acknowledged it.

Alis said little else. She was the only one who knew, by virtue of being on the other side of the door when Feyre had taken her pregnancy test. Though, Alis wasn’t dense, and it wouldn’t have taken her long to peg the morning nausea, the aversion to certain foods. They didn’t say much about it. Not yet. Alis had only offered her unilateral support and given Feyre time and space to dissect her maelstrom of emotions.

And three days ago, when Feyre decided she was going to keep the baby, Alis had said simply, “Then you need to tell him.”

A firm, unwavering reminder she’d repeated each day since. Feyre clenched her teeth to keep from snapping. She knew that, in her own way, Alis was being kind. Time would only exacerbate the issue. But objectivity did little quell Feyre’s kindling irritation. Words bubbled behind her clenched teeth, building into a pressure that made her want to scream: no-fucking-duh.

She didn’t scream. She politely took her apple and her keys and murmured that she would be back soon. Maybe she could have shut the front door with less force, but at least now she could blame her Archeron temper on her hormones.

Feyre rapped her knuckles over the steering wheel. She was parked outside the cafe, and through the large glass pane at the front, she could spot him sitting inside. His posture seemed relaxed enough, his handsome face angled down towards his phone. A second later, hers pinged from its mount on the dashboard.

I’m here. Are you close?

She met her own eyes in the rearview mirror. Blue, like an overcast sea, their mother had always said, reasoning it was why her eldest and youngest were such forces of nature. There was a swelling storm that Feyre could never escape, because it lived inside her. And now she could feel the tide in her chest retreating from the shore, pulling further and further back, and she knew it would crash if she went inside, that it would swallow them both whole.

Be a big girl, she told herself. Go in there and tell him the truth.

She took a deep inhale. Held it, hoping it could hold back the tide, too.

Then, it was only a matter of unlocking her door. Walking the few steps towards the front entrance. Listening to the pealing bell as she pulled open the door.

“Feyre?”

Blonde hair swam into view. The greeting was so unexpected, so startling, that Feyre released the breath she’d been holding.

Then it all crashed down.

Brows pinched together. “Feyre, are you okay?”

Mor had the sense to keep her voice at a whisper. From the way she glanced over her shoulder towards the man hunched over in the booth, it was clear she had put together who Feyre was here to see.

Tears sprung into Feyre’s vision—not because she was crying, but because she couldn’t breathe. The tide was surging around her, clogging her throat, and she couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t—

Mor grabbed Feyre by the shoulders and pushed them out of the cafe.

The early Autumn was as indecisive as Feyre. Yesterday, she’d been sweating through her t-shirt. Today, the air stung her cheeks. Maybe the weather had seen a kindred spirit, a storm that could never quite find stillness, and decided to take pity. The cold calmed her, embraced her, reminded her where she was. Outside. With Mor. Where there was plenty of open space and fresh air. The blockage in her throat loosened. She took a gasping breath, then another.

“You’re okay,” Mor soothed.

“I’m okay,” Feryre repeated. To assure Mor or herself, she wasn’t certain.

Mor took in Feyre’s strained voice, her flushed cheeks, the nails digging into her palms and gestured towards one of the outdoor tables. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Maybe… maybe a trial run could be a good thing.

Her eyes drifted over Mor’s shoulder to where Tamlin sat waiting at a table inside. If she glanced at her phone, she probably had another text waiting from him. Growing impatient.

“He can wait,” Mor said, not unkindly.

“Yeah,” Feyre rasped. “Talking would be… nice.”

It was a little too cold for the iron chairs, which seared through Feyre’s leggings. But the cold calmed her, and she appreciated the privacy. The lack of sounds and smells.

Mor was ever-patient, waiting for Feyre to speak.

When it was clear that she wouldn’t, Mor said, “How have you been? That was some night out, huh?”

Right. That was the last time she’d seen or spoken to Mor. Feyre had been meaning to respond to her text—Heyy! Fun night? 😏

And the follow-up one a day later. My cousin is asking for your phone number. Is it okay if I share it?

They’d both seem innocent enough and at first, Feyre hadn’t answered because she’d felt a twinge of guilt for not staying long enough to meet Mor’s cousin. Then, because Tamlin had showed up at her door with a bouquet of apologies and she hadn’t known how to explain to her friend that she’d taken him back. Nor how to explain to Tamlin that she’d had a one night stand during their breakup.

Then she’d found out she was pregnant, and she hadn’t said much of anything to anyone.

“Yeah,” Feyre said, numbness growing where her legs pressed to the chair.

“And now you’re back with Tamlin,” Mor said slowly, waiting for Feyre to fill in the gaps.

The iron latticework of the outdoor table was much more interesting.

Mor sounded disappointed as she probed, “You said it was the last time you guys were breaking up.”

Feyre mustered all the cheer she could force into her voice. “It was the last time. We’re not going to break up again.”

She’d felt much more confident about that line when she’d said it three weeks ago to a disapproving Alis. Already, Feyre could feel that creature slither over her shoulder, hissing into her ear. If she turned, its pupils would be slitted into two digital lines that begged her acknowledgment.

“Right,” Mor said. “And yet, you came into this cafe looking like you were about to burst into tears because…?”

“Because I’m pregnant,” Feyre blurted.

And there it was. That creature turned real. She felt it reach through her chest and tug. Suddenly, all of that sea water she’d swallowed a moment ago came rising to the surface, and her body regurgitated the words that had been drowning her.

“It’s not Tamlin’s. It’s… remember the guy I met at the club? The one with the purple eyes? It was supposed to be this stupid, drunken one night stand, only first names—I don’t even have his number, Mor. I have some nameless, mysterious baby daddy, and I haven’t told Tamlin because I know he’s going to be…” she blinked back the sting in her eyes. “He’s going to be so furious with me.”

Mor was gaping. Whatever she’d expected… it clearly hadn’t been that.

Waiting for her friend’s reaction felt like treading water in a deep, bottomless ocean. But at least she wasn’t drowning anymore. At least the creature had receded back into the shadows, and her breathing was shallow but still filling her lungs.

Then Mor’s eyes flickered over Feyre’s shoulder. Her expression morphed into such panic that Feyre whirled, only to be met face to face with those shocking purple eyes so wide that she could only assume he’d heard the whole damn thing.

“Feyre,” Mor croaked from behind.

But Feyre couldn’t tear her eyes away from Rhys. In the time since their one night stand, Feyre convinced herself she’d exaggerated his appearance. Three shots of tequila could make anyone beautiful. But here she was, stone-cold sober, fighting her jaw not to drop at the sight of him.

The same short black hair she tugged beneath her fingers was now slightly wind-swept, some of it falling to his face in endearing curls that she concluded were purposefully arranged. He was wearing a navy sweater with a white collared shirt beneath—infuriatingly put together, where she was still sniffing back tears, dressed in her same paint-stained clothes from yesterday.

She’d prepared scripts for him, too, though she always imagined he was someone she would take years to track down. That she’d have time to prepare what to say to him, how to move forward knowing their lives were irrevocably entwined.

“Feyre,” Mor said again after awkwardly clearing her throat. “Meet my cousin, Rhysand.”

Cousin. The one who wanted her number.

“Oh,” Feyre whispered, so many horrible details clicking into place.

Rhysand mustered enough composure to manage a strained: “It’s great to see you again, Feyre.”

Feyre dropped her head into her hands. “Oh my god.”

A chair scraped against the pavement.

Mor said, “I’ll give you two a moment alone.”

She peaked between her fingers, just enough to watch Mor retreat towards the cafe. Likely playing guard dog to ensure Tamlin didn’t stumble upon them. She heard Rhys walk around the table, his footsteps light, as if he were approaching an animal he didn’t want to startle. Then, a pair of broad hands swam into vision as he gripped the back of Mor’s deserted chair, his brown knuckles paling.

He didn’t sit. She could feel his gaze like a leaden weight, so heavy that she couldn’t gather the strength to raise her head.

“When did you find out?” He asked eventually.

Feyre searched for any accusation in his voice, but it was gentle. She lifted her head, finding that some of his shock had thawed, though his expression was unreadable.

“A week ago,” she said.

“Have you…” He rubbed a hand through his hair. “Do you know what you want to do?”

This is where she braced herself. She knew her voice was creeping towards defensive as she said levelly, “I’m keeping the baby.”

Rhysand swallowed thickly. Nodded. “Okay.”

Okay. That knocked her a bit off guard. The lack of questions, of demand for her justification. She’d been preparing for a fight with Tamlin and felt stranded in the face of such simple, ready acceptance. It had to be a trap.

“It was my decision,” Feyre said, plowing ahead. “So I don’t expect anything from you. You don’t need to be… involved. I have no delusion that we’d ever be some perfect nuclear family. If you want to just walk away, this is your chance.”

“And,” Rhysand broached with such caution that Feyre’s spine straightened, “if I want to be involved… would that be okay with you?”

“We’d need to work something out,” she said, ignoring how her voice cracked. Mor’s family came from money. She could already imagine the legal proceedings, the paperwork, the negotiations over days of the week and alternating Christmases. At least Nesta was a lawyer. “I don’t want to get the courts involved. But if it goes that direction—“

“It won’t need to,” he said. “We can play it by ear, do whatever feels right. I just… I’d like to be involved. Starting now.”

The excruciating weight of that small little pea plummeted in her chest. “Starting now?”

Rhys nodded. “If you need someone to drive you to the appointments, or if you need me to pitch in for baby supplies. I’m… I want to help.”

“I’ll think about it.”

His face fell a little.

If she shut him out completely, a lawyer was guaranteed to come knocking at her door. Feyre added, “It’d be nice to get to know you before anything else.”

“Would you like to grab a coffee together?”

“As friends,” Feyre hedged. “I know we—” An image flashed in her mind of those fingers in her mouth, between her thighs. She tried not to flush. “—you know. But I have a boyfriend now. And I’m not looking for you to be my…”

She searched for a word but found none that quite articulated what, exactly, Rhys would be to her.

Baby daddy?

“I just want us to be friends,” she clarified.

His perfect lips, which had once expertly kissed and licked and teased her, edged into a smile. “Then would you like to grab a coffee together as friends?”

“Yes.” She smiled back and found that the pea in her stomach didn’t feel quite so heavy. “Not today, though. I’m, uh… meeting my boyfriend.”

“And I’m meeting my cousin.”

“Right.” Feyre reached stiffly into her pocket, retrieving her phone. “Why don’t you give me your number, and I’ll text you?”

The iron chair practically sighed in relief as Rhysand released it from his death grip. His motions were stiff, too, she noted, as he punched in his number and handed it back to her a tad too mechanically.

Their fingers brushed as she accepted it back, and she felt for the second time that day like she couldn’t breathe. Their eyes met, held. “You say the word, Feyre darling. Any time, any place, and I’m yours.”

She thought she might have said something back or just stared dumbly at his obscenely beautiful face. She couldn’t remember, and he didn’t say anything else before he nodded his goodbye and chased after Mor.

It took Feyre a long time to find the willpower to follow after him, back into that cafe, and breathlessly apologize to Tamlin for being late. And she pretended she couldn’t feel a pair of violet eyes watching her as she sat across from Tamlin, forcing a smile.

[the-nysh]

MB does state why he is still fighting. Garou at this point is the hero hunter who has put other heroes down already aligned himself with the monster's side at the HA and is a threat as far as heroes know. For MB his concern iget from one monster (Garou) back to the first one (the fight Garou originally interrupted him getting back to by attacking him when MB was walking away first!). MB already tried to walk away once why are you blaming him from not turning his back on G twice?

(Continuation from this post.) Hopefully I'll break it down so there's no confusion. Garou doesn't attack Metal Bat while he's walking away; this is the immediate first thing he does:

He calls out to get his attention, then announces his intent, while pointing directly at him, that it's now his turn to hunt him, while Mb simply stands there listening. (In Garou's view, the centipede had already 'defeated' him, but since Mb's still up to fight another round, this is Garou's next fair opportunity.) Only Mb dismisses him as a random civilian at first and orders him to evacuate while cluing him in by pointing at the centipede. He hasn't recognized Garou or is taking him seriously yet, so to Garou, obviously words alone won't cut it in this case to convince Mb or make his intent clear to him.

Once Metal Bat finally understands & recognizes him thru those introductory exchanges (using both words & physical to direct Mb's attention, cause Garou's ready to start the match already; you could interpret this as Garou egging him on or coaxing him however), this is what he has to say in response: 'oh you're that hero hunter who claims to be a monster? the one who beat Tank Top Master?'

"I'm busy but I'll bust that crazy head of yours!" This is how their fight actually commences, once they've settled past the initial introductions and are finally on the same page. (Except they ironically aren't, because Metal Bat literally means that to bust Garou's head open; he doesn't fight to 'spar' or play around here.)

Now there's no way to confirm exactly how much Metal Bat actually knows about Garou beyond the rumors (he's obviously heard of some to mention TTM), or even how much he's actually thinking rationally (beyond seeing red when pissed off like a charging bull), because we don't get access to Mb's internal thoughts here. The fight is presented from Garou's point of view with the audience privy to his inner thoughts instead.

So the best answer to why Metal Bat won't back down from fighting Garou (prioritizing him instead of focusing on his other duties), comes from this line:

'I simply can't forgive you; you're rotten to the core; I'll beat that out of you!' So wow okay, is he already blaming Garou for 'arson, murder, and jaywalking' (see tvtropes) here or what?! 8'D How much of Garou's actual crimes does Mb truly know about to assume he's unforgivably rotten to the core?! Based on the few rumors & limited information he's heard about? Or concluding this just from their exchanged fists? Or is he maybe jumping the gun a bit ahead of himself here and getting carried away to such extremes, that Mb doesn't even realize his rationality & duties as a hero might be slipping as he surges with ever more lethal intent towards a human? Where's the actual justification and reason for his insistence on taking their fight this far? (Do you see the issue raised about the importance of discernment and fair judgment?)

For example, didn't you say Metal Bat already regards Garou as a 'monster' threat, someone who's 'aligned' himself to their side (truthfully Garou does not join their side), to justify why Mb's still fighting him, before moving onto the next monster centipede later...? (Is he taking care of 'monster extermination' business one by one?? Hold on, didn't Mb originally see Garou as a civilian first, what happened to that?) Did this thought not set off any alarm bells at all, on why it's 'okay' for Mb to justify nearly killing someone, so long as they're dehumanized first? Wait, wha?! Recognition should strike when understanding how people in real life do this too - they judge/label/dehumanize any group they don't like to absolve themselves of any shame/moral misgivings about it when enacting violence. Their conscience is now clear to go to the extremes without mercy. :') Just deem someone undesirable as a rotten 'monster' and there's no problem now, right!? To Garou though, a 'true hero' wouldn't do that; their 'kindness' and discernment to judge someone fairly would know better hmm like Saitama does, so that's one of his misgivings & critiques he brings up as he challenges the system as a human 'monster.' But anyway, who's to say good boy Metal Bat even understands any of that in all his hotblooded surging rage/impatience either! 8'D He could choose to step back to question or focus on what's more important (mayhaps later in the manga), but for now he continues charging head-first with an unwavering stubbornness to finish what they started.

Basically, all these different angles of looking at it are designed to make you think and these issues are not unique to Garou's fight with Mb either, because what else does Metal Bat state he's still fighting for? Here's another one of his motivations: "I fight til I win."

Which sounds simple and cool enough, right? For a badass delinquent hero like him. (But in that case, I suppose then if anyone picks a fight with him, he intends to win no matter the cost or circumstances? As a rule, for his own personal honor code, or...? And what does 'win' entail exactly, when even a street brawl escalates to an extreme fight to the death?? How far is he prepared to push it? Looks like it's a good thing Zenko's there to enforce some ground rules.) Jump ahead later on in the manga to when Mb muses in the hospital how 'heroes never lose,' and ah it sounds like a continuation of his rather optimistic, idealistic view on heroism (fitting, he's only 17.)

Meanwhile, what's Garou here to do? "I look forward to breaking your spirit!"....it's humbling time! 8'D Even tempting fate there with the whole 'heroes never lose' angle too, because guess what's happening in the current manga! Guess who's here to serve and ironically finish the heroes' job for them~ Oh man how the heroes will be humbled! D: If Metal Bat keeps his wits/awareness about him and stays back when appropriate (without charging in all gung-ho the moment he recognizes Garou), then he'll hopefully leave the arc unscathed. But...again, if he still insists on fighting (to win) this time, especially when things have escalated way over his head, well...just.be prepared for the type of humbling Garou mentioned but didn't quite get to finish here from their first encounter...

[lettrespromises]

> LettresPromises informs you : You have one notification.

> Letter object : the heart’s warmth and the body’s flames.

> Todoroki Shouto and Bakugou Katsuki sent you a letter, would you like to read it?

@bruised-cherry​ sent a letter : ❝Hiya, Nikki! Can I request a one-shot(if you're down) where Todoroki and Bakugou's(poly relationship) s/o got into a little argument with each other and now their s/o is rejecting them and ignoring them. Since it's summer, TodoBaku turned off the air conditioning, AC, etc, knowing their s/o would need them soon. And just, kinky, dirty ass s m U t :) (and lana spelled backwards if you're down with that, if not that's cool). Sorry I'm a kinky hoe 👉😅👈❞

Author’s letter :

❝ dear bruised-cherry,

first and foremost, i would like to apologize for taking so long to write your promised letter! nonetheless, i had a lot of fun writing it, hopefully it will reach your expectations!! it’s 4:05am as i am writing this and my brain is unable to write proper words i’m sorry—

sealed with a kiss,

nikki.❞

Genre : Pure smut, angst if you squint.

Warnings : Cursing, sex, vaginal sex, blow-job, cunnilingus, anal sex, daddy kink. (Please consider that the characters are aged up.)

Word count : 5.8K.

This day seemed to counterbalance the already established rules of time and space, you were secretly convinced that minutes were hours and each time you would lay your eyes upon any item with the sole purpose of indicating the current hour, you felt as if time had stopped. It was a long, long day. Truthfully, you wished you could have had the opportunity to meet someone whose quirk was time control to ask them to skip the remaining hours of the day.

The root of the problem was deeply imbedded with the increasing attacks committed by the villains in town, you were on a mission with both Bakugou and Todoroki- a clear lack of communication and coordination signed a burning defeat for the three of you. A mission built and perfected during several months had just blown into pieces, your efforts, tears, blood and energy were the combustibles to the pain fueled by this defeat. Each one of you attempted to exude this loss in your own way while making your way back home. Todoroki, sat on the passenger seat, found the cure to his own inner built-up anger by digging his pearly whites into the flesh of his thumb while observing the passing scenery before his eyes. Bakugou, unexpectedly, made a martyr of the steering wheel by squeezing the non-existent life out of it, causing his fingers to turn white in the process. You, on the other one hand, kept on reminiscing the earlier events of today, your mind roaming over and over again to find what went wrong, you weren’t exactly angry : disappointed in yourself was a more precise way to describe the matter.

The silence was deafening, almost agonizing. Truthfully, silence was even more intimidating than noise- a noisy ride would have included the repertoire of Bakugou’s insults flowing freely from his mouth, it was expected. But silence, on Bakugou’s end, echoed to a level of anger rarely ever reached, metaphorically speaking, Katsuki was a living and breathing ticking bomb at this very moment.

The sound of the car door smashing broke the silence as you arrived home, Bakugou was already inside, his hands shoved in his pockets as expected. You freed a sigh you ignored you were holding from your lips, an early sign that you knew there was little to no seconds left on the ticking bomb. Todoroki sent an apologetic glance in your way, you knew he didn’t mean no harm, if anything, it was a silent sign to encourage you before facing the aftermath caused by the explosion of the bomb.

Flower vases left shattered on the floor, a door handle scarred by the scorching hot imprints of Bakugou’s unforgiving hold and a continuous flow of insults as background noise- those were the said aftermath of the explosion. Bakugou’s body language radiated off pure anger, like you or Todoroki had barely seen before, his rage was exuding from the pores of his palms through a dangerous marriage of small explosions and smoke. He was roaming back and forth in the living room, his stare was focused on the explosions emanating from his hands as a way to convince himself that the more explosions would be set free, the less he would feel angry.

« Fuck, fuck, fuck… Goddamnit, fuck! What the fuck went wrong, hah?! We planned this shit entirely, from start to fucking finish. What the fuck went wrong?! You tell me instead of staring at me, do fucking something for once! » The words echoed and morphed into a roar sent directly your way, anger lacing his every word.

« Bakugou, don’t say things you don’t mean. » Todoroki stated, the pseudo comfort embedded in his voice radically clashed with the heat of Bakugou’s words.

« Don’t say shit I don’t mean? Who the fuck are you to tell others what to do when you couldn’t even do shit when we were facing those bastards?! You didn’t do shit, you fucking left us on our own and arrived at the very last second. So tell me, give me one good fucking reason as to why I should take shit from you! Fucking say it to my face, because I’m dying to know what’s your excuse. » The sounds of Bakugou’s explosions slowly adopted the structure of a crescendo, but Todoroki remained unfazed, his facial expression didn’t betray his pseudo serenity. « I was evacuating the civilians, you knew that, I don’t understand why you act so confused. We prepared this plan together, the three of us, you knew what my role was. »

You were stuck in the middle of a battlefield, torn between two sides but the tragic twist of this scene was that you couldn’t find the strength to defend one of them. You needed to remain objective and impartial, something obviously easier said than done. Your eyes darted from one figure to another each time you heard the sound of either Todoroki or Bakugou’s words, truthfully, you felt paralyzed under the lack of options in this crucial situation- on one hand, Katsuki was nothing short of acerbic when anger consumed him, on the other one hand, Shouto’s calm attitude hid a dangerous amount of anger building inside of him ready to explode if Bakugou’s venom stung too hard to Todoroki’s liking.

« Oh yeah, yeah. You were on you own, hah? Evacuating civilians and shit, am I supposed to feel fucking sorry for you when Y/N were busting our fucking asses out there to take down those bastards? You’re trying to play it solo like your old man? You know what, the more I think about it, the more you start to act like him-… »

« Katsuki! That’s enough, shut up! »

It was your turn to let anger lace your words in such a way that they developed their own toxins, purposefully made to sting Bakugou hard enough to cut his rambling. Endeavor was a touchy topic to Shouto, and as soon as Katsuki pronounced the words ‘old man’, a hint of flames appeared on Todoroki’s collarbone- it was only a matter of second before an inferno invaded the living room.

« You never know when to stop, do you? Do you have any idea of how ridiculous this is? You, Bakugou, you should know out of all people that his father his a sensitive topic, and yet you let your anger get the best of you every damn time. Todoroki, were you really ready to blast your flames at him? Aren’t the both of your grown men, or am I mistaken? How disappointing, how fucking disappointing. » You dropped every last ounce of energy in your tirade, every last bit of emotion in the process too. You felt so numb, deprived from your own vigor.

Both Todoroki and Bakugou’s eyes fell on you as soon as your roaring words broke their mutual verbal assaults, their mouths were set agape- they did have words on the tip of their tongue, but they couldn’t find the strength to give life to them. There it was again, the deafening and agonizing silence.

You couldn’t bare standing in the same vicinity as them, disappointment clouded your vision and the more you looked at them, the more your vision became foggy- but it still remained unclear as to whether it was due to the disappointment or the tears gathering at the corner of your eyes. Without wasting yet another second, you went upstairs and locked yourself in your room, giving yourself some privacy to wipe away your tears.

Downstairs, the silence was still suffocating both Bakugou and Todoroki, their stare were still laying upon the spot where you used to be just a few seconds earlier, they just hadn’t processed your sudden disappearance. They blinked once, then twice, and a third time to make sure they weren’t dreaming and once they were convinced it was very much real, they looked at each other and sighed as if they were, too, deprived of their own energy.

« Bak-… Katsuki, it was my mistake to threaten you with my flames, I apologize. » Todoroki’s tone was soft in comparison to his last statement, a sense of compassion replaced the anger laced in his words.

« I shouldn’t have talked about your shitty dad. » A sentence, which, in Bakugou’s vocabulary echoed to an apology, but with the cruel exception of the forbidden word which begins with an ’s’ and ends with ‘-orry’.

« I assume Y/N is not going to talk to us for a while, and, don’t take it personally but her presence is very much needed. » Bakugou frowned as Todoroki’s words connected to his eardrums, needless to say, he knew he was right but didn’t care enough to admit it and grant him this silent victory.

« I might have an idea, half-and-half, use your shitty quirk to lower the temperature of the house, you know how much she fucking hates cold temperatures. That’s gonna make her move her ass out of the bedroom. » Todoroki only quirked his eyebrows in response while Bakugou was adorning his most victorious grin, he knew this plan meant an automatic win- both of them could handle cold temperatures thanks to their quirks, you on the other one hand, were more fond of warmer temperatures.

Todoroki sighed, perhaps already regretting his choice to follow Bakugou’s antics, but if it meant that he had to play dirty to get you, he was ready to deem himself as the dirtier player in the game. Soon enough, a frigid fog invaded mercilessly the first floor, and your bedroom was the first victim of the unforgiving coldness. Little did you know, this was the beginning of a series of crushing defeats on your end : seeking warmth underneath your blankets? Didn’t work. Blow air on your hands? A total fail. Looking through your boyfriends’ closets to find one of their thick hoodies and wear it? Not the solution you needed to cure the problem.

You were running out of solutions, and that’s when your unconsciousness crept in and murmured suave temptations to your ear : the welcoming warmth of Bakugou and Todoroki’s bodies, their arms wrapped around you like a human cocoon to protect you from the cold temperature. It sounded like a dream, and you had the means to make it real- but at what cost? You roamed around the room, not only to create body warmth by moving, but also to accelerate the train of your thoughts. What was more important? Freezing yourself to death with your pride as an inexistent shield from the cold, or embrace the agonizingly tempting warmth radiating from both of your boyfriends?

The answer to your rhetorical question manifested itself rather quickly- in the blink of an eye, you had already wrapped your hand around the doorknob and raced downstairs towards the personifications of your very own personal heaters under Shouto’s puzzled expression and, in contrast, Katsuki’s triumphing grin.

« Hah? Have you finally decided to show up, princess? » Anyone could have noticed the more-than-obvious obnoxious tone dripping from Bakugou’s words, he glanced over at Todoroki who grinned at him in response, silently thanking him.

« Just keep me warm. » You found a perfect spot right between Katsuki and Shouto on the couch, your knees were brought to your chest, your arms were encompassing your legs- if anything, you were pretty close to looking like a sphere, but you were ready to contort yourself in any position to gather some precious warmth. Eventually, you let out a silent sigh as soon as you felt their respective warmth hit the surface of your skin as a sign of satisfaction.

« I think you forgot the magic word, love. » Shouto teased, his warm index gracing the cold flesh on your shoulder, such a tease.

« Ugh, fine! Keep me warm, please. » You emphasized the pleading word, just enough to make them grin even wider in victory.

« ‘Wasn’t so hard, was it, princess? » You couldn’t exactly tell if you hated or were absolutely enamored with the teasing tone of his voice, but once thing was certain- the grin plastered upon his face was a thing of beauty.

Bakugou, as expected of him, took the lead, or rather, sent a silent challenge in Todoroki’s way which dared him to take the upper hand of the situation. He wrapped his arms around your waist in a lion-like manner, ready to protect what’s his, with the help of his strength you were now sitting on his lap. The grip around your frame didn’t move one bit, not only did he want to provide you as much warmth as his quirk allowed, but he also wanted to maintain control. Your head was laying upon the surface of his shoulder, your face was facing Todoroki who admired you as if he had witnessed the renaissance of Venus under your traits.

« I will help you feel a bit more warm, alright, love? » You hummed in response to Todoroki’s one-sided interrogation.

Another source of warmth was more than welcome. Thus, Shouto wasted no time and placed his hand upon the surface of your cheek, daring to cross Bakugou’s self-claimed territory in the process without any ounce of shame. The amount of space between the two of you had dangerously reduced until totally disappearing which cleared Todoroki’s path on his way to show you just how much he could warm you up. His lids fluttered shut in anticipation, and there it was, the oh so fabulous source of warmth- he planted his lips on yours in perfect harmony. After all, a promise was a promise, correct? Regardless of how it’s executed, correct? That was exactly Shouto’s mindset as his tongue grazed your bottom lip to beg for access to the inside of your mouth, a wish quickly granted which allowed him to spread the warmth of his tongue inside your mouth as his pink muscle met yours which only announced the beginning of the dance of pleasure. Your actions corresponded to his, and his initiatives echoed to yours— soon enough, your tongues were melting in each other’s touch. As much as he wanted to keep this going forever, the way you grabbed his wrist was an indicator that you were starting to lack oxygen. Of course he ended the kiss, but not before he dug his teeth into your lower lip to which you responded with a semi silent whimper.

Bakugou observed the scene from the side with the same smirk gracing his facial features, he would be the worst liar on Earth if he were to say that seeing your mouths collide in harmony wasn’t the epitome of poetry in motion. But who was he to let Shouto get the best of you? Who was he to let Shouto make you whimper first? He craved, no, he needed to make you melt under his touch.

« Want us to make you feel hot, princess? Be careful what you wish for. » This sentence was his final warning before flipping you over on your back, offering him the best position to physically tale the upper hand under Shouto’s amused stare. You looked so pure and yet so sinful at once, a paradox which drove of them crazy as they imagined the most unholy deeds they were going to do to you. Katsuki’s index hooked the fabric of your hoodie (more like his, but it’s just a slight detail which turnt him on even more) before to pull it over your head.

Oh, and what a gorgeous sight to behold— your naked upper body, in all its glory, a body worthy of the most descriptive pages of a novel. He couldn’t help but snicker at the ethereal scenery before his eyes, he knew he was going to devour you and make you his, no matter what.

« Don’t give me those eyes, woman, I fucking told you I was gonna make you feel real hot. You won’t need this shitty hoodie to keep you warm. »

The assault was given once his pearly whites dug into the soft flesh of your neck, reflex kicked, you titled your head to the side to give him more room to play with. It was a succession of biting, licking, biting again until your skin adopted a purplish tone which echoed to a mark of both domination and belonging. Of course, you belonged to him… And Todoroki. Once he was satisfied with his artwork, he licked the abused flesh one last time before smirking to himself as a sign of victory.

You couldn’t expect Todoroki to be left out of the party, after all, you did belong to him too. He pushed Bakugou to the side just enough to bask in the glory of your half-naked form. The gleam in his eyes reflected nothing but pure adoration, he was torn between the will to worship each inch of your body and the tempting option to make your legs weak until you can’t form proper words anymore. Oh, well, both were bound to happen.

« Oi! If you wanna touch her, don’t fucking push me! » Bakugou’s rambling was cut short as soon as Todoroki’s lips crashed on his, the blonde eye’s widened in surprise but he eventually allowed himself to crave to the passion.

« I don’t need your permission to touch what’s mine. » Todoroki whispered against the flesh of your breasts, emphasizing the very last word strategically.

The sight of your hardened nipples caused him to lick his bottom lip in anticipation, just a way to warm up his lips before devouring your flesh. Todoroki wasted no time and took this opportunity to let his tongue grace your left bud, the motions were repetitive and hypnotizing— from circular motions right around your nipple, from vertical licks to sucking motions, each deed was designed for your own pleasure while your whimpers falling free from your lips and the hand stuck at the root of his hair encouraged his actions. Your whimpers were cut short once Bakugou’s lips found yours and dragged you in a tongue-led kiss, and to no one’s surprise, you followed his already established rhythm, but goodness, it was deliciously intoxicating, letting you crave for more. And somehow, the sound of your hushed whimpers created an even more attractive melody.

Now, it was Todoroki’s turn to take advantage of the vacant place left by Bakugou who was now bent on your side which meant that your whole body to discover for the umpteenth time. A trail of kisses left from the valley of your breasts to your lower belly indicated which dangerous way Shouto was bound to take. He took a glance at the liplock share with Katsuki who offered you no rest no matter if you craved for oxygen or not, the same amused grin still plastered upon his facial features, and augmented the temperature just a bit more.

His finger drew an invisible line along the edge of your underwear, a pre-meditated deed which only announced in advance what he was bound to do, he was just one step closer to make your legs crumble under his touch. In a swift motion, fueled by his own personal hunger to satisfy his fantasies, Todoroki got rid of your pants and he could already discern the wet patch adorning the cotton surface of your underwear, what a sight to see. A new trail of kiss was left upon your skin by Shouto, this time, he focused on the inside of your thighs and followed a vertical pattern until reaching the climax of his journey : your already dripping heat.

« Are you already this wet for us, love? How kind of you. » The amused tone which embedded his voice hid a hidden sinful tone, such a contrast, but only Bakugou and you could catch the double-tone.

Bakugou, on the other one hand, mimicked Todoroki’s earlier antics (only to outdo him, his own ego was his sole motivation) and made a victim of your breasts. One lovebite on your neck wasn’t enough, he craved to make you his even more, on every inch of your body. This thought was the reason behind his will to bite the generous flesh of your left breast, which clearly isn’t abused enough to his liking. And so it began once more— biting, licking, biting once more just hard enough to make you whimper in response, suck on your flesh until it becomes purple and has his name written all over it. From the love bite, Katsuki kissed his way until your nipple, the motions of his mouth were strategically chosen to make pure sounds of pleasure fall free from mouth mouth, while his thumb and index were twisting your nipple while following the circular motions of his tongue. The harsh grasp you held onto his blonde hair was only one of the first hints that you were on your way to reach a state of pure bliss, the moans echoing in his head were his favorite hint though.

The sensation of a sharp lick across the fabric of your underwear awakened a new whimper on your end, this time, it was higher which only echoed to a higher level of pleasure. Todoroki’s lips curved into a grin at the sound of it, what a marvel to hear. The fabric which separated your core from Shouto’s lips was seen as a taunt to the latter, but fret not, said taunt was quickly taken care of as soon as he got rid of your underwear, throwing them who-knows-where in the room.

And so the temperature augmented yet again— an experimental lick caused you to bite your lower lip to refrain any moan to escape from your mouth as you closed your eyes in anticipation for pure bliss. Your reaction was the best indicator to Shouto who had found yet another motivation to make you come undone— getting to hear your agonizingly breathtaking whimpers and moans fall in cascade from your lips. Your core was wet, much to Todoroki’s delight, and he could almost hear you calling his name, begging him to eat you as if you were his last dinner on Earth.

His mouth married the shape of your core, his tongue danced beautifully against your folds as if your core had been specifically created to welcome the wonders of his mouth. The licks left by his pink muscle were executed differently in several ways— vertical licks, circular shapes, he based his actions on the sound of your shameless moans and whimpers to predict his next move.

« Shouto, S-Shouto! » Your first begging, which didn’t go unnoticed to both of the protagonists of your very own pleasure.

« So eager, aren’t you, love? » He kissed these words into your skin, words embedded with adoration and love in the process.

Well, there was someone whose name hadn’t been begged, and truth be told, it was getting on his nerves. How dare Shouto have the honor of being begged and not him? Oh, well, he was about to change that right away.

« Open wide, princess, I’ll give you something to fucking beg about. » The same usual smirk accompanied his words, he already knew what was bound to happen, and the knew what effect it would leave on you.

By the time you were busy with Shouto, Bakugou had already taken care of his own clothing by… taking everything off. Isn’t it easier that way? His genetically given large hand stroked tentatively his length, just enough to cause a layer of pre-cum to cover his tip, once he was satisfied with the result, he wasted no time to shove his entire member in your mouth in a swift motion. The warmth of your lips was the most delicate welcome he could’ve asked for, regardless if you were to choke or not, he’d find a way to make you beg his name until it becomes the only thing you’re able to say. Your throat grazed the sensitive tip of his grit, earning you a hushed grunt as a reaction which was a rarity coming from Bakugou. Both of his hands held a harsh grip on your hair, and he used said grip as a level of pressure to thrust himself into your mouth under the mesmerizing sounds of your choked whimpers. It was a scenery of beauty, he was the sole holder of all your attention— you were looking at him through your lashes with pleading eyes, silently begging him to keep going until you were to choke on his member. A silent sign he didn’t miss, he knew you like the back of his hand, after all.

Eventually, Shouto complied to your begs, you wanted more? Oh, you were bound to get more, more precisely, you were bound to have exactly what you deserved. Todoroki and tease were very close to being synonymous, hence why he purposefully used the pad of his thumb to create circulate motions on your sweet bundle of nerves which was the key to make you come undone, and, of course, two of his fingers which had already found a shelter inside your folds while pumping in and out, over and over again, until bringing you to the brim of ecstasy.

Under this new pressure, the need to express your pleasure through moans was almost impossible given the fact that each sound coming out of your mouth was rendered hushed by Bakugou’s length. Your wrapped your hand around his phallus to not only catch some cruelly needed oxygen but also set free all the sounds of pleasure trapped inside you, as soon as your mouth was set free, a pure sound of bliss fell free from your lips. A sound so sinful and addicting at once that both Bakugou and Todoroki couldn’t help but repeat said sound in their head over and over again.

« Oi, princess, I didn’t fucking tell you to stop so keep sucking until I say otherwise, did you fucking get that? » It was a one-sided question, your answer wouldn’t matter anyway.

And there he went again, shoving his member inside your mouth as Bakugou began chasing his own pleasure— if he was careful enough, he could picture the shape of heaven when his lids fluttered shut. This time, his thrusts were harsher, clearly designed to attain his climax. But he wasn’t the only one who was close to reach the seventh sky— the addition of Shouto’s fingers pumping in and out, the oh so right pressure on your sweet of nerves and the precise licks left on your wet folds was nothing short of divine, that divine that it was going to make you reach your orgasm sooner than you thought.

Reflex kicked, your grip on Shouto’s hair became gradually tighter as you felt the knot in your stomach grow more and more until it became out of your control, you rolled your eyes back in ecstasy and the pearls of tears on the corner of your eyes were now rolling down the surface of your cheeks. Through choked sounds, you encouraged Shouto to keep going and going until you could touch heaven by the tip of your fingers. And then heaven came to you, the liberating sensation of floating on a cloud overwhelmed you as you reached your orgasm, manifesting the pure sounds of bliss through the hushed sounds caused by Bakugou’s intrusive length.

« You’re such a good girl, love, you came undone for us. Such a good girl… » The end of his sentence was whispered in marvel against your core, it was a sight he could never get bored of.

His tongue found once more its way to your folds, licking each and every drop of your juices to satisfy his own pleasure. Your taste was his favorite, it was addicting as hell, so addicting that before to swallow said juices, he would always make a mental note of how your cum feels on his tastebuds.

« Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, god-fucking-damnit! » Bakugou’s grunts followed the structure of a crescendo, he threw his head back in pure pleasure— he was so close, so fucking close, he wanted to reach the seventh sky as well.

Todoroki grabbed him by the nape of his neck, his fingers digging right in Katsuki’s flesh, and planted his lips still coated with your juices right upon his. Bakugou could taste your sweet nectar on Shouto’s lips, and perhaps it was the last thing necessary for him to come undone— your taste always had the ability to bring him over the edge, and once more, this time was no exception. Bakugou groaned against Shouto’s lips before breaking the contact between them to share a pure sound of ecstasy of his own and eventually, come undone right in your mouth. A string of the blonde’s cum dripped down from the corner of your mouth, and observing you use your tongue to collect the remaining cum on your chin made Bakugou if he wasn’t going to come undone twice in a row at the sight of this.

« Come on, love, we’re not done yet. » This was the final chapter of all of Shouto’s fantasies, a chapter which was finally bound to take form.

Todoroki snaked his arms around your form to place you right on his lap, once the position was comfortable for the both of you, he placed his length right against your twitching core which was already begging for him to fill you.

« Please, j-just fuck me already… Please… » Another auditive wonder— the sound of you begging was worthy of the most beautiful symphony.

« You asked so nicely, love, who am I to refuse? » A rhetorical question, as expected of Shouto when he led the teasing game.

Shouto filled you instantly, shoving his entire length inside you which caused the unexpected appearance of a moan which you could hardly suppress even by biting your lower lip. An initiative quickly ended by Bakugou’s intervention who tilted your head just enough so he could plant a rough kiss upon your lips in order to prevent you from hushing those sounds of pleasure any longer.

« Don’t be fucking shy, let us hear what you gotta’ say, baby girl. » You looked at Katsuki with pleading eyes, you knew that you were not going to be able to suppress or refrain any of your moans or whimpers, you knew you were bound to become a vocal mess.

Shouto’s hands held a strong grip on your waist, so strong that the tip of his fingers turnt white under the pressure. His rhythm was frantic from the beginning, using the combination of his hips bucking upwards and his arms wrapped around your middle to clash against his testicles. You had the best spot to hear up close and personal the ravishing sounds of bliss coming out of Shouto’s mouth like a broken record. Your arms were wrapped around his neck as a desperate cry for support as his hips were pounding deep inside you until reaching your cervix.

Behind you, Bakugou had already made sure to wet his fingers to prep you. Prep you for what exactly? Oh, well, we all know Bakugou doesn’t handle well being left alone, especially when Todoroki has the advantage of him. The tip of his fingers brushed against your rectum until two of them entered your second hole, he expected this reaction but your moans were ethereal, especially when he was the cause of them. His fingers pumped into your rectum just enough for you to get used to the stretch and to the knew (and double) sensation.

« Be a good fucking girl for daddy and let him fuck you from behind, yeah? » He studied your facial expression and the irregular pattern of your breaths to know whether or not you were fond of his new antics, to which you confirmed his doubts by whispering an almost inaudible « Y-Yes, daddy… »

Nonetheless, the elongated moan you let out in his favor once his fingers reached a bit deeper in your rectum was enough for him to get the clue and replace the feeling of his index and middle finger with the width of his length. A pure sound of pleasure with his name written all over it, if you were to ask Bakugou, he would tell you right away that this is what heaven felt like.

« I-I’m going to cum, I can’t-… » Shouto’s hot breath crashed against your equally as hot skin, it became impossible for him to suppress his grunts any longer.

Bakugou mirrored his pace which had suddenly quickened under the pressure erupting in his lower belly, he could already touch the clouds of the seventh sky, and you were the key to unlocking the divine skies of heaven.

« Fuck… Fuck, I’m close too. » Their grunts matched in unison under the melody of your repetitive moans caused by the double pressure.

With one last thrust from both protagonist, you felt two rushes of hot liquids invade your insides as a moan signed their orgasm. That was it, they came undone and touched heaven as they came inside of you, all the pent up pressure in their abdomen had been set free for your greatest pleasure. You rolled your head back on Katsuki’s shoulder, oxygen had become a rarity under the frantic thrusts of the two newfound victims of passion. Once your lungs felt full again, you released an elongated sigh which drained all of your strength in the process.

Bakugou pulled out first, causing you to whimper at the sudden sensation of vacuity replacing the ever so addictive sensation of being filled by the man who held the keys to your heart. As he pulled out, his arms snaked around your middle and he dragged you with him, hot breaths crashing against your blazing skin. Katsuki put your head over his chest while you mustered up the last bits of vigor you could invoke to find shelter in his comforting embrace.

As soon as Shouto evened his breathing pattern, he felt the urge to join you and Katsuki— laying by your side, his arms draped over your waist, he felt at peace with the two most important people in his life, the true definition of perfection to him. Silence came back again, but this time it was comforting, a silence which held all the fierceness of your feelings for one another. A few kisses were planted here and there on your skin as a silent way to show gratitude, but all three of you were absolutely drained because of passion.

« If you’re still feeling cold, I know a fucking way or two to fix this shitty problem, princess. »

[british-bombs]

( TO BEAT THE DEVIL ) An introduction.

FORMAT: teleplay / novel

GENRE: horror, coming of age

LOGLINE: An interning demon drives a pair of twins cursed with obedience and honesty to kill their cult leader.

THEMES: Trauma, sexual abuse, domestic violence, victim blaming (particularly self blame), peer pressure, redemption, internalized homophobia, and religion.

TRIGGER WARNINGS: Sexual abuse, violence, domestic and otherwise, manipulation, and death

EXTENDED SUMMARY, CHARACTERS, EXCERPT AND NOTES:

Carmine can taste it. They're hiding something. Humans have such a silly smell about them, turns an overwhelming shade of sweet when they've made a demonic deal. All four of these children have. He just can't figure out what, and more importantly: why.

It keeps him on the surface longer than he should be. Long enough that Lilith sees it fit to send him a fucking trainee? And if that wasn't insult enough, the trainees one of the eternal teenage know-it-alls.

He's already got four annoying toddlers to trail, and now there's one tugging his hand in the new generation's approach to soul-catching like Carmine isn't one of the best employees they've had since the turn of the century.

And somehow, to make it all worse, the trainee is good at it. And if Carmine wants to keep his spot at the top of the food chain, he's going to have to get the soul of that dumb bitch who's running the joint.

But, of course, the kid gets him murdered??? And then has the nerve to figure out how what those toddlers managed to stick their syrupy, grubby little hands in. What gives?

But two can play at that game. If he can't get the dead guy's, then he can have the next best thing.

Jesse has lived just under seventeen years, but he's ready to check out. Or he was. But of course, some selfish bastard had to come along and say you can't ever act on those thoughts again! Don't think like that!

And then the hole kept getting deeper.

Six feet deep, to be exact. He's got blood on his hands and no matter how fucking good it felt to cut off the air supply to the God who stole his innocence, it's probably not going to feel very good to watch his mom suffer through a highly publicized trial with headlines like CHILD MURDERS HIGH PROFILE BENEFACTOR!!!

Oh. Well. Billy did say if he really got in that deep, he could always strike up a deal. His soul, everything wrapped up in a nice little bow, sweet as Easter Sunday. But until then? Yeah, he's content to live in a stupid fucking Sherlock Holmes novel.

CHARACTERS:

JESSE NIX: A soon-to-be seventeen-year-old saddled with the curse of obedience. Unlike miss-lucky-Ella-Enchanted, he wasn't told to give away his mommy's locket. No-siree. He was told to give away his virginity. In his opinion, the only appropriate payback is a life. Maybe, one day, if he really snaps, he'll dig up Pastor Dallin's corpse and chop his dick off. Really stick it to the man. If he doesn't go to prison first, anyway. (spotify playlist)

NANCY NIX: Also a soon-to-be-seventeen-year-old, though saddled with the curse of honesty. It's really not so bad. That is, until she stumbles across the sight of her dearest little brother covered in blood for no reason he can push through his metal braces. She refuses to believe he did it on purpose. If only she could convince the cops without sounding like a nutjob. (spotify playlist)

BEVERLY PINES: A seventeen-year-old cursed to feel the pain of those around her. It makes for some fun family dinners with a sadistic mom and a missing dad. Distance nulls pain, but she can't ever seem to make it past state lines before her mom gets wise and breaks one of her ribs. Oh, well. She's got a bone to pick with psychos like her mom. Apparently, Pastor Dallin was one of them. She doesn't think she could stomach the pain of killing someone, so next best thing, right? (spotify playlist)

CLARICE ANDERMANN: Also a seventeen-year-old cursed to be constantly in motion. It's honestly not that bad. She's Yale bound! Perks of having endless energy for everything to cheerleading to debate contests, though she can't imagine her heart's going to keep up like this. It's already hanging on by a thread. That thread is named Beverly Pines and like hell she's letting it go to prison for nothing. (spotify playlist)

BILLY: An annoying fuck trapped in a seventeen-year-old's body. No curses. The opposite, in fact - blessed with a silver tongue and a keen sense of deduction. It takes him all of two hours to put together (almost) everything about Jesse Nix. He just didn't think he could push the repressed little fuck to murder that quick. (All the more power to him, though. Prison always makes people desperate and paranoid, AKA: an easy mark.) (spotify playlist)

MAVIS EVANGELISTA: Former housewife turned grieving widow turned revered prophet. If she got a little help from someone downstairs, then who's to know? They love her all the same. Now, she really, really wants to see how far she can push them all. (spotify playlist)

CARMINE: Just a helpful guy, passing through. Really doesn't need anything, just a little pledge, is all! And then? Then, you can have everything you want, fame, money, power, love. The sky is your limit. The water's fine! (Ignore the piranhas, they'll wait till you're dead to eat your face, just a little bit.) (spotify playlist)

NOTES:

- all of these characters have equal importance within the story.

- personal tag system for story stuff is '#tbtd' and character tags are just first name (ex: '#jesse')

- this is kind of really fucked up. the only reason i wrote it was cause i was thinking damn ella enchanted really is NOT fucked up enough. like i don't think the author of ella enchanted went dark enough. a locket? that's it? a bitch move. i'm taking it to straight murder and sexual abuse

- jesse transgender, no character straight except evil people

- i'm not entirely sure how tag lists work but i think i get the gist of them?? idk if you want rb or ask or something </3

EXCERPT:

There were moments, where she was reminded just how different this voice was, how violent.

She had found Lynette, making off with her makeup that she’d spent her own allowance on. Mavis doted on her and, from what she’d seen of other families, everyone else looked upon their little siblings with contempt, despising the burden they dragged along with their existence.

But Mavis adored Lyn. When she'd been born, her mother had come home with a tiny thing bundled in pink fleece. Mavis had taken to Lyn on sight, thinking Lynette’s headband adorned with a baby blue bow was the universe’s way of telling her happy birthday! as reparations for the ones her mother had missed while she was enduring her week long stay at the hospital.

But that mindset was a disease, one that had finally caught up with her. Had Lynette not become her burden? She was nineteen, busting her back day and night so Lynette wouldn’t have to, that she might avoid the life that Mavis had lived in those blissful six years where it was her and her alone.

Had her mother not tampered down her birthday celebrations since Lynette’s was so very close and they couldn’t afford double anyway? Had Lynette not deprived her of the teenage experiences she heard her classmates speak of, going out and tasting alcohol for the first time while Mavis followed a ten year old Lynette house to house so she could complain of a stomach ache after she’d devoured all the candy on the walk back home?

And now this! Stealing her few precious items, the few things she bothered to save up for, few things she bothered to keep hidden. For what? It wasn’t as though she was ever going to have the courage to ask a peer of her’s out. She was a thief.

One Mavis had made the mistake of taking care of. She should’ve embraced those stirrings of resentment, should’ve left Lynette to her own devices since Lynette didn’t appreciate anything, or even half of what Mavis afforded her. She should’ve left her out in the cold that Christmas. How could anyone have known? It wasn’t as though corpses could talk--

She had let Lyn take off with the whole case, as if to remind herself when she woke up the next morning what she had considered, how vile the thought was.

Lyn had never done anything unforgivable to Mavis. Mavis didn’t suppose she ever could. It was no fault of Lyn’s she didn’t understand what it was like to live with their father. How could she? It was a topic off limits to Lyn by both Mavis and their mother. After all, a child born blind doesn’t know until it’s pointed out to them.

And yet, she found guilt hard to summon. She did, but the speed at which it came, the strength, made her uneasy. What had happened to the girl she was? Lyn had been her world. What had changed?

Then, dully, that other voice, entirely of its own volition, said You did.

[marzgaperez]

S10 Gallavich Liplocks

Too soon to rank these? I couldn’t help myself. Well, at least enjoy these amazing gifs from @whattarush

#1 The Reunion Kiss

Despite the scene being cut too soon, I love this kiss (obvi since I made it #1). I love what happens right before when Mickey busts through the window like the Kool-Aid Man (thank you, @azuresky18) with all the sexy goodness of a Southside thug who is finally free!

These dorks in love are babbling about compassionate release and tamales, all the while making heart eyes and ready to pounce on one another. I’m assuming Cam has his broken leg at this point because no way Ian Clayton Gallagher wouldn’t have tackled his man right then and there, but instead, the circumstances lend themselves to Ian beckoning Mickey over to him with their favorite foreplay-before-the-action word: C’mere.

And the kiss itself - to die for!! They literally crash into each other. Is there a physics term we can apply here? Centrifugal force? It’s the same type of full-bodied passion we witnessed with the kiss at the docks (S7), because let’s face it, when these two have been apart for too long, they can’t help but consume one another upon impact. Uh, sorry for making them sound like cannibals.

It’s been a week or so, maybe, since they were last together in prison, but they were facing months of separation, so this kiss is as much a celebration as it is reaffirming that they are still in this together. They’ve made it out of the storm and can finally breathe. Right?

Check out that grip Ian has on the back of Mickey’s neck followed by the slow, lingering cradling of his head. Damn, now that’s romance! And to top it all off, Ian’s bicep comes around to scoop Mickey up like delectable salted caramel gelato. Or would he be more like crème brûlée?

#2 The Courthouse Kiss

Speaking of breathing, Ian looks like he barely can, so he goes in for the kiss to remind himself that Mickey is his rock and that this plunge they are about to take will keep Mickey safe, superseding all his fears and insecurities.

And sweet Mickey. Oh, I never thought I’d see the day that he’d seem so relaxed, so at ease. Ian literally and figuratively takes his breath away, just like that S5 deleted scene kiss when they are in bed together. Only this kiss is out in the open, and it’s fucking beautiful. So spontaneous that it catches all of us by surprise but especially Mickey.

This scene weirdly gives me vibes from the end of S4 after Mickey comes out, and Ian falls into a deep depression. The emotions are so beautiful but overwhelming. Here, you can almost tell that Ian is standing on a precipice, high as a kite, in danger of losing his balance and tipping over.

#3 The Proposal Kiss

Also cut too short, the proposal kiss is cinematically gorgeous and so meaningful because it’s the first time both Mickey and Ian have been willing to let their guards down since what happened at the courthouse. And of course, the kiss makes my heart swell because it follows the marriage proposal from Ian that is likely to stick.

You have to watch the episode with the volume turned up loud enough to catch the sexy grunt from Ian as he lunges forward on his one good leg to capture Mickey’s lips. You know he’d move a mountain (or punch the lights out of some hipsters) so he could be back with the man he fucking loves.

I would rank this kiss higher, except I love the other two more, and this one seems to be an homage to the S4 club kiss (the greatest kiss ever), so while amazing and what we’ve waited for, falls to third place.

#4 The Mutual I Love You’s Kiss

I owe that title to @whaticameherefor because I would have named it something boring like “The Prison Kiss,” which we already had in S9. I truly love all the kisses this season, and just because this one falls to the bottom doesn’t mean I don’t have plenty to say about it.

This is a tender moment of reconciliation and forgiveness in an unforgiving environment. Um, a traditionally unforgiving environment, ahem, assuming acceptance of LGBTQ couples is not the norm in prison, except in the Shameless universe, but I digress...

While the show didn’t give us that deep, meaningful heart-to-heart many of us wanted to see at the beginning of S10, we did get realistic tension and Mickey giving Ian a piece of his mind, which he does again later on in the season and rightfully so. We get another peek at wounded, whistful S3 Ian, who also realizes its time to put up or shut up, and that more brazen Ian (thankfully) makes an appearance later on too.

This kiss is a slow burn that eventually takes spark and then Ian is tossing his shiv against the floor to fully engulf Mickey, and dammit, if they don’t look beautiful in those matching jumpsuits. For the first time ever. Tee-hee.

So......thanks for humoring me. Here’s hoping for a few more liplocks this season because yes, I am a greedy bitch!

[doubledeaky]

The Music Sounds Better With You

Lucy Boynton x Female!Reader

A/N: Hi, everyone! This is something very different than anything I’ve ever written, in the sense that it involves a same sex pairing. But, I’ve wanted to write something that truly illustrates some specific experiences I’ve had over the past five years. A lot of the details in this story are very similar to those in my life, a lot of the feelings the reader experiences are my own. I hope this resonates with those of you who have struggled with coming to terms with your sexuality, this is my story essentially. Unfortunately, I didn’t get to go to my senior prom with Lucy Boynton, but I’m sure you all catch my drift. I hope you all enjoy this, it’s a story directly from my heart. Thank you all for the support. I am forever in your debt. -macy:)

Summary: Teenaged love is never pretty but with Lucy, there’s an exception. With her, it's devastatingly beautiful.

Word Count: 6.5k words 

Warnings: cursing, angst, discussion of homophobia and homophobic beliefs/attitudes, my cheesy writing 

If there was a period in time in which you’d recognized that you were different, it would probably be around 8th grade. It was then, at the tender age of thirteen, thatyou’d discovered this seemingly foreign attraction to girls. It scared you, no one had ever really explained to you the concept of same sex attraction, you’d assumed no one saw the need. Growing up in a conservative family, where the idea of homosexuality was the work of the devil, was terrifying when you were harboring these clandestinefeelings. Sunday mornings were always dreaded, two hours sat uncomfortably in a wooden pew while the preacher screamed of fire and brimstone was never fun. Heated classroom discussions revolving around same sex marriage and the disgusted looks of your peers was enough to drive you into the darkness. You wanted so badly to be considered normal. Tobe accepted by a group of people you really didn’t care about was the ultimate goal. So, for almost five years, you ignored the feeling. You built a wall, an impenetrable one at that.

No one knew. Well, at least that was what you had assumed. You were good at concealing your less than traditional attraction towards the same sex, you’d essentially mastered the craft at this point. You mimicked the behavior you thought was acceptable and kept your head down. Playing the part of the typical straight girl had become muscle memory at this point; it sucked but it was a routine you habitually followed every day.

You wished you didn’t have to. It was torture living a lie, but you had your reasons. The Deep South was an unforgiving landscape for anyone outside of the realm of heterosexuality. You feared you would damage your reputation; as silly as it sounds, it was a completely valid fear. And of course, you feared the shift of perception from your friends and family. Would they see you differently? Would your most important relationships be tarnished? Would they accept you?

The thoughts clouded your mind almost every day. It wasn’t a constant dwelling, but every time you’d spare a longing glance at the pretty girl across the street, you were reminded of the repercussions you may suffer as a result of coming out. It was painful; but it was your reality and sometimes, reality bites.

***

The halls of your private high school were almost suffocating as you weaved your way through thick crowds of laughing girls, intimidating football players, and kissing couples. The air felt heavy, no doubt due to the growing humidity characteristic of the south. The scratchy white button down required of the uniform wasn’t helping you cool down either. You ignored the sharp stares burning into your frame as you neared your locker. You lengthened your strides, hurrying to escape their gazes. Themoment after you punched in your locker combination, you buried your head into it and groaned. You drew in a deep breath and began filing away the numerous papers and textbooks you held in your arms. This was routine. Youwent to school for seven agonizing hours a day, played the part required you, and returned to an empty home, usually ending the night with a few stray tears. You accepted that today would be no different, just a few inches from misery, until your eyes caught a glimpse of a familiar head of fluffy blond hair. Lucy.

Lucy Boynton, thegirl you’d grown up with, the girl who happened to be your good friend, the girl you were unfortunately in love with. You’d identified your feelings towards her around the tail end of ninth grade.

She had come over to sleep the night, the summer air was unusually crisp, and the moon was looming over you both laid out on the cool grass of your backyard. Lucy was pulling laughs from you effortlessly, her bright smile could be seen despite the growing darkness, almost as blinding as the light the moon was providing. Her eyes were narrowed by her wide grin, her blonde hair was chopped just below her chin, curling towards her cheeks. And for a short, life changing moment, you felt the rotation of your small world slow. You watched her talk and giggle in slow motion, you were in complete awe at the girl before you. You knew immediately that you were definitely different, this wasn’t just a case of envy, this was attraction. That night, your heart belonged to the blonde. Youwere okay going the rest of your life without her knowing, as long as you’d never have to live life without her presence.

“Y/N!” Her voice was sweeter than any calorie dense candy, naturally smooth and kind. Your heart immediately fluttered at the sound and you slowly turned to greet her, the hug she wrapped you in the only touch you’d ever want to experience if possible. She pulled away, her hands still planted firmly on your tense shoulders. Her smile characteristically bright as she scanned you up and down, face falling as she registered how on edge you seemed to be, but didn’t acknowledge it, which you were thankful for.

“So, senior prom is right around the corner. You plan on gracing the graduating class with your presence?” She teased, nudging your side with her elbow.

You couldn’t prevent the flustered grin that graced your features, it wasn’t uncommon for you to grow sheepish at her words. You gave her a mocking laugh, slamming your locker shutand shuffling hesitantly towards your first period. Shefollowed you, despite her class being on the other end of campus.

“I don’t know yet.” You sighed, and Lucy seemed disappointed for a moment, but you excused it as a trick of the eye.

“What? It’s senior prom. You can’t miss it.” She whined, giving you a pout, which was accompanied by her wide, baby blue eyes.

“I’ll think about it, Luce.” You sighed, giving her a soft grin. She seemed satisfied, skipping slightly in the direction of her first class, sending you a wave as her bright form retreated. You watched her leave, a drunken smile playing at your lips. The rest of your day went on as expected, thoughts of a particular blonde girl plaguing your mind.

***

You didn’t really have to think about it; If Lucy asked, you complied. The weekend after she had asked you to consider going to senior prom you were at the local mall, buried deep in a pile of potential dresses. The variety of colors, fabrics, and cuts were quickly overwhelming and the desire to call Lucy for help grew with every garment you tried on. Nothing felt right; most had too much beading, some were too tight in awkward places, others were too big in awkward places.

You were down to the last dress you’d brought into the changing room, its silky fabric and glittering faux jewels taunting from the hook it was hung on. You frowned, uncrossing your tense arms and plucking it from the wall with slight hesitation. You tried fruitlessly to pull the dress over your head before realizing it had a torso length zipper down the back. Groaning, you pulled the dress off, unzipped the back, and stepped into the fabric pooled onto the floor. You closed your eyes as you pulled it over your frame, afraid of what would be staring back at you from the full-length mirror before you. To your surprise, the dress slipped on easily, wrapping comfortably around the curves and slopes of your figure. With your eyes still closed, you fumbled with the zipper until it clicked in place at the back of your neck. A relieved sigh left your lips, the dress fit and as you shifted, it moved in tandem with you without restraint. You finally allowed your eyes to open and they almost watered when they focused on the figure in the mirror. The dress was a beautiful baby blue, beaded conservatively at the bust, and flared elegantly from your waist. It was the last dress you had picked, and you’d imagined it wouldn’t look nice on you, but it did. You couldn’t contain the excited squeal that left your lips, the small spin you gave the mirror was indicative of your happiness. Your hands couldn’t stop from carding gently through the folds of the skirt, your fingers taking in every hem and thread of the material. The sparkling beading at your chest was nothing compared to the shine in your eyes.

Your eyes instinctively grabbed your phone, ready to break the news to Lucy that you had found your dress. Before your fingers typed out any words you furrowed your brows in thought for a moment, then you began to type.

“What color is your dress?” You typed, hesitating before pressing send. Lucy replied within seconds.

“It’s a light blue. Like a baby blue. Why?”

You smiled, and quickly typed a response. “No reason. Just wondering. See you Monday.” You hit send and switched off your phone, throwing it to the distressed dressing room chair in the corner.

You were definitely getting this dress. If you couldn’t explicitly go to prom as Lucy’s date, you could at least match with her. You took off the gown, placing it back on its hanger, and redressed. You gathered the rejected dresses in your arms and hung them back up on the rusty wall hooks. Before you opened the dressing room door, you admired your chosen dress, imagining how Lucy would react, and wishing you could be the one to walk hand and hand with her into the prom venue. Your eyes saddened, your vision going blurry as tears draped your corneas. You slowly grabbed the dress, silently payed for it, and left the shopping mall.

The dress was perfect, almost perfect. The standardof most store-bought prom dresses wastheir obnoxiously long skirts, meant to be hem to the desired length. Of course, your dress was about three inches too long and was in desperate need of an alteration. After delicately laying the plastic protected gown in the backseat of your car, you headed in the direction of where the sewing machine wizard lived, more formally known as your grandmother.

Soon, the white picket fence characteristic of her classically southern home came into view and you turned into her concrete paved driveway, taking a deep breath before exiting your car with the dress tucked protectively under your arm. You hesitated before giving the old oak door a firm knock, you could hear the rattling of a walker and you immediately felt guilty for bothering your poor, arthritic grandmother. When the door cracked open, you were met with your grandmother’s sweet smile and open arms, which you entered gratefully.

“What brings you here?” She asked into your hair, her hand on your upper back a soothing force.

“Prom dress.” You said simply, lifting the garment up, the protective plastic crinkling. She nodded knowingly, flicking down the reading glasses perched atop her head to rest on the bridge of her nose.

“Needs a hem?” She asked, sitting in the chair before her sewing machine with an exhausted huff. You hummed in acknowledgement, giving her a small nod. Without looking up from the needle she was threading, she nodded towards the bathroom.

“Well, go put it on and we’ll see.” You nodded and quickly padded into the bathroom, changing into the dress and emerging from the bathroom, the excess fabric catching under your feet.

“Yeah, definitely needs a hem.” She mumbled, thumbing the end of the skirt and examining it with an experienced gaze. Silently, she began to work, folding and pinning the excess fabric to the appropriate length.

You watched her, envious of her seemingly natural knack for all things fabric and thread.

Halfway through the pinning process, she finally broke the hanging silence, “I heard one of your classmates is taking another boy to prom. Didn’t think they allowed that at your school.”

You drew your lips into a tight line, this was definitely not a conversation you wished to continue.  “No, they do.” You mumbled, keeping your eyes trained at the wall and hoping she’d change the subject.

“That’s a real shame. The school is Christian. And they’re allowing that? I can’t believe it.”

You felt a lump form in your throat and anger climb your spine. You didn’t speak, only nodded, afraid your voice would betray you. The conversation was cut off when she sat up, satisfied with her consistent pin placement. You felt relief flood your chest and quickly moved to change out of the dress and leave.

“I’ll call you when it’s done.” She said, taking the dress from you and reaching up to press a goodbye kiss to your cheek.

You gave her a tight-lipped smile and nodded, turning on your heel and slamming the door behind you. Your car’s interior burned your skin as you flopped into the driver’s seat, but you didn’t care. The anger in your chest was hotter than any sun-bleached leather seats. You couldn’t steady your breathing; your knuckles were stark white from the forceful grip you had on your steering wheel. You wanted to scream, you wanted to yell, prove her wrong, chastise her, but you couldn’t. You couldn’t because she would know. It wouldn’t take much defense from you for her to develop suspicions. You couldn’t, you wanted to, but you couldn’t.

Instead, you rested your forehead against your red-hot steering wheel and cried. You cried bitter tears, ones that fell with almost an audible drip, ones that made a splash when they hit your legs, ones that grieved something that has been long dead within you, ones that grieved your broken dream of a life in which you lived your truth. The dream seems so close at times, the items within it almost tangible, the freedom surrounding it almost felt, but it’s only a dream. It’s within your palm and then reality slaps it out of your hand, grabs you by the face, and reminds you of the truth. Reality spits at your feet and calls you a fool for believing in a world where you’re accepted. And you can’t fight it, you can’t get close enough to get a punch in. It’s quicker than you, sharper than you, and will always be waiting around the next corner to swipe your legs from under you. If life was high school, reality was your bully, and at this rate, graduation seemed so far away.

The sun was dipping below the horizon when you finally looked up from your lap. You started your car and back out of the driveway, starting silently on the route to your house. The entire ride was silent, except for your quiet sniffles and the taunting voice at the back of your mind.

***

You could not believe the sight before you. There stood in the middle of the hallway, surrounded by smiling students and teachers, was Lucy. But not just Lucy, her figure was almost blocked out by the school’s star quarterback with a prom proposal poster in his comically large hands. His expression was arrogant, as if he thought any woman would be a fool to turn him down. He eyed Lucy with a sick hunger and it made your blood sizzle and evaporate in your veins. Anger bubbled in your chest and you made a move to step towards Lucy and remove her from this less than ideal situation until you saw her nod and smile. She said yes.

Your movements ceased, and the beating of your heart stalled completely, the lump in your throat hardened, like acid it burned. The air felt thicker than usual and it seared your skin, burning and blistering wherever it made contact. It felt almost as if the air had been tainted with a poisonous gas, one that entered your lungs and made a home there, prickly and sharp like fiberglass to the skin, inflaming the tender flesh and making a simple breath difficult. Your stomach lurched, begging to be emptied of all its contents, and you could taste the bitterness of bile at the back of your tongue. You swallowed hard, your hands frantically searching for purchase in order to steady your shaky frame. The students around you cheered and whooped and the flashes of phone cameras nearly blinded you as your feet stumbled backwards, your weight barely caught by the brick wall behind the crowd.

You couldn’t breathe, you couldn’t think. The valves or your heart seemed to shutter and pulse unnaturally and you clenched a hand at your chest. This was heartbreak and for a moment, you thought it would prove fatal. You grasped at your throat, trying desperately to encourage air into your lungs. You choked and gasped, nervously searching the room for her but she was preoccupied with the congratulations of your peers. The world around you seemed alien and nothing made sense, the walls surrounding you seemed to crumble and fall to dust. Everything was pitch black and here, you were completely alone. You were pulled from your internal crisis when a fellow student bumped into your shoulder, mumbling an apology as they passed. Your mind was a jumbled mess of thoughts but only one truly stood out, run.

You’d accepted long ago that she’d never be yours, but seeing it happen before your very eyes was a pain greater than anything you’d ever experienced. Like a slap to the face, a punch to the gut, a knife to the heart, all at once. You felt your wide eyes sting with tears and your feet almost instinctively carried you away and out of the big glass doors behind the crowd. No one noticed you leave, all but the one person you hoped hadn’t noticed, Lucy.

Your breathing still hadn’t slowed, and the beginnings of a panic attack flooded your chest, but you pushed the feeling down. Your feet were moving fast with no real destination in mind, you just had to get away, from the reality that no matter how bad you wanted to be with Lucy, no matter how bad you wanted to live your truth, you couldn’t. The tears streaming your face were not only grieving the loss of Lucy, but the loss of yourself, the loss of an idealistic future, and the loss of the foolish thoughts that created the illusion you could achieve such a destiny. Trapped couldn’t begin to describe how you felt. The turmoil that had been churning within you for so long was finally boiling over and you knew it wouldn’t be pretty. Your eyes finally focused on the hidden area behind the main high school building and you darted towards, unaware of the blonde girl right on your heels. You immediately flopped down onto the worn-out wooden bench and screamed into your hands, biting at the fleshy heel to muffle your cries. Your sobs were uninhibited and anyone within a five-foot radius would no doubt be witness to your breakdown.

“Fuck, fuck. I’m such a fucking idiot.” You cried into your palms, your eyes burned, and you were seconds away from violently gripping at the roots of your hair, just to ground yourself, to feel anything other than the ache of your heart, the numbness of your limbs.

“Y/N?” A small voice called from behind the wall’s rounded corner. If it were possible, your heart sunk further into your chest. You craned your neck in the general direction of the sound but said nothing. Lucy’s familiar red converse rounded the corner before her entire body cautiously approached you. She immediately sat down next to you, wrapping an arm around your trembling shoulders. The gesture would usually comfort your worried state but now the touch burned, you could almost feel your skin welt and blister under the weight of her nimble arm.

“You alright?” She asked, eyebrow drawn in concern, the blue of her irises glossy and fogged. She never asked why, and that was something you could appreciate. She never pried or pressed further than you were willing to admit, she only wanted to assure you were alright. It was her nature, sweet and genuine, impossible to not fall in love with. You dragged the heel of your palm against your wet cheek and cleared your scratchy throat.

“Yeah, I’m good.” You lied, giving her your best fake grin.

She seemed unconvinced but characteristically dropped the subject,as she had no other reason to doubt your claims.

“Congrats on the promposal.” You said through gritted teeth, trying to prevent any bitterness from soaking the words.

She nodded and smiled that sweet smile and you shivered at the idea of that quarterback tainting her kind soul, or breaking her pure heart, even using her for the night.

“Thank you.” She seemed disappointed, but you imagined your eyes were creating images less hurtful than what was real.

“I’ve gotta go to class.” You suddenly said, standing up and turning to her.

She nodded, giving you one last grin before she watched you walk off, knowing full well next period was about thirty minutes from now.

***

The next few days were tough. You avoided Lucy like the plague, just the sight of her was too painful. This didn’t go unnoticed by Lucy and every time she sent you her usual smile or timid wave, you ignored it and her heart clenched a bit harder every time.

Now that she was going to prom with the star quarterback, they were considered a semi item among the student body. He kept her on his arm whenever possible and the annoyance in your chest grew with each passing minute. Every time he touched her or glared down at her, nausea rose in your throat and you had to look away to avoid vomiting. He was going to hurt her, you had no doubt in your mind, but you felt helpless. People would start to grow suspicious if you intruded on their “relationship,” and that was the last thing you needed.

Lucy texted you at least a few times a day, all of them going unanswered. Even when she sent you a picture of her prom dress, asking what you thought, you ignored it. Going to prom seemed impossible now, just the idea of having to watch her move on from you from the sidelines brought bitter tears to your eyes.

You wanted so bad to tell her that her dress was beautiful, that the color would look so good with her complexion, that she should wear her hair up, but you couldn’t bring yourself to type the words. You would be doing a disservice to yourself, allowing yourself to feed into the idea of you and her in any way would be detrimental. Torturing yourself with images of her, living a life with her, being with her, was pointless. There was no more you and her, there never would be, there never was.

The sound of your phone’stext tonesounded for the third time today. Lucy, you weren’t surprised.

“Prom is tomorrow! Are you coming?”

Guilt was heavy in your stomach and despite yourself you typed out a response, “Probably not.”

The three small dots at the left corner of the screen bounced, and you grew nervous of her response.

“I’m real bummed you won’t be there. At least come over and hang out tonight. We can have our own prom!” Your heart lurched, she was so sickly sweet, and it hurt your stomach, but you didn’t mind, if anything you could get used to it. Your thumbs tapped at the screen carefully.

“I’ll be there.” You switched off your phone and cursed yourself for not being able to say no to her. You couldn’t if you tried.

***

You arrived at Lucy’s home around five in the afternoon, a pretty reasonable hour. You and Lucy had been friends so long that you didn’t trouble yourself with knocking at the front door, instead let yourself in through the gate, knowing she’d be sat on the backyard swing, waiting for you. And she was.

Still dressed in her school uniform, staring idly at the birds flying overhead, her hair a deep gold by the setting sun, ethereal. Your stomach flipped but you took a deep breath and walked toward her. She noticed you almost immediately and met you halfway, wrapping in a tight hug. Your hands trembled as they gripped her, and you buried your face into her hair, you’d missed this, you’d missed her, and it made the entire situation all the more painful. She pulled away, smiling despite how shitty you’d been treating her the past week.

“So, you wanna tell me why you’re not going to senior prom?” She teased, guiding you by the hand to the white porch swing. You couldn’t help but smile, her energy impossible to brush off, it was infectious.

“I just don’t want to and it’s kinda too late. I don’t have a ticket.” Her smile grew, and her blue eyes took on a glint of mischief, you narrowed your eyes suspiciously.

“What did you do?” You sighed, plopping down next to her. She yanked a bright purple prom ticket from her back pocket and waved it in front of your face. You threw your head back and laughed.

“Now you have to come.” She squealed, almost bouncing in her seat.

“Look, I appreciate it, but I don’t even have a hair or makeup appointment booked.”

“I can do your hair and makeup.”

“I don’t have a date. I don’t wanna go alone.”

“You could come with me.” She said, almost matter of factly, you furrowed your brows in confusion.

“What do you mean? Thought you were going with- “

“I called it off.” She was serious, the hand gripping yours further confirmed how serious she was.

“Why?” You asked, the shock in your voice obvious.

“He’s not the one I want to go with.” She eyed you, almost longingly and the ache in your heart grew. Then it raced, did she know? How could she know? And if she did know, was she teasing you? Did she intend to make a fool of you? Out you to everyone?

“Please don’t joke around like that.” You said lowly, removing your hand from her grip. Her face fell but her determination was unwavering.

“Why can’t we go together?” She seemed hurt, but not in the way you were. She no doubt wanted to go as friends and that wasn’t what you wanted, you didn’t want to damage any image she’d created for herself because of your silly crush.

“We just can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Just, because. Look, Lucy, I’ve gotta go.” She suddenly stood to stop you, grabbing your arm softly, but desperately, almost pleading with you to stay.

“Why have you been pushing me away? I’ve missed you so much. Have I done something?” She rambled, gripping the sleeves of your sweater desperately. Her blue eyes were brimmed with glistening tears and the knot in your gut wrenched and twisted painfully.

“No, God no, Lucy. It’s me, I’m the one with this issue.”

“What do you mean ‘issue’? If it’s an issue, we can work it out together.”

“I can’t tell anyone. Not even you.” She looked hurt, her eyes were glossy and irritated by the sharp sting of tears.

“Why can’t you tell anyone?” Her voice was uneven and small, the tears pricking the corners of your eyes trembled and fell.

“Because I’m fucking scared, Lucy! I’m scared of what people will say, I’m scared of what they’ll think. I’m scared of losing everything. And I’m scared I’ve lost you. I’m scared that I’ve pushed you away past the point of repair. And I’m scared that I’ll go the rest of my life knowing I never told the most incredible girl in the world, that I love her. And I’m most afraid that if I did, she wouldn’t love me back.”

Your eyes were blurred completely by tears, but you could see the look on Lucy’s and it held an emotion you couldn’t name but it resembled heartbreak the most. Her brows were drawn together, her eyes an eerily dark blue under the film of hot tears. It didn’t matter what stupid emotions were troubling you know, the sight of Lucy so hurt was more painful. She released a quiet sob, clenching her teeth to cage them. She walked closer to you and grabbed the sleeves of your sweater tightly, drawing you almost flush against her. Your head snapped up, the tears brimming your eyes spilling over your lower lids. She was trembling, gripping onto you as if letting go would mean you’d disappear.

And then, she kissed you. Briefly, just a small peck, fleeting but soft and demure. And not a second after her lips retreated, they were on yours again. Moving now, frantic almost desperate. Through a silent line of communication, she spoke to you through the movements of her lips, a language foreign to anyone else but native to your tongue. You were stunned, almost unable to reciprocate the kiss as she gripped your face in her soft, shaky hands.

“I’m scared too.” She whispered, still gripping onto you tightly, shaking like a caged animal. You reached up a hand from between your bodies and swiped a strand of hair from her worried face, tucking it behind her ear.

“You don’t have to be.” You mumbled, studying her features for any indication of an emotion besides sadness.

You hated this, hated that she had been fighting the same internal war, that she hadn’t told you, that you hadn’t told her. You hated that she was in pain, pain so similar to yours, pain so great you wouldn’t wish it on your worst enemy. You hated how afraid you had been, how afraid you were now, that even when you were finally getting what you so longed for, things outside of you and Lucy wouldn’t change. You hated them, hated those who detested your identity, those who belittled and mocked you, those who damned your very existence. You hated how humanity had created a violent narrative against you. You cursed the very ground you were both stood on. The ground where hate was sowed into the plowed dirt and nurtured into a creature of intolerance, misunderstanding, and malice. A creature so powerful it dictated the many and condemned the few. A creature made to destroy beyond repair. But while the Earth rejected you, the sky cradled you, wrapping you and Lucy in a veil of luminous silk, its astronomical energy warding off the forces set out to harm the delicate form within its core. When the world seemed wrong, the stars seemed right. For you and Lucy, it’s always been this way. Those countless hours spent gazing at the speckled black of the night sky, finding an escape through the sparkling orbs that were so far away but seemingly close enough to touch. Those nights filled with tears and anger, the galaxy as witness, ready to comfort you both with a spectacular show of light. The night sky was relatable to you and Lucy, it’s misunderstood and sometimes disregarded, only loved by those who accept its mystery, its divergence from the known or approved. And like the stars hung so high up in the infinite span of outer space, you and Lucy are beautiful constellations of light, explosive spheres of energy, luminous fragments of all the known heavenly bodies. The sky understood, and the sky accepted, it is devoid of hate and judgement, only knowing how to follow its design. And so, like the night sky, you decided to accept and follow your design, for going against it would be going against your very nature. The hate within you extinguished and you gripped Lucy tighter, hoping the great expanse above you knew grateful you were for its mere existence.

“I’m here.” You murmured into her shoulder, your feet feeling unstable beneath you as your mind swirled and hammered. You could feel her tears through your shirt, her nails digging into the skin of your upper back, her teeth as they clenched. You couldn’t recall how many times you had cried like this, for this reason and the thought of Lucy doing the same was a heavy blow to the gut. She suddenly looked up, sniffling before taking a deep breath.

“I’m afraid, but I’m not enough of a coward to deny the way I feel about you.” Your breath was caught in your throat, hearing her say what you so longed to hear was an experience beyond anything this earth could provide.

“I am in love with you. And I know sometimes the words seem hollow or dull but trust me when I say that I love you. Not the kind of love that you throw away or that can be forgotten at the back of your mind. No, it’s the kind of love that scares the shit out of you. The kind that makes you so vulnerable you’re afraid it’ll mess you up. The kind that I only have for you. The kind I want to feel for the rest of my life. I don’t need to see it because I feel it. Everywhere, even when you’re not around I feel it. It’s been weaved into the fabric of my mind. You’re a part of me forever. And I don’t need a reason to doubt it, I trust it. I trust you, and I think that has made all the difference.” Her voice was small, but so beautifully sweet and reassuring that you’d completely forgotten the reasons you’d felt so afraid. She’s just told you everything you’d ever wished to hear fall from her lips and in this moment, nothing else mattered but her. Nothing else ever mattered but her.

You couldn’t speak, the smile on your face hurt, words would do justice to the feeling in your chest. So, you just kissed her, hoping she would know. Hoping she could feel the love, maybe even see it in the abstract shapes behind her eyelids, maybe even in the brighter stars in the sky. She placed a gentle hand on your face as you pulled away, her blue eyes still legible in the dark.

“Will you come to prom with me?”

“I’d be stupid not to.”

***

It’s raining. It’s raining on prom night.

You don’t mind, though, and you don’t think Lucy will either. You’re waiting for her, cross-legged under the venue’s covered patio, you have to resist the urge to pick at your freshly painted nails. They’re blue, just like your dress, and just like hers. The rain isn’t heavy, just a gentledrizzle, but it’s enough to have the boys covering their freshly gelled hair with their suit jackets and the girls running awkwardly for cover in their high heels, trying desperately to shield their styled hair with their clutches. You crack a smile every time someone arrives, each of them putting on a little show unique to them. It’s still early and you don’t have the nerve to go in alone, but you’re okay waiting for her. She’s been worth the wait, she always will be.

The faint clicking of heels catches your attention and your head snaps up, thinking it’s another one of your classmates trying to escape the rain, but it’s not. It’s that blonde girl, that sweet smile, those blue eyes and button nose. It’s her, it’s Lucy.

It’s almost in slow motion, like a scene from a movie. The rain seemingly makes a path for her, the droplets somehow hitting and bouncing off an invisible force field that surrounds her. The blue dress she’s wearing was made for her, like birds were made for the sky and fish for the ocean. The silken fabric billows lightly in the wind, almost dissolving into shining particles at its end. Like Aphrodite arising from the milky foam of the Mediterranean Sea, she emerges from the sheet of rain and under the canopy, greeting you like she always does, smiling. You almost don’t feel her take your hand, or lead you through the large double doors, or onto the dance floor. You immediately feel anxiety bubble in your gut as she wraps her arms around you, the urge to push away from her is strong.

“Lucy, they’ll know.” You whisper into her ear, your eyes wide and nervous. You were more nervous for her reputation rather than yours. This was the moment where you were to face your greatest fear, and you weren’t doing very well.  She gives you a sweet grin and leans in close to your ear.

“I want them to know. I want the whole fucking world to see how much I love you.” You didn’t respond, only wrapping your arms around her, resting your head on her shoulder and swaying in tandem with her to the beat of a song you didn’t really care about.

The chandeliers above you don’t really look like chandeliers anymore. No, they look like a great sea of stars and you are both dancing among them. There are maybe one hundred other kids in the room, but you don’t notice them, you don’t hear them, you don’t even feel them squeeze past you. You can only feel how tightly Lucy is holding you to her, you can only feel her lips against your forehead, the ends of her blonde hair tickling your cheek. Her breathing is steady and calm, her heartbeat strong, and it’s almost music to your ears, a sound that could lull you to sleep. She smells like lemongrass and rain, like late nights and early mornings, like the trip and the destination, like the past and the future. She’s like a warm day in July, a field of tall grass, a flock of migrating birds, a clear sky, home. She is the sun that provides for the earth, the rain that soothes dry deserts, the comfort that eases worried minds, the rhythm that guides the dance of life and despite any previous fear, you’re unafraid in her arms, swaying under the stars of a night sky she painted with a practiced grace. If anything in life matters, it’s her, and you’re completely fine with that.

The night ends as it began, with her. The fear retreats and the sadness flees. Anger is replaced with peace and hate, with love. The sun emerges and for once, the earth feels welcoming. You finally feel a sense of belonging in this world you call home. There is peace like no other with her. Awash in the tide of her vast seas you drift, but not without direction. There is peace in knowing that she is by your side. There is good. She is the good.

Maybe you’re too young and naive to know what it is, but if you had to take a wild guess, this is it. This is love. And God, what a beautiful thing it is.

- I really hope this was worth the three week wait! Thank you all for your patience and endless love! Feedback is very much appreciated! 

[killscreencinema]

Vectorman (Sega Genesis)

Towards the end of the 16-bit era, my beloved Super Nintendo, rather appropriately, died.  I was bereft to say the least and was STARVED for a game to play in those dark days before getting a new Super Nintendo for Christmas (a story for another day). 

Fortunately for me, my uncle moved in with us for a brief period and brought his Sega Genesis with him.  It’s funny, I was excited by the prospect of having my uncle around, but completely ignorant of how his life had come to such a shitty state he was resigned to crashing on our couch.  Now that *I’m* the uncle most likely to end up in that position some day, it’s more than a little sobering thinking back on those days.

Anyway, the point is, while my uncle’s life was in shambles, my life improved because not only did I have a game console to play again, but it’s one I never in my life owned - a Sega Genesis!  It just so happened a game had been released I was desperate to play on it too - Vectorman!  I was so instantly hooked on this game, there is home video evidence of me obsessively playing it during Thanksgiving.  In the video, you can occasionally hear concerned family members asking “Where’s Craig????” which is eventually answered by my younger cousin complaining that I’m hogging the video game and won’t let anyone else play.  Busted.

Vectorman, developoed by BlueSky Software, was released in 1995 and was Sega’s direct response to Donkey Kong Country.  With DKC’s pre-rendered models, and overall gorgeous presentation, Nintendo had pushed the SNES graphical capabilities to its limits, forcing Sega come up with something that could feasibly measure up.  They couldn’t just pump out another Sonic game either, it had to be something new, funky, and fresh!  So they made a 2D sidescroller set in the future about a robot that uses his hand to blast away rogue robots!  How original!  It’s the future, and Earth has been abandoned by humans, while robots that have been left behind are tasked to make the planet habitable again.  One such robot merges with a nuclear warhead, changes its name to Warhead, and decides to destroy the planet instead.  Humanity’s only hope is a simple garbage collecting robot named Wall-E... I mean Vectorman!

What Vectorman may have lacked in originality, it makes up for with presentation.  The game definitely sports some of the best graphics of the time, despite the Genesis’ limited palette and muted colors.  The controls are tight, the gameplay is solid, and the music ranges from pulse pounding house music to chill ambience.  I particularly enjoy the opening title theme:

Vectorman has all the hallmarks of a classic, and is definitely one of the top 10 best Genesis games in my book, but it has ONE fatal flaw:

It is hard as fuck.

I don’t mean challenging in the sense of games like Ghosts n’ Goblins, but more that it’s unfairly difficult.  While Ghosts n’ Goblins at least affords you the mercy of unlimited continues, Vectorman doesn’t even give you continues whatsoever.  That’s some harsh, unforgiving shit.  While on the other hand, the game is somewhat generous with extra lives, it’s still incredibly frustrating to make it all the way to the level 16 final boss battle only to have to start over if you die.

My other problem with the game is the level design.  The levels in Vectorman are expansive, and somewhat labyrinthine, with hidden areas and power-ups spread throughout that encourage exploration.  Yet at the same time, there is a time limit, which forces you to rush through it.  I hate that as I’m a very meticulous, cautious player and I prefer to take my time, see the sights as it were, rather than hurry up and get to the finish line as quick as possible.  While I get the point of time limits are to add more of a challenge, that’s fine in a more straight forward, linear game, but not when the levels are so massive like this.

Speaking of levels, I was also disappointed that the first stage is basically repeated 4 or 5 times, just with different backgrounds and a different layout.  That felt like a cheap move to make the game longer.  Then there are the bizarre top down “Bonus levels” (except they’re not because you can die and get a game over in these levels) where Vectorman changes form, such as the one where he becomes a train and must chug along while avoiding Warhead’s attacks or the even stranger one where he’s a frog hopping along a conveyor belt of bamboo while giants fists try to smoosh you.  These levels just felt incongruous to the rest of the game and mostly annoyed me. 

My complaints, though, are minor quibbles considering the game’s many strengths.  I’d still wholeheartedly encourage people exploring the Genesis library to make sure to play Vectorman. 

[pynesmith-blog]

Internal 911 Truly! A Simple Supplement That Will Sort All Those Pesky Digestive Issues… Yes, Just Pop This Pill And You'll Say Goodbye To An Upset Gut, Constipation, Diarrhea, Bloating, Gas Et Al… ! Indeed, Excuse Us If We're Just That Little Bit Cynical…

So evidently, as per the promoting may behind Internal 911, regardless of whether you have a solid discharge each and every day, despite everything you experience the ill effects of fecal develop. Furthermore, think about what… ? They have the response to it – and every one of those other stomach related problems that make everyday living so awkward to adapt to.

Internal 911 survey

All things considered, folks at Internal 911, we're going to take some persuading! Truth be told, we're so cursed beyond any doubt this is a trick that we're going in hard – and we were resolved to reveal each and every tad of data we could discover about this 'marvelous' item.

So in case you're thinking about a buy, simply hold your steeds for the couple of minutes that it takes to peruse our discoveries. Since, in spite of the fact that we state so ourselves, we think you'll be powerful happy that you did…

What do you get for your cash with Internal 911?

Along these lines, Internal 911 is a deductively planned detox and purging cure that you take regularly to focus Internal 911 on a wide range of inside stomach related problems. The cerebrums behind the item guarantee that the majority of the issues that huge numbers of us experience the ill effects of are altogether down to what they're calling, Hidden Constipation Syndrome – AKA, HCS. What's more, it works from the absolute first time you attempt it!

It does as such in the accompanying ways:

Activity 1: Fecal develop occurs inside the gut over years – decades, truth be told. So the principal thing this ground-breaking detoxifier does is bust through this rotting mass inside your gut, delicately washing through the colon to help reestablish them to their characteristic sound state

Activity 2: The 'awful' poisons inside the gut are pushed out and disposed of, so keeping them from making hurt the body through saturating the circulation system.

Activity 3: Feeds the right supplements to the stomach related framework, enabling it to by and by work in the manner in which that nature expected.

Also, this is altogether done through an incredible blend of herbs that – and this is essential – GENTLY wash down through the mass. This isn't one of those stun medicines that such a significant number of apparently comparative items give. You know, those ones that make you feel not all that great, and surely don't have a quite delayed consequence!

>> Get This Internal 911 Special cost, simply Click Here <<

Phytage Labs Internal 911 Supplement Facts

Internal 911 enhancement certainties

So how can it work?

Internal 911 delicately gets through this fecal develop because of a mix of 10 strong and deductively tried supplements. These include:

Psyllium Husk Powder – To help stools move easily through the stomach related tract and draw water into the stool. It's likewise a powerful safeguard against periodic looseness of the bowels.

Bentonite Clay – Helps to oust poisons by official to them and expelling them from the framework.

Dark Walnut Hull – Used in home grown prescription for centuries, this is a genuine tonic that guides absorption and battles intestinal parasites.

Oat Bran Powder – This helps keep the stools delicate and makes preparations for stoppage.

Flaxseed – An extraordinary wellspring of dissolvable fiber, just as omega-3 unsaturated fats that assistance grease up the stomach related framework and fight off inward irritation.

The other amazing fixings in Internal 911 are Prune Powder, Aloe Vera Powder, Apple Pectin Powder, L Acidophilus, and Glucomannan Powder.

Who is Internal 911 for?

Internal 911 In the event that you experience the ill effects of any of the accompanying, at that point you could profit by Internal 911:

Blockage

Loose bowels

Malodorous, excruciating gas

A bothered inside

Swelling and water maintenance

Stomach cramping

Acid reflux

Terrible breath

Feeling sick

Having to truly push on defecations

In all respects rotten crap!

Gliding or sticky crap

Crap that sinks actually quick

Yellow, green, or dark crap

Pellet or little ball formed crap

White bodily fluid in your crap

The Pros and Cons of Internal 911

Inside 911 battles the genuine reason for stomach related miracle, not the side effects.

Improve your stomach related wellbeing and improve the strength of your entire body! Fecal incorporate up breaks poisons with the circulation system and influences all aspects of you…

Never need to take unsafe intestinal medicines – until kingdom come!

Taking Internal 911 can have results directly from the absolute first portion. A great many people take 1-2 every day, except you can take up to 6 for quicker outcomes, and after that move back to an upkeep portion to keep your stomach related framework working at its generally incredible.

>> Ready To Start? Snap Here To Get Internal 911 Now <<

The Conclusion

The greatest 'con' isn't understanding that your gut is in an awful a state as it most likely may be. Actually, on the off chance that you just experience the ill effects of the periodic stomach related miracle, you may well simply endure it. In any case, on the off chance that you make moves to delicately scrub your gut for good, the impact it'll have on your entire prosperity can be out and out inexplicable.

The Bottom Line

inside 911 assurance

All things considered, we need to state that we positively weren't hoping to arrive at the resolution that we have. Truth be told, we were almost certain this would have been simply one more unforgiving detoxifying item that caused a major wreckage, just for you to feel the equivalent again a couple of days after the fact.

In any case, when we're wrong, we have no issue on holding up our hands and letting it be known. Also, on this event, wrong we were… ! Since Internal 911 truly does what other apparently comparative items neglect to do – and that is to deal with those horrendous stomach related problems unequivocally. What's more, in a delicate way.

Internal 911 So on the off chance that you endure – or know somebody who does – this truly could be the appropriate response you've been looking for. Truth be told, in a couple of brief days you could be feeling superior to anything you have in years – or even in decades! For us, this deductively demonstrated recipe that has been intended for long haul use likely could be the best thing we've at any point run over.

Internal 911 Inside 911 – you do it for us. What's more, in the event that you give it the shot, it'll do precisely the equivalent for you too. Magnificent… !

Visit here:-https://slimtonediets.com/internal-911/

[marydragneell]

Ember 2 (final)

The Crackling Embers

By: @cutegirlmayra (Thanks for the commission! Here’s something sweet! 😉 )

Ember was rotated backwards on a steel stretcher, strapped with leather, she laughed and figured she could tear easily through them.

Except… she couldn’t move.

The electric steel receptor would zap her even on slightest movement, but that didn’t stop her from wiggling her tail when the door slid open and she saw Shadow.

“Shad-! AHHHHEEEEEOOOO…ouch.” The electricity immediately turned on, shocking her into a stillness again as her tail flopped down over her.

“Hello.” She smiled sweetly to him. “You gonna bust me outta here?”

“…We need you for something.” Shadow stopped in front of her, folding his arms.

“Ohh~ A mission?”

“For G.U.N.”

“Pass.”

She frowned.

“…For Sonic… and his friends.” He glared a warning, showing his need for her to reconsider.

“Ehmm… we’re buddies, but… favors?” she was only stalling now, playing around.

She hadn’t seen Shadow in a while, so she was hoping-

“…For me?” he looked agitated.

“Sure, anything for family!”

He nodded to a camera and she was rotated back into a straight position as he untied the straps.

“This is serious… Sonic team requested backup.”

“Little Hedgehog got his foot struck in a drain?” she teased, smirking.

“… Eggman has taken over 20 percent of the world… And Sonic couldn’t stop him.”

He seemed to grimace at that fact before helping her down.

“Thanks.��� She took his hands and hopped off the steel, “One sec.” she lifted a sharp claw…

She shred through the steel with a few quick and precise swipes.

Sparks flickered everywhere and she cockily placed her claws up to her mouth, blowing on them.

“Alright, continue.” She grinned, looking over her shoulder to him.

“But I warn you… I will never work for G.U.N…”

“Hmph, then work for me.”

He looked annoyed, and she wagged her tail.

“There’s never a ‘good side’ to you, is there?”

She followed him through the sliding door of G.U.N’s base, looking around and pretending to be amazed at the technology, but mostly there for Shadow.

“As family, it’s almost like my job to try and find that good side to ya, bro.”

“…Bro?” he seemed confused, turning around. “You were created as my prototype, a companion to me and have restored more memories of Maria than I can count. I owe you that much… but no. We are not ‘family’.” He glared, holding a hand up to her as she went to take it, but winced back when he said such a cruel thing.

She puckered her lips and side-commented over her shoulder, “Grumpy quills…”

They continued to walk and she didn’t take his hand, seeing as he was only gesturing, but she didn’t quite understand the socialisms…

She was still living alone… sometimes running into Sonic and his friends, but not much.

“Who’s Eggman?” she asked, walking into an elevator with him.

Shadow turned around and clicked a button, which fascinated her when it turned bright from the touch.

“He’s Gerald’s evil grandson.”

Her finger went to spike into the next buttons, hoping to see them light up, but her shock at hearing that made her miss and stab the side through instead. “WHAT?!”

Shadow saw the fizzing of the area as she struggled to try and pull her finger out, sighing in disappointment at her childish ways and rubbing the bridge between his eyes with his fingers…

They arrived at an upper level, and Ember looked very confused, finally seeming to take some things seriously.

Her eyebrows furrowed and she followed Shadow out of the elevator, “You mean… Gerald had other family we didn’t know about?” She made a face, showing some sorrow. “Shouldn’t we try and reform him? I mean,… he’s kin!” she ran after him, but Shadow pivoted and continued his cruel stare at her.

“Reform Eggman?” He scoffed, “He’s bent on taking over the world. He’ll robotize every living thing till there’s nothing left to conquer. Then he’ll build a ridiculous theme park!” he swiped a hand out, making Ember step back and look down in greater sadness. “He’s insane… and once again, we have no kin… we’re experiments. Remember your place.” He went to continue walking, but a voice from above suddenly spoke out, making him look around.

“My, my… you’re so cruel to her, Shadow… I’m glad I’m used to it.”

“Show yourself, Rouge!” he almost demanded, making her pout as she was sitting on a beam in the shadows.

Her wings flexed out, making a sound that spooked Ember as she dove down and landed quite gracefully.

“Remember me?” she batted her eyes and then winked to Ember, who swiped a claw at her and growled.

Her ears drew back, not liking this bat girl…

As Rouge flew up again and circled Shadow, she grew even more tense, shaking as she raced to grab Shadow’s back quill. It was instinctive, she just didn’t like other people around Shadow… especially those she didn’t know really well.

She poked her head over Shadow’s shoulder and stuck her tongue slightly out at Rouge.

Rouge smiled back to her before landing by the control panel, revealing monitors as she typed in certain things.

“Eggman has conquered a continent, but he’s not done there. According to Tails, he’s spreading out. We’ve let sleeping eggs lie for too long… it’s about time we stop underestimating Eggman’s potentials.” Rouge turned to them again after typing, “My guess is you’re taking the rocket?”

“Yes.” Shadow turned and grabbed the back of Ember’s red cloak, pulling her back to follow him.

“Whhaa-a-a!” she was startled, tip-toeing back before pouting and turning around. “Yeah, yeah… I’m coming, I’m coming…”

“G.U.N only protect certain areas… we’ll have to infiltrate his base and take him down at the core of his invasion…” Shadow grabbed a large rocket, then gripped her hand.

This made her look down and smile, thinking he was going to help her into the rocket.

But… his grip was really… really strong.

“You should brace yourself…” he mentioned.

“Wait,… What do you meeeeeeAAAANNNNNN!!!” she was shot into the air as he held her hand while the rocket shot up and arched through the skies, a direct route to the continent.

Her gums flapped everywhere, making a silly expression as they finally began to move swiftly through the open skies towards their destination.

“This is gonna take time to get used too!” she screamed through the disturbance in the air, but Shadow kept his eyes fixated on the direction of the rocket.

She frowned again, arching her eyebrows back. “Shadow…”

Her purpose… if he didn’t need her, what was it? She hated the fact that she was just a companion. A prototype… the second favorite…

She looked down at the ground, gripping her arm and starting to feel some pain from dangling behind him.

She looked back at him.

No pain? Or was he masking it under that cold exterior?

She wanted to believe there was kindness in him… and she was sure there was! But…

Will he ever show it to her?

She squinted her eyes shut, biting her jaw down. ‘We’re family! Yet… he says we’re not!’

Once again, she went to inquire, “Shadow!”

His eyes shifted frighteningly fast down to look at her, but his head never moved.

She gulped, “Uh… shouldn’t we be serving Eggman? If he’s Gerald’s grandson…”

“What part of ‘evil’ and ‘taking over the world’ did you not understand?” he scolded.

She looked away.

Suddenly, Shadow’s face shifted, and he looked back at the rocket…

“Hhhmm…” he seemed to disagree with his tone and spoke out again. “I understand that Gerald means a lot to you… perhaps how Maria meant to me…”

She looked back up at him, hearing his voice turn a little more empathic.

“…But Eggman’s not like Gerald. He’s eccentric. Maniacal. There is some good in him but only when the odds are against his favor… then he helps us to defeat a foe that challenges himself.” He glared forward. “He’s selfish and has no care for nature. Life or not, he’ll stomp on anything just to seize power over it…”

“…Sounds unforgivable.” Her mind raced to the children…

“….Ember.” he looked down to her, less angry now.

“Yes?” innocently, she looked up.

“…Stay close. I…” he looked away, being vunerable for a moment. “…I don’t want to lose you.” He stared off into the smoky distance yonder… there, in the grey and brownish hue of cloud cover, or was it smoke..? There came a few robots with jetpacks on, holding guns as their arms, and a large—oversized and ugly—megabot that’s eyes glowed red through it all.

“…Get ready.” He took on a serious look, pulling out a gun.

Ember, seeing the amount of foes waiting for them in the skies, narrowed her brow and swiped her cloak away, revealing her black emerald imbedded in her chest.

“Bring it on!” she cried out.

He protected the rocket as long as he could, but then released his hold and pulled Ember towards him as it exploded from being fired at.

He didn’t even glance at her, just kept shooting, but she used her Chaos attacks to knock out the littler robots flying after them.

“We’re heavily out maneuvered!” she cried out, looking around and noticing they were dodging a lot of their hits. Her chaos moves weren’t necessarily fast enough to get the targets right away, and Shadow’s gun was running out of ammo.

Click, click, click!

Shadow glanced down at his gun.

“Shoot.”

He threw the gun and a robot’s jet spiraled out of control.

“Ember!”

“Right!”

She exposed the spot on her chest and he gripped the outer, slightly protruding part of the emerald.

She closed her eyes.

“CHAOS CONTROL!”

They were teleported before a huge beam of light from the giant robot was able to melt them out of their immortally…

They were flashed back into existence as Ember fell into his arms, exhausted from the dark, prototype power that dwelt within her.

She breathed heavily as Shadow removed his hand and hoisted her up. “Are you alright?” he looped her hand over his shoulders, another hand to help lift her waist up.

“I just… need a moment to breath.” She admitted, but they heard a strange noise…

“What was that?”

Water noises and engines were heard in the distance…

Then, quickly, Metal Sonic and Chaos swerved around the corner of some ruined buildings. A red light flashed and Shadow looked up.

“Darn!” he threw her up into a bridal style hold, and raced on his skate shoes away while the two of them chased them down.

“Find Eggman!” Shadow shouted.

“What!? I won’t leave you!” she gripped his chest fur…

He glared down, “You want to be of use to me?”

Did… Did he know?

“Then stay alive! And get your job done!”

“B-…But what about-!”

What about you?

He threw her into another alley way, flinging her quickly through the air as she flailed a moment and landed in a garbage disposal.

The two raced by her, focusing on Shadow and not noticing the difference.

She shifted around a moment, before coming up with a banana peel on her head, looking upset.

“…Hmph!” she gripped it and threw it down.

“Yuck! Now,…”

She turned around with a glare, bearing her fangs.

“WHERE’S EGGMAN!?”

Pacing around his base, Eggman looked at the blips on his monitors. “Where’d he go…” he gripped his floating chair… “I’ve only conquered this continent… no big deal! Why send him of all things!?” Eggman shoved the chair away as it swiveled in the air and spun rapidly away.

It regained a neutral hover as Orbot and Cubot continued to cower away from it.

“M-may I suggest… we also call in our own backup?” Orbot lifted a finger up, and then placed his hands together. “There are some lovely mercenaries who would be happy to dispose of-“

Eggman’s rage got the better of him. He soared his fist up into the air, and it came crashing down with a terrifying power against the control board.

It dented the area and he lifted his hand, now quivering from the pain and rubbed his other thumb inside the palm of the hurt hand. “Grr… I’d rather deal with this pest myself…”

“Gosh, that looked painful!” Cubot chirped.

“To what? His hand or his ego..?” Orbot muttered, but the two scattered in fear as a wrench was thrown at them.

“You’ll see… I’ll destroy Shadow, and then next-!” he stomped towards them, making a big scene before something rattled above them.

“…What the-?”

Ember smacked a air vent’s entrance down as it slammed against Eggman’s raised head.

“OFFPH!” he fell backwards as she dropped down, landing on his stomach. “IIIEEEE!!!” he arched forward, hovering his arms up as he stared at the unfamiliar face, but Ember didn’t seem to notice him.

She flicked her tail and hit him down, not feeling anything really and looked around.

“Huh? I thought I heard an evil monologue?”

“T-the… The Boss!” Orbot shivered, his hands quaking up by his mouthpiece.

“Boss..? OH!” she looked under herself. “It was so round! I thought it was just a rug or something!” she jumped up and down.

“OFFPH! OFFPH! OOOOO!” Eggman was like a squishy trampoline, every time she jumped up, she stomped both feet down, smiling giddily.

Finally, she jumped off on the third hop and he gripped his stomach, turning away with tears starting up from under his glasses… only on the far edges could you see a trace of them bundled up by his eyes corners.

“That hurt… you little…” he whimpered out while she dusted herself off.

“You know, those air vents really need some dusting.” She then struck an animalistic pose, showing off her claws as she scraped them against each other in long swipes.

Sparks flew off of them and Cubot ‘ooh’d and ‘aw’d as she did so.

She smirked, “So… you’re robotnik’s grandson? You look a little like him, I’ll give you-“ her smile faded, seeing him rise up and shake his head, then turn around to loom over her.

Her perfect memory triggered and before her wasn’t Eggman anymore… it was Gerald.

“And how do you know my grandfather..?”

Her eyes shook, unable to break out of the vivid memory.

She stepped back.

He looked too much like her former master… how could she ever battle him now?

“Who are you?”

He cocked an eyebrow up.

“I… I’m Ember…” she felt her whole body wanting to obey, falling slowly to her knees, catching herself before she did so.

‘Why… Why am I acting this way? My fidelity… is it this strong?’ she twitched violently every few seconds, unable to figure herself out for a moment.

“Ember..? Ah!” His glasses shone a moment across before he put a finger up to his chin.

“Ember Wolf? The immortal prototype. Yes… I remember reading something about that…”

She suddenly looked up, amazed he knew about her.

But how..?

“I… I thought all records were-?”

“Born as one of the first experiments. First to live, however. You’re embedded with a cursed Emerald, one my great Grandfather found and tried to erase from history… It produces a dark energy from time to time… corrupted and unpure, it’s said to completely envelop you in utter chaos…” He looked up, nodding to himself. “Yesss… I think I understand now. It described you as a companion to Shadow. Someone designed to protect, unless Shadow. You’re primary purpose was to-“

He paused, looking down at her and smiling.

“Say… you would be a fine asset to my cause!”

“What cause?” she glared, almost growling out the words as she bent her head down, trying to will her body out of submission. “To rule and ruin the known world!?”

“…What has the known world done for you?”

Her shook and she felt something sink within her heart.

“Join me… Ember~” he spread his arms out, “You’re… family…”

“My what!?”

Now she was able to push herself off the ground, stepping back as Eggman moved forward, snickering…

“Hohoho… Yes, indeed. Ember. For burning passion and everlasting flames that never burn out of loyal love! This is what your name means… I could teach you about yourself… the many things you possess… the many things you can do…”

He lifted his pointer finger up, winking beneath the glasses before moving closer to her.

Shadows of their silhouettes loomed behind Cubot and Orbot as the two watched the scene. Scarily enough, as Eggman grew closer, his shadow turned more diabolical, and Ember’s began to decrease in size…

“We could make this world anew… the way dear old Grandfather Gerald hoped it would be…”

“S-…Stop talking. You don’t even know him!” she struck her foot hard to the metal floor, a vibration came off of it that stopped Eggman’s eager approach. Her tail swished behind her, readying for a counter…

“Oh? Do I?” he leaned back, his smile growing and curving up across his face. “No sick. No afflictions of any kind. A world without sorrow and hunger… an immortal realm of perfection.” He spread his arms out, stating his grandfather’s ideals as though it were poetry.

“You… weren’t you designed to sustain these ideals?” he raised an pronounced eyebrow up, looking back to her. “I mean… you were designed to protect Shadow, and all other experiments. To keep them doing their jobs… After all…” He put his hands behind his back, leaning forward with an all-knowing look and losing his smile. “Shadow was the cure. You were to deliver the package safe and sound…”

“I…” she gulped, unsure if that really was the meaning behind her life. “I’m a delivery girl?”

“Hmm?” He blinked his eyes, surprised by that. He then leaned his head back and let out a mighty laughter, making her flustered and embarrassed as she growled.

“What’s so funny!?”

“Hoho! I meant that figuratively, my dear. This… wonderland that I’m proposing… it’s what you and the doctor always wanted. Even Maria would have been satisfied…” he outstretched a hand to her. “Join me… it’ll be fun.”

She stared at the hand… remembering how Shadow’s hand outstretched to her but she chose not to take it.

She looked away.

“Come… now… be a good little guard dog.” He smirked wider now, his eyebrows coming down slightly as Cubot and Orbot rushed over to her.

“It is rather fun.” Orbot admitted.

“Well, when you stay on his good side.” Cubot countered.

“Ember…”

She froze.

“What would dear old Grandpappy want..?”

Her shoulders fell slightly…

“My Ember…”

She looked up, eyes filled with purpose and determination.

Shadow races through the barren streets, looking to see Chaos and Metal Sonic have disappeared. “Where is she..?” he mutters to himself, whispering it as a quiet plea it seemed to find her. His head shifted back and forth, “She couldn’t have gone far…” worry seemed almost apparent in his voice as though he wasn’t trying to hide it.

“HYAH!”

“What!?”

He spun around, getting taken down by an unknown enemy.

He tossed and fought through the fog…

Gripping their hands, he held the enemy in a lock in front of him. “Show yourself, you coward!” he spoke through gritted teeth.

As the fog cleared, Ember breathed heavily, matching his power…

His eyes widened, “What..? Ember..?”

“WHOHOHOHO!” Eggman’s eggmobile floated down from the smoke above. “HOHOH-ACK! HOFF, HOGH, HAR!” he coughed from the smog and lifted a foot up, standing in his carrier to hack out the dust that entered his lungs, among other unwanted chemicals…

He wiped his mouth and then sneered down to Shadow. “At least one of you is proving useful! Behold! My great grandfather’s experiments do still remember their purposes!!! To serve me!”

“Ember…” he glared at her, but his eyes looked torn between fighting her or not. “What’s going on? What did he bribe you with?”

“No bribe, simply loyalties.” Eggman took out a handkerchief, blowing into it. “Poor little dear…” he faked sobbing, “All she ever wanted to serve her delightful creators. And now that she has one again, she’s putting everything else aside to serve her dear family~”

“Ember, no!” At the word ‘family’, Shadow’s eyes widened in horror. “He’s lying to you!”

“I’m more of a father than you are a brother. After all, tossing her to the side? Tsk, tsk, tsk.” He shook his head, waving his finger as a scold. “You should know better. Well, Ember knows her place now. Best to serve real family than those who refuse to be so!”

“Ember… you’re better than this!” he pushed back against her power, but she stepped forward and challenged it.

“…I…” he looked a little shaken up, something she wasn’t used to seeing. “I don’t want to hurt you…”

“Heeeeh… too late for that. Ember! Dispose of him! He’s not upholding the measure of his creation!” Eggman rose up again, swiping out his hand in a dictator fashion.

“Roger.” Ember cried out and swung Shadow over herself, causing him to crash down.

“Erk!” he sweated profusely against the new outcome… he rolled into a ball to avoid most of the damage, hitting her away by rushing into her gut in a spin-dash, then uncurling away. “Ember, what is this madness?! Your purpose is to be my companion!”

She turned around, smiling. “No…” She swiped a Chaos attack back at him, but he dodged the air slash…

Still looking torn, his eyes shook as he narrowed his stare at her, unable to bear a glare…

“I was designed to keep you in check. Just in case you failed your purpose and went on the unbeaten path.” She rose her head up.

“And looks like you did…”

“Destroy him!”

“Is this about G.U.N?!”

He dodged another attack as she raced up to swipe her deadly claws at him.

Jumping from building to building, the two began a chase, which Eggman followed willingly, enjoying the spectacle.

“Ember! Don’t do this..!” he cried back, “Chaos Spears!” he swiped his arm and yellow spears of energy mass were created, hovering for a second in the air, remaining still until shooting forth after her.

She raced between them, jumping from left to right, before crossing her arms and then slashing them out to cut the beam in half.

His eyes twitched again, her power was much like his.

Since he was startled and in the air, Ember used this chance to leap up, slamming him down.

“WHOHOHOHO!” Eggman stuck up his nose and showed his mouth creating an ‘o’ as he laughed. “Splendid! She’s proving more useful then you ever were, Shadow!”

As they crashed through old, half-burnt buildings, they finally hit a floor that wasn’t just loose debris, but sturdy enough that it could catch their fall.

She held him down by his neck as he looked up to her, reaching for his power limiters…

“Ember…” He wearily spoke out, straining against her hold. “You leave me no choice… I… I didn’t want to lose you… but …” he began slipping one off, “I can’t lose the world… Maria… I promised to give the world she loved a chance… she… she loved it so much…” he was about to get it off before a dainty and gentle hand was placed over his own.

“What?” he looked up, amazed.

Ember smiled lovingly down to him.

“No need…” she stated.

“Brother.”

“Ember..?”

His eyes shook in awe, but she slowly leaned up and off of him.

“I know how to stop Eggman. I gained his trust long enough to at least secure that.”

She winked, flicking her tail.

“Honestly, did you really think I’d get so butt hurt over one little toss?”

She rotated her shoulder, feeling it a bit hurt from the fall and then extended her hand to him, leaning down.

“Let’s defeat him… Together, Shadow.”

He stared for some time, leaning up and then smiling down as he closed his eyes and put his limiters back on.

“I should have known… a double-agent.”

He then looked up with a much kinder expression.

“See? I know my purpose.”

He lifts his hand.

“And what’s that?”

His smile is contagious, and she smiles bigger as well.

“Taking care of my little brother.”

“…Excuse me?”

He looks unamused by that phrase.

“Alright, alright.” She giggles, “Being your helping hand…”

He smiles again, taking her hand with as he’s hoisted up from his spot.

“Then let’s take him down… Sister.”

She squees in delight, crunching her body up tightly and lifting a leg up, glad he finally said it!

“It’s about time!” she exclaimed.

As they came out, they both targeted Eggman’s eggmoblie, holding one another’s hand and remaining close in their leap skyward.

“H-huh!?!?!?” He rears back, moving out of their way. “What’s this!?”

She looks over to see him smiling again, ‘I’m so glad…’ she thinks to herself.

‘He seemed so shaken up when he thought he had to stop me… I’m glad I know my true purpose.’

She then turned back to Eggman, a look of fierce conviction on her face.

‘…To never break his heart…’

After a huge explosion and Shadow and Ember taking down some of Eggman’s forces… Eggman flies home on a half-broken Eggmobile, smoky from hits and his head all crisped up from their Chaos attacks.

He falls onto the floor and starts bashing his huge fists into it. “It’s not fair! It’s not fair! Everything was looking up so well…” Eggman sprayed chibi-tears, whining about his mishap of trusting Ember.

“Sir… if I may…” Orbot hovers over, typing some things into the monitor as Eggman throws his tantrum, kicking and crying, before looking over to the screen.

“Hmm?”

Cubot wipes his tear with a handerchief, “Here, blow.” He instructs lovingly as Eggman turns back, broken down and defeated, and blows his nose into it.

“Yuck! This blows!” Cubot didn’t like the snot on his hand and ended up making a pun as the handerchief stuck to him. He waved his robotic hand frantically around in disgust, “Ahh..ahhh!!!” flying around in despaired distraught before Orbot showed the mercenary group he mentioned beforehand.

“There. Now these are some of our finest allies! You should hire them.” Orbot scanned the screen closer in on the face of their leader…

“Oddly enough, he’s never known defeat. Sound promising, boss?” Orbot turned to look back at him as the screen kept closing in on the main leader…

Eggman sees them,…

Then the leader.

 He smirks with a shine in his glasses…

“They’re perfect. Hehehe…hohoho…WHAHAHAHA!”

End.

[unholyhelbiglinked]

The Attic | Part Three

CHECK OUT THE REST OF THE STORY HERE

She stared carefully at the locked chest- a giant mechanism made out of deep cherry wood and plastered gold buttons. It was locked, locked from the outside in. Its rosy exterior was chipping away to weathering and rust- making the thing look more like it belonged in the cargo hold of the RMS Titanic than in Chloe’s attic. What used to be her attic.

Her knee was aching against aged wood, hand draped lazily on the leg that was raised. The young redhead was kneeling so close to the thing that she hadn’t even realized when her toes started to lose feeling at the mercy of gravity. That damned silver flashlight was still clenched in her chaotic grip. She refused to let it go.

Chloe’s hair was still damp from her morning shower, breath short and labored as she clenched her deathly blue eyes shut. The water was still running, pipes groaning past a rusty edge as she struggled to regulate her thoughts. It was no secret that the Beale family was harboring their own secrets- even when Chloe’s mother came down with stage four cancer. It was too late to operate, too far gone to catch any type of relief. It was a secret the young woman had harbored, even from Beca, through most of college.

A thick spark of guilt still plagued her for that, knowing that the young brunette would just try her best to make Chloe feel like she wasn’t alone in this cruel world, but Chloe had no problem with being alone. She actually craved it when she heard the news from her mom over the phone. She needed space- needed a second to separate her crowded thoughts like strands of sweet and sickly licorice. Those red ropes edging towards disgusting after shoving too many into your mouth.

It still didn’t explain why she felt the need to sneak away from the steam filled bathroom and into the attic. It left such a sour taste in her mouth- thinking of the two women who were the most important to her sitting in a half-filled kitchen with nothing more to dwell on than the expertly carved sidings and stained kitchen floor. They would kill each other in a few minutes of their buffer didn’t finish up her quick shower- except it wasn’t so quick. Chloe was very much rooted in her spot.

She knew she had seen Roman numerals before- Latin being something her family edged into her mind. Even if it was a dead language. It was insightful and in ways mysterious to have a certain understanding of why words were the way they were- why the English language ticked like a slowly counting bomb that could be rearranged and cut in different ways.

It was this chest.

She could never get into it- not when she was forced to clean the attic when she was younger or now as a fully-grown adult with a pension for pouting and using those same blue eyes to get her way. The fact was, Chloe Beale couldn’t have her way with this little family relic. Not until now. Not until she held that little piece of parchment between aching fingers.  

There was a lock, one with four slots. Each one could be turned and fiddled with until they displayed some type of number. The numbers that were most likely in the girls grasp now- her breath caught in her throat as she flicked her gaze haphazardly towards the trap door to the attic once more. It was no or never- soon Aubrey would press her knuckle against the door to the bathroom and bust it down soon after if she didn’t receive some form of life.

Chloe steadied herself, whimpering slightly as she pressed the pad of her index finger easily against the first number. Three. A slight click moving through the air as the lock loosened. That was a good sign, a one in nine chance that maybe the next couple of numbers would fit and morph to her touch.

Four.

Seven.

Thirty-Five.

The last number was an outlier, something that made Chloe crease her brow as she placed both palms along the edge of the chest, situating her touch until she had a good grip on the varnished wood. She pulled back slightly, breath held in her throat as she listened for that familiar pop of stale air rushing out of a composed compartment. This time it brought a rough and rancid scent to the woman’s lungs- making her bite her tongue.

Chloe leaned back on her ankles, lifting the large top with a creak- two large leather ropes held the two pieces together, strained and taut from the extra weight that was now added to its pull. The inside of the chest was lined with deep wallpaper- buds of red petals spreading across an off-white background. It was peeling where the cherry wood met the parchment, waterlogged and stained.

Chloe leaned forward, peering into the dark case. Such a large container felt excessive for the bound leather book that rested in the right corner, a dark square compared to the overwhelming color. A smaller black box rested right next to the bound literature- Chloe’s mouth edging into the far side of dry as she ran her fingers over the cover- it was rough and unforgivable against her skin- sending a chill through the base of her spine.

“This doesn’t make sense.” She mumbled to herself because no, it didn’t. Her mother was a very private person during her final years, but the girl had attributed that to her lack of good health. She in no way figured some random old flashlight would lead to something like this- a stack of family secrets that she had no business digging through.

She pulled the book from the bin, moving back to her original position on her ankles. They stung as the girl worked at the leather knot that tied the pages together- an odd sound filled the air, mold thick in her lungs as she pulled the cover apart. The parchment creaked, it was the same paper that the code for the lock was scrawled on- the coloring dark and changed.

“Librum vitae et mortis” The Red Head mumbled, running the pads of her fingers over the slightly raised text on the first page, the letters in fine and drawn out cursive. Speaking the words made a burning edge press against the inside of Chloe’s throat, but she swallowed it down.

The girl shook her head as she set the book aside, making a mental note of reading through it later. Instead, she grasped the other item in the box; a velvet box that was fastened with yet another clasp, this time without an impenetrable lock- just a magnet that gave some resistance against her pull.

There was a silk lining, a single yellowed lightbulb nestled within its deep blue clutches. A single light bulb that looked like it belonged nestled in the very light that Chloe had set aside to her right- her gaze flashing towards the silver casing as she drew in a breath. Why so much protection for a three-dollar bulb?  

Chloe shifted with uneasiness next to her girlfriend, the usually outgoing and cheery girl was drawn in on herself. It was understandable, really, it was. Chloe was standing in the middle of her childhood living room while random people combed through the furniture that she had struggled to part with in the first place.

Aubrey had dutifully taken over the role as the main speaker in this situation, greeting people with a dazzling, yet forced, grin. It came from her years working in retail; the push and pull of the job based off how well you could convince people that you were actually enjoying yourself. She wasn’t. No one really was. Not of the three girls who have tucked away into themselves.

Beca kept a keen eye on the woman next to her, glancing up into ultramarine eyes whenever she allowed her gaze to wonder. Chloe was checked out- her expression glazed over and distant as she shifted her weight from one foot to another- on occasion giving the smaller brunette a struggled smile.

“Chlo?” She finally tried, feeling out each syllable as she caught the Red Head’s attention. She pursed her lips, waiting for Beca to speak. “Do you maybe want to get some air?”

A strange look crossed Chloe’s features. Did she want some air? There was plenty of it in the house- though stale and dusty, it was still there. Aubrey’s own stare flashed away from showing a younger couple a pair of edged candlesticks, waiting for a response that would allow her to release half the breath she stored in her throat. Her company clearly didn’t trust her stability in this situation.

“Yeah, Beca. Let’s go get some air.” She mumbled, surrendering not to herself, but to her girl. It would make the smaller woman feel some degree of comfort that Chloe knew she had been craving since she stepped foot into the old Victorian. She had done so without asking too many questions or pushing too hard on subjects she knew Chloe was willing to bury. So of course, Chloe would get some air with her girlfriend. Aubrey had things handled in here.

She leads the way to the back door, abandoning the thoughts of pushing past a few questioning people who stared longingly at the stained glass doors. The sun streamed against them in such a poetic way- casting a deep crimson onto the hardwood floor- catching the particles of dust that had stirred from every aspect of the house.

The Georgia air was hot and unbearable, instantly pushing her back into the mindset of the attic. She had left the light up there- doing so much as placing it into the locked chest itself before realigning the books that had been placed on top of it, so it didn’t’ look too disturbed. She didn’t know why, but she wanted it to look exactly the way she found the scene.

Chloe lowered herself into the white painted bench that hung from two weathered chains- they were once silver and glowing but had surrendered themselves to the mercy of the weather. They held up nicely, though, creaking and growing as she flopped down against the heated wood, Beca following suit with a little more grace as she placed her palm on Chloe’s knee, squeezing it with nothing more but comfort.

They sat in silence.

Beca was worried, worried that Chloe had stepped foot back into this house and clung to memories that were etched into old scrapbooks. The younger woman knew this house like the back of her hands based off of old polaroid’s and stories that the Red Head had pulled back enough to share with her. She could pinpoint exactly where her mother had marked up her children’s height- even if it had been painted over since then for continuity, as Aubrey put it.

“You okay?” Beca finally asked, not taking her stare off of the fence that was directly in front of them- she had her main focus on a little hole in the wood, knowing that it was better than continuing to glance around the yard in distraction. She already knew the answer.

“I went back into the attic,” Chloe spoke, ignoring the question. Beca didn’t pry.

“I thought we finished clearing that out last night.”

“We did,” Chloe said she was staring down at her feet- they touched the marble patio while Beca’s hovered a bit over the grout that so desperately needed to be scrubbed. It wasn’t her problem though, it was the next owners- if anyone could ever take this place off the market. “Except for that chest.”

“The thing you couldn’t open?” Beca’s voice raised at the prospect of a little mystery. This was the south, she was admittedly bored out of her mind when it came to everything that happened around here. The most heat she had gotten was when they went out to lunch at a small café the other day and the waitress almost pitched a fit over what was considered sweet tea.

Beca didn’t know there was a difference, but from the pleading look, she got from Chloe she knew to drop the subject and suffered through a drink that made her teeth buzz and stomach churn. There was in fact, a difference.

“Mm,” Chloe hummed, wanting to delve into the mystery more than into her own mommy issues at this point. “That paper that fell out of the flashlight opened it up- I knew those numbers looked familiar.”

“Oh?” Beca knit her eyebrows together as she faced Chloe. The smaller girl looked a bit uncomfortable with the subject, but if this is what Chloe wanted to focus on for the next couple of days of their stay then she would very clearly submit. “Anything interesting?”

“A book,” Chloe chuckled at the odd look on Beca’s face “So clearly not interesting to you.”

“You know Beale, I can read.” Beca shot off at her girlfriend with a playful shove of the shoulder, making the bench creak and groan under them. It didn’t seem to bother either of them, though.

“Not Latin,” Chloe defended with a smile. “And neither can I. Not quickly anyway… I think we should sit down and actually look through it tonight.”

“Okay.” Beca sounded out the words slowly and carefully. She had been doing that a lot lately. Making sure that she kept her sentences well thought out. Chloe didn’t mind, she could wait. She knew Beca always needed to craft what she wanted to say. It was nice, really, that the younger girl cared enough about what she said to mull over it. Besides, her face looked endearing when it was all scrunched up and concerned. “I’ll consent to that. But no freaky candles or Ouija boards, alright?”

Chloe let out a throaty scoff. Her family wouldn’t allow one of those in the house anyway. They weren’t toys, and she knew that. But something told her- this flashlight was a little more than just a simple appliance.  

[where-ls-my-mlnd]

“Okay, okay. I’ll do it.” These words sound like music to my ears more than the fast, lively, pulsating beat blasting from the speakers does, and an excited squeal jumps out of me as he slips out of my grasp and steps to the side. Fuck yeah man, this is your moment... you better make this dancefloor your bitch! The spotlight is on you, what are you gonna do? What kind of wild shit are you gonna pull? What kind of moves are you gonna bust— Oh… Oh my GOD, I’M GONNA LOSE MY SHIT… Jesus, fuck, god, what is that?! He’s not busting any moves, not even close; in fact, I fear I’m gonna bust my ass ‘cause I’m having trouble standing watching this unfold. I want to look away, but my attention has already been captured with such force that I can’t look away. It’s so bad! I don’t even know why, either, it’s just, like, his movements, man… his movements are so deeply unnatural and his posture is so stiff, and yet there’s something endearing about his awkward little jig, something familiar that triggers extremely unpleasant memories, and they play in my head as I realize I’m witnessing once again the awkward and unsure physicality of a teenage boy. It all fucking clicks now. The way his skinny little shoulders shimmy, the way he bops his head, the way his eyes dart across the room. He looks so goddamn self-conscious because he could never be anything but at this age. It’s a curse that will only break with time. Yet this newfound revelation does nothing to stop me erupting into laughter, the sound ringing out bright and full and with an edge of tipsiness to it as I clutch my stomach, fumbling desperately for purchase so my knees won’t give out the way I’m scared they will. “Whatcha laughing at, man?” He asks, like a little shit, “What’s so funny?” Everything. Everything’s fucking funny. His taunting has the exact effect he wanted it to; my laughter is fucking uncontrollable now, and I try to take these huge gasps for air, but each time I get enough of it back in my lungs, I just start laughing again. Every brief pause is immediately followed by a loud burst of laughter —I physically can’t stop laughing, but because I’m fucking unhinged and crazy like that, I still try to talk to him through the fit I’m having. “J… J, fuck, oh my god, oh my fucking god, J…” I force out, “You fucking - you look like the inflatable tube man! Holy shit! You look like the fucking inflatable tube man! Oh my god!” His only response is to raise both middle fingers in the air. “What are you gonna do when I appear?” He demands to know as he performs his weird little dance for me, and that, combined with the fact that he just quoted Azealia Banks, sends me catapulting off the fucking edge. It’s like dominoes falling into place; I lean forward a little too far and then next thing I know I’m abruptly toppling over. Curiously, the hard, unforgiving collision with the floor never comes, and I’m overpowered by confusion and a little bit of shock that I’m still upright before realizing that the only reason I don’t crash down to the fucking floor is because I fall into J, because he’s using all of his strength to hold me up since I can’t stand on my own. “Oh, J, you kill me… you’re such a fucking bitch… ” I slur out in between intervals of laughter, leaning heavily on him for balance because my legs - god, my fucking legs feel like… like jello or something worthless and gelatinous of the sort. Like they’re well and truly boneless. My body is permanently slanted at this point, and my head lolls back on his shoulder as I say, hysterical, “Please, my stomach hurts…” And I really shouldn’t have said that, because what happens inside of my body after I do is downright ungodly. It’s like I just laid a curse on myself, or maybe I already did that when I downed four — no, what, huh? Was it five? Six? Holy fuck it was six — shots. Because there it is, that suffocating hot flash, like the hands of the devil gripping the back of my neck, and a feeling of cosmic dread washes over me. Oh no. Through the overwhelming heat spreading over my body and my heart beginning to flutter hard against my chest, I try my best to stay calm, to hold out hope that that’s all it is, a hot flash, but that hope is quickly followed by disappointment — the unsettling beginning stage has slammed to a halt and now I’m fully queasy, floaty in the worst way, like I’m barely grounded in the physical realm. My knees are weak and the rest of my body is pulsating with a strong, constant nausea. Fuck, I’m so nauseous it actually hurts. Everything fucking hurts so fucking bad and I just want to lay down and die. But, as horrendous as the feeling I’ve got is, it’s still not so urgent that I genuinely fear something might happen. It’s not until I feel those awful pangs in my side, and the involuntary way my stomach clenches that I have the terrifying initial thought that I may vomit. I may vomit, oh my god… I really don’t want to, but jesus I don’t know how long I can try to ignore this swirling, sickening nausea. It’s so bad, but I need to hold it together, so I stay frozen in place, terrified that any sudden movements will trigger a fit of vomiting. And I can’t have that… I don’t want to, I don’t want to vomit on this sweet child, so I do the best that I can to suppress the feeling, but once a sudden dizzy spell comes over me, I know this is beyond management, and I know I am beyond saving. Because my heart is racing and I feel deathly and everything in this room seems to be rotating at a horrifying pace and that always happens before I vomit, I get so dizzy… and I think god no, not here, not on poor little JJ, not in front of everyone, holy fuck god jesus please… “Oh, oh god, it really does,” the words tumble out in a rush of panic, and then I’m shoving him away from me and breaking into a mad dash across the dancefloor. It’s truly a wonder how I can even do that in this state; I lost the feeling in my legs a long time ago and I’m so shaky all over like I might— no, definitely will collapse at any moment, it makes no sense, I must be running on pure adrenaline. There’s not a single thought in my head, except for the lone, vain prayer that all the long, grueling hours I put in at the gym weren’t for nothing and that I can speed the fuck out of here as fast as humanly possible because the bright, unforgiving lights shining from up above are giving me a splitting headache and it’s so fucking stressful to try to run around these stupid fucking idiots without crashing right into them. God, I hate them all, why the fuck do they have to do this, I am dying! MOVE! I don’t even give a shit when I accidentally bump into some stereotypical Chad and cause him to stumble about five steps backwards, and when his irritating ass voice shouts, “Hey! Watch where you’re going, dick!” I just flip him off, and I don’t even have time to think about how J would laugh at that, I’m just laser-focused on getting to the bathroom. So laser-focused that I don’t even have the capacity to feel grateful when I do; I just launch myself into the first empty stall I see and let my knees give out so I can collapse onto the ground and violently spew into the toilet bowl. God, please be by my side right now...

[ars-simia-animus]

You’ll Rise Up, Free and Easy

Chapter Nine: “Standing by the Luck of Fools”

Summary:

After Ana’s death, Tony’s reckless and self-harmful tendencies begin to peak. Jarvis, however, fully accepts his role as Tony’s father figure, despite everything that had kept him thus far reluctant. The grace he extends toward Tony battles to outmatch the young man’s self-destruction.

In the present, Tony shows signs of the man Jarvis knew he could be. Facing the death of the man whom he needed his entire life, Tony has the chance to resist the unhealthy coping methods of his past.

Trigger warnings for this chapter: violence typical of bare-knuckle fisticuffs; mentions of alcohol abuse, including underaged drinking; verbal child abuse.

Read after the break:

November, 1877

Tony felt the unforgiving stake against his back, raking him slightly as he dropped onto the stool. His busted knuckles tickled in this state of euphoric disorientation. Later, though, they would need to be mollified with laudanum. The hive of moving bodies in the sports club droned dully. The excitement of the spectators echoed every sensation, enthralling or painful, within him.

Better than sex — his usual wry mantra played, as though on a gramophone, echoing in his chest. His right hand searched for the jug he kept in his corner. All he succeeded to do, though, was catch his wrist drunkenly on the bottom rope several times. He tried to clear his vision, stretching the eyelids of his right eye against a swelling pocket of blood beside it.

Rhodey’s voice entered his ear. “How many trains do you plan to let run you down today?”

Tony felt a cool glass jug pushed into his grasp. He laughed wetly, as though the sound was bleeding, too. A damp rag passed over his forehead. “Hush, Mama Hen, they’re only men .” He hefted the jug to his lips, but was panting too hard yet to drink.

“Yeah, so are you.” Rhodey muttered, running the cloth over the back of his friend’s neck.

Finally able to take a swig from the jug, Tony ignored the comment. Then, he sputtered. “This— this isn’t mine.” Tony craned his neck, looking at the ground.

“No, it isn’t.” Rhodey took the opportunity to towel Tony’s right brow, swiping the goose egg only slightly more tenderly.

“Where’s the jug I had?” Tony puffed, hearing the 30-second bell clang. He needed to get back to his mark; his legs lifted him on instinct. “What’d you do with it?”

“Someone’s holding onto it for you. Drink the water!” Rhodey insistently pushed the jar toward Tony’s face.

“Why would you move it?” He resisted.

The official and Tony’s opponent stood in the ring’s center; he could hear the official calling. Four seconds .

“Because you should not be in that ring in this condition and I’ll tell the official next time there’s moonshine in your corner.” Rhodey emphasized the threat with a glare. “You’re going to get killed.”

Instead of drinking the water, Tony dumped the entire jug over his head and back, feeling it separate from the feverish perspiration there. He sauntered backwards, as the official gave him two seconds’ warning. The jug landed heavily at Rhodey’s feet. “Save the undertaker a step.”

The official deemed him up to scratch and signaled for the bell. His opponent, blond and broad and svelte, stood more than a foot taller, his shoulders wider by half that, and his countenance that of not only an older man, but disciplined, military . For all anyone could guess, he was a soldier stopped over in Boston.

Battered around his calm face, he nevertheless didn’t seem inclined to quit. Likely, he could have toppled an oak with his jab. His stance was nearly unyielding.

Tony was stockier and coarser, but faster, … Very obviously, he was younger, as well. His twenty-year-old body was still curved here, but cut here— soft there but hale, overall. The impact of his strikes couldn't have measured that of the blond’s according to any law of physics. However, he was as tenacious a swarmer as the club had ever seen.

Over the past two years, he’d won an impressive career, bombarding opponents to the point they couldn’t breathe. What the blond could not rival was the charisma of Tony’s form. He was passionate, eager, overwhelming, and, with the moonshine firing through his brain, brash and stupid .

Deadly — not least of all to himself.

Such was Jarvis’s anxious assessment from his place among the spectators. He gripped the ceramic jug on his lap, the acrid smell of corn whiskey wafting up. As Jarvis watched, he gradually loosened his hold on the vessel. He set down the jug two rounds later. The round after, he was on his feet. But, Tony was on the ground.

January, 1872

The light filtering through the smoke-filthy window of the hotel car stung Tony’s eyes. He submitted to the discomfort, blinking slowly. Stubbornly, he pressed his forehead against the rattling pane, wishing he were still in bed. Why did he need to take the 5:30 train? Couldn’t his parents wait until after breakfast to ship him off to the academy?

The holiday had been a strain on everyone’s resilience. Maria appeared to be attempting a maternal role. The charade made Tony scoff. Little late . Yet, he somehow still accepted the attention, all the while feeling ashamed for it.

Howard had wreathed himself in rowdy associates. They played billiards or darts in the smoking rooms and called for Tony every so often to measure him up against themselves in some way. Could he hear a raunchy story without blushing? Could he tell one? Could he hit a curve shot? Could he drain a tumbler of scotch whiskey or rum or vodka?

He had not talked to Jarvis, beyond routine interactions, all throughout his stay at home.

Tony suspected that Jarvis wanted to speak with him— wanted to address their discomfiture and what had happened at Ana’s gravestone, but Tony made certain that they were never alone. He knew Jarvis would not broach the subject without privacy. And, Tony couldn’t bear it. This often meant answering Howard’s invitation to be an entertainment for his guests. It was abhorrent. Tony rapped his head against the train car’s window at the surge of mortified rage.

“Come on, Howard!” Mr. Stane’s booming voice. “The boy’s balls aren't heavy enough yet.”

“Have the nurse bring him up some milk…” Another man, slovenly after hours of their debauchery.

Howard refuted their comments. “No, it’s time he was weaned! Why, at his age, I was having a glass with dinner every evening.”

But, those voices didn’t belong to the past three weeks. He had been twelve when he heard them. Jarvis, who was always present when Howard’s associates were visiting, had clicked his tongue, signaled Howard with a discreet flick of his eyebrow, and tried to divert any escalation. Tony was resentful— of Jarvis’s meddling, of the men’s baiting, and his own childish insecurity. He shot the whiskey down his throat like a bullet. It returned, into an empty fireplace, like a hailstorm.

Ever since leaving the Jarvis cottage, after nearly freezing to death, after vomiting on Mrs. Ana’s grave , the hair on his neck would rear up when a glass was pressed in his hand; he spared glimpses toward Jarvis when he raised it to his lips, remembering Jarvis’s prohibition. Not a sip . But, of course, the butler’s face was impassive; his eyes, indifferently gazing toward the opposite wall. The sight of detachment drove sobs into Tony’s jaw. He fell helplessly into angst and drank the liquor, receiving Howard’s mild approval.

When he had been twelve, retching into the bare-stone fireplace, Jarvis’s warm hand rubbed his back. “Better to expel it all, Young Sir, if you’re able.” He murmured, the only sound in the empty room where he’d carried Tony.

Tony leaned on Jarvis’s arm, coughing, nearly crying. Jarvis combed back his hair in a motion that also quelled the dizziness. “You’re doing well. Good lad... Good lad.” He didn’t lecture Tony. Always, always, he forgave too easily. Could it be that he didn’t expect enough from Tony?

“Well! I was given a son after all.” Howard had wandered in as the boy projected whiskey from his traumatized throat. Tony discerned his entrance with terror. Unconsciously, he shrank against Jarvis’s chest-- but lunged forward to retch again. His father made a small, pitying harrumph. “I didn’t think he’d be so susceptible to it.” Howard remarked.

Tony knew what Howard hoped to accomplish— to refine him. He was slicing away the impurities like a pearl diver did his prize. Once he was rid of deficits— perversions— he would be unveiled, a perfect reflection of his father’s image. A testament of superiority meant to outlast him. Someday, at least; but, for now, he was only a cut out figure in a shadow play.

Jarvis stiffly inhaled. His soft reassurances became quieter. Howard retreated, with a lingering hum. When Tony finally spit and glanced up, Jarvis’s face, gaze askance, was severe. Silently, he wiped Tony’s face with his handkerchief; then, he began to sweep out the hearth.

Tony fled.

For a long time, he was miserable. He hid in the attic, thinking Jarvis was cross with him for vomiting and soiling the fireplace. It wasn’t until Ana discovered him, and reassured him, that he left. “Mr. Jarvis is not angry with you,” she said. “You should not have been given that glass; he is angry at the man who pushed it into your hand.”

The man … And there it was again. Howard was a man; Tony was something lesser. Impotent. Defenseless. How many nightmares had he had recently in which Howard was over him? In which his hand or knee pinned Tony down? Tony punched and jabbed but the strikes never landed...

The train picked up speed; the rattling glass became too much for Tony. He leaned back against the cushioned bench and stared at the underside of his sleeping bunk. Fortunately, his compartment was empty except for him. This early in the morning, there was not high demand for hotel cars; the journey to Boston, in particular, was short enough. No stories from middle-aged businessmen , he thought, thankfully. He just wanted to be alone.

There was a knock on the door. Tony sighed. It was probably an attendant, offering some service or other. They were becoming more and more ridiculous. Ignoring it did not work; another knock came a moment after. “Thanks, but I’ve no need to have my shoelaces evened or my hat dusted or whatever else.” He called in a tested tone.

“Considering the journey’s only just begun, that is a relief, certainly,” Jarvis’s voice returned.

Tony jolted, heart suddenly racing. “J? What are you doing here?”

“Might I come in to answer?” Jarvis quipped, through the car’s door. “This seems a bit undignified.”

Tony hopped from the bench. Exasperated, he said, “Of course! Come in!” and the door opened. Jarvis, wearing a casual, traveling outfit, thanked him and entered. In his hands was a package that Tony recognized. Tony stammered: “Wha— J— th-the train’s moving!”

Jarvis glanced out the window at the passing countryside. He hummed, almost contentedly. “Yes, Young Sir, they typically try to keep to their schedules. Were the train still at the station, passengers in Stamford would be quite inconvenienced.”

Tony stared at him. He took in the sight of Jarvis in his long wool coat and wide-brimmed hat. He seemed very ordinary, standing with Tony on the train. “Are you going somewhere?” Tony asked and Jarvis let slip a smile at his incredulousness.

Jarvis breathed a sigh, still watching the scene outside. “I thought I might take a day trip. I haven’t had a holiday in some time.” He turned his eyes to Tony. “And I wanted to speak to you, before you left for the spring semester. May I join you, briefly?”

“I—“ Tony felt the shattered apathy of his solitude fall away. As he lowered himself onto the bench, his awkwardness seemed to clack against his joints, like door clappers, announcing itself. He nodded.

Jarvis sat, giving him room; still, Tony felt warmth radiating from him, a comfort in the drafty train car. Jarvis laid the brown paper package on his lap. Without any further pretense, he spoke. “Please forgive me,” he said, “for addressing you so harshly that day. I have no right to forbid your actions. I am not your—“

“J, please!” Tony shook his head. His throat bobbed. “I acted like a fool and that’s the end of it.”

Jarvis lowered his voice. “The foolishness did not end with your choices.” Then he paused so long that Tony looked at him. Though his face was tearless, it trembled, resembling itself the night Tony discovered him bowed over the kitchen table. Finally, Jarvis cleared his throat, turned to him, and Tony heard his breath catch. He tenderly brushed a thumb over Tony’s cheek. “I thought I would lose you, Little One. And, I did not behave well under that fear.”

Though he wanted to insist on Jarvis’s innocence, Tony didn’t. This conversation needed to end; it hurt too much. Perhaps, if he didn’t feed into it, it would. Feigning nonchalance, he shrugged. “I am sorry that I frightened you— and just after you had— lost Mrs. Ana, and— and, your son, or, daughter.”

There was silence. Jarvis regarded him strangely. Hinging back and forth, his jaw attempted to form a reply. “My Ana’s death… or the proximity of it… had no bearing on my reaction. I would never wish to lose you. No matter when or how.”

Before Tony could react beyond a quick swallow of his tight throat, Jarvis lifted the paper-wrapped package and changed the subject. “I realized that you may not have wished to accept this while there were uneasy feelings between us. I hope you can receive it now, in peace.” He proffered the bundle and Tony, obediently, took it.

As though the bundle had anchored him, Jarvis stood. “I will take my leave now, Young Sir. I have a seat in Passenger Car C, if you require me. Perhaps we may take lunch together later.” He smiled and the significance of his invitation, willful breaking of their societal barriers in public, was not lost on Tony. Then, Jarvis excused himself.

Left alone, Tony sighed and rubbed the tag — “For my Little Mister”— between his fingers. He contemplated putting the bundle away, under the bench, or on the bunk over his head. Jarvis’s assumption had been right; he couldn’t bring himself to open the package— so like a gift— when Jarvis was angry with him, as he’d felt. However, there was more to his reluctance.

It seemed that Mrs. Ana was trying to say goodbye.

Yet, how long could he resist her? It was no easier now than it had ever been. He pulled on the waxed string holding the brown paper closed. Unwrapping it slowly, he revealed several large portfolio sketchbooks and folded, blue architect’s paper. Of course, as he dreaded, there was a letter tucked within the leather face of the first portfolio binder. Mrs. Ana said her goodbye.

January, 1903

Peter stared at Tony’s haggard face in disbelief. “Mr. Stark, are—?” He said, but stopped. There was too much to say. Half his thoughts were scattered, either somewhere behind him, still down the hallway, fumbling, or, somewhere far ahead, on his mentor’s proud face when he told him that he would honor Tony’s wishes for him to attend school.

He was so happy to see Tony— he felt his spirit lifting— and yet…

The other half of his mind was mired in concern. His mentor stood, windlashed, grayed, and burdened. A frazzled energy thrummed around his eyes and in his hands, but otherwise, his skin hung heavy from the bone. Peter nearly reached out to steady his leaning frame. This was not his longed-for chance to reconcile with Mr. Stark after all.

“Hmm?” Tony prompted.

“I— I would love to, sir, but...” Peter paused again. “Are you sure?” He let the sound dangle, hoping it was clear what he meant. Tony, it seemed, was pretending, willfully detached from the painful reality that must be. Peter didn’t want to be the conduit, the door through which that reality entered— returning only to hurt Tony.

“About putting on boots and something more than pajamas?” Tony quipped. “I’m very sure; in fact, if you’re not in too much of a hurry, at least step off the ice, kid.” Pushing gently with gloved hands, he steered Peter back into the house. He followed, listening to Peter blunder.

“No, I mean, are you sure— right now—? I thought you were,” Peter hedged. “With Mr. Jarvis?”

Tony nodded, twirling toward the coat rack to disguise a sigh. “I was, but...” He paused, hefting a breath like a heavy responsibility. “I have some time, and I remembered that I had promised to take you to the University library.”

“Sir,” Peter said, watching him shrug off his coat. Knots formed over Peter’s brow. Meanwhile, Tony shoved his speech between them.

“I feel awful about not following through on that.” Tony trailed.

“Really, you don’t need— Shouldn't you be—?” Peter spoke up, but Tony’s dialogue trod over him still.

“After all, we left off a little disagreeably last time. So, here I am.” Tony sighed again, expectantly. Then, he smiled, but the mirth didn’t reach his eyes— only a polite, social smile.

Meekly, Peter replied, “ Should you be here, though, sir?”

The look that met him was knowing yet stubborn. Tony nodded, a bit spastically. “Well, Pete,” Tony said, dragging a thumb across his forehead. “Dr. Pym is overseeing the preparations for burial. Rhodey’s getting the cottage ready to receive guests. Pepper is handling… well, everything else, with Friday’s help. Hell , even the stone’s been engraved already. I could have...” Tony chewed on his bitter thoughts a moment. “Everything’s done.”

The impulse Peter had felt for nearly the past week, to tell Tony he would go to school as his mentor wanted, rose.  He bit it back. Instead, he searched his mind for the right words of condolences.

He remembered Ben’s death— his shrouded body lying on the floor; Ned next to Peter, on the broad windowsill that led to their apartment’s fire escape, while Mrs. Leeds sat shiva and May went to buy a plot in the graveyard; the collection of cash in a bread basket that came from friends and neighbors to help pay for Ben’s grave marker; the lid of the cedar box, set with finality. He remembered how May began to sit in places Ben had sat and sleep on the side of the bed where he’d always lain— so those spaces wouldn’t be empty.

That’s right… She used to sit at a different chair at the table... He couldn’t think which it had been.

Also, he remembered walking to the synagogue on Eldridge St. for the next year and speaking the Kaddish for Ben, as a son should. He recalled that strange coating in his throat when the adults began to insist that death was always natural. That grieving ends. Yet, how was it natural to be murdered ? Why would he ever forget the loss of his uncle, like the loss of the sun’s warmth in winter?

Then, he would feel again the churning in his abdomen, persistent— his guilt. Ben should not have been working in that factory. He should have been in Philadelphia, living a life uninterrupted ; but instead, he had moved to that squalid apartment with only a portion of his life’s possessions and worked in that infernal factory, all because of Peter.

No, Peter didn’t know what to say to comfort Tony. Nothing anyone had said to him ever helped. Only when May allowed him to climb into her lap, to stay wrapped in her arms until his legs were numb beneath him, did his heart begin its metamorphosis. In that embrace, day after day, he healed, selfish though it was. One day, he had finished grieving, without truly understanding when or how.

“I’m sorry, kid.” Tony croaked.

Peter startled from his thoughts.

“This was a mistake.” Tony’s thumb raked his forehead again, more agitatedly this time. “I ought to go. I’m not going to be good company.”

“No,” Peter pleaded. “I’ll get dressed. But, let’s not travel all the way to the University Library. I, I’ll be right out! Please make yourself comfortable!”

Peter scurried to his bedroom, leaving Tony in the vestibule. Tony swayed slightly and patted his sides. Making his way to the dining room, he mused over whether he’d heard Peter’s stomach growl.

January, 1872

Jarvis disliked traveling by train. The sight of the countryside, rolling by as if on a reel, could be whimsical in the spring or summer, or even the autumn. However, not this dismal, snowy landscape. No one was content in the cramped passenger cars. Men smelling of stale cigar smoke were always seated close to him— or else, mothers who disparaged their children ceaselessly, as though they held no shred of affection for them.

His hat was awkwardly balanced on his knees and he held a book atop of that. Reading was a pitiful description of the activity. Between sensory distractions, and worryingly repeating his conversation with Tony, in his head, Jarvis had read the same two sentences four times. Had what he’d said been what the young sir needed to hear?

Ana was always so good with him. She could effortlessly find the reason for his mood, coax him from his palisade, reassure him of her love, and hold him to high, but reasonable, expectations. Jarvis tried to emulate her; but, Ana was so sure and so impertinent with her kindness. He didn’t share her daring— particularly with children.

He remembered once, when Tony had just turned four years old, he’d gone missing one morning, and it was Ana who had earned his trust.

June, 1861

Tony had been missing since the early morning. Jarvis did his share of searching, inwardly berating the nanny, Mrs. Underwood (two nannies prior to Ms. Crawford.) He suspected that she had no actual knowledge of children; however, he knew Howard possessed a particular knowledge of her. At morning tea, however, he returned to his cottage, as he always did, allowing the nursery staff to continue the search without him for a while. After all, it was their responsibility, and the child was likely playing a game with them.

Ana, he found in the garden, constructing a lattice for the ivy. She laid down her hammer and readjusted the scarf around her hair. Without a greeting, she said, “What’s the little mister so afraid of this morning?”

Jarvis halted. “I’m sorry?” After a beat, he realized she was referring to Tony. But, how did she know— had the morning’s hubbub spread this far? “I hadn’t heard he was afraid of anything. Only that he’s missing.”

“Missing?” Ana repeated. “Well, I wouldn’t go so far. He’s been running about here for the last hour.”

Jarvis seldomly lost control of his face; however, he felt his facade morph comically. “Here?” He exclaimed but she only nodded. “And you haven’t alerted anyone?”

Ana snorted. “Didn’t realize it was such a state of emergency. I’ve kept him in my sight; he’s just there.” She twiddled her fingers toward a thicket of rose-of-Sharon trees and Jarvis saw the young child duck behind it.

Honestly, his wife was extraordinary if any person ever had been. “Have you allowed him to just sit in the bushes?” He began to stride toward the rose-of-Sharons. She was skirting the boundary of his patience. It was understandable that she wanted nothing to do with the Starks or the estate, but it was incomprehensible to let a such a small child hide from everyone in the foliage.

“Yes, until he wants to emerge, and you will, too.” Ana declared, stopping him on his path. Her tone changed, laced with concern. “He was very distressed when I first noticed him, poor thing. Wanted to be left alone. He’s been just sitting there, happily watching me hammer for the longest time; until you walked up that is.”

They readied a table in the garden for tea. Ana placed a server of eclairs, scones, and lemon drizzle slices onto the table. The breeze was a bit too strong for tea outdoors, but neither wanted to leave Tony unattended. Jarvis whispered over the snapping tablecloth: “Perhaps he might be coaxed out with a sweet.”

Ana glared at him, however. “Edwin, I do not manipulate children— certainly not with sweets. He told me he wants to be left alone, and, in no uncertain terms. So, we’re leaving him reasonably alone.”

“My dear, he’s four years old,” Jarvis insisted.

“So he’s incapable of rational thought? He’s scared of something, I told you. I know a frightened child when I see one.” With hands hooked on her hips, Ana gazed piteously toward the place where Tony hid. “How long has he been missing?”

“Since he woke, as I understand.”

Suddenly Ana was eager to feed him. “The little mister hasn’t had breakfast? It’s 10:30 already!”

Jarvis snarked something under his breath along the lines of “now it’s permissible to lure him with food, is it?” He watched her walk with bent knees, like an ape, up to the patch of rose of Sharons. She remained twice arms’ length from Tony and spoke to him.

“Are you hungry?”

A few stones flew from the between the branches. They landed, clumsily, so far from her that it was evident he hadn’t aimed to hit her. Jarvis deflated, but Ana’s tone sharpened. “Now that I will not abide. I listen to words, not stones.”

“My love!” he whispered, surprised. After all, she was not his nanny and had no right to correct him so casually, with not so much as an honorific. Jarvis’s reproach, of course, went unheeded.

“Go away!” A tiny voice shouted. The rough edge belied he’d been crying this morning.

As bid, Ana retreated. When she sat and began pouring tea, Jarvis was at his very limit.  “Sit down, Edwin.” She chided. “He’ll come when he no longer suspects we are a threat.”

“Why do you suppose he’s frightened?” He asked, but she only shrugged and stirred milk into her tea. The wind sprayed it from the cup, which she ignored as well. He was irritated by her seeming indifference.

However, he calmed slightly when she placed an eclair on a saucer and called to the rose-of-Sharon trees. “This eclair is for you, Little Mister! I’ll set it here, shall I, for when you want it.” Then, she glanced at her husband, challengingly. “Not a word.”

Jarvis’s lips curled but he hid them with his tea cup.

The little voice, brightened slightly, said: “I want ice cream.”

“I don’t have ice cream. I have eclairs,” Ana said. “And scones and lemon drizzle slices, if you’d rather.”

“Go get ice cream.” Tony offered.

Ana smiled around her bite of scone. She remarked to Jarvis: “Very logical, isn’t he?”

Relief was slowly blooming in Jarvis. He stirred his tea with a stick of cinnamon and settled into routine. Eventually, Tony crept closer and closer. Ana instructed Jarvis silently not to react. He was tempted, as she must have known, to shepherd the child back to the mansion, where he belonged.

When Tony reached the table, Ana handed the eclair to him. He ate it in three bites, impetuously. Ana watched and then poured him some milk. Little hands took it but Tony drank steadily, like an older child. The dichotomy of skill and development would have been humorous under different circumstances.

Finally, Ana asked if he wanted to sit. Tony refused and began to walk back to the trees. Jarvis nearly leapt up, to prevent him, but Ana rose first, following the four-year-old at an unhurried pace. The boy looked at her cautiously, but allowed her to accompany him. Both disappeared, within minutes, behind the rose-of-Sharon trees.

Now what? Jarvis thought. Never had he felt more powerless, and in his own garden… He decided the best he could do was wait until Ana’s plan (if she indeed had one) was brought to fruition. Certainly, there was little point in returning to the mansion only to report that the son of the estate was rooting about in his garden.

Piercing wails began from the patch of trees and Jarvis did leap from his chair this time. He peered into the trees and found his wife, with Tony curled around her neck like a sash, Ana silently stroking his back. Tony was crying in a way that Jarvis had only ever heard described as “a fit.” He was out of control. It frightened Jarvis; he quickly said, “Now that’s enough, Young Sir.”

Ana pinned him with another glare. “Edwin, dear, perhaps you might lend your services by clearing away the tea.”

So, he’d obliged, sulking in a manner very unbecoming of his age, and listened to the sharp gasps and muffled screams. Occasionally, Tony would quiet, but another wave would overtake him; it was almost an hour before it subsided completely. Not long after, he heard Ana’s voice pitch. He approached, this time very respectfully. His wife was saying: “Mrs. Underwood will do no such thing! And I will tell her so.”

Jarvis peeked in; Tony sat cradled between Ana’s crossed legs. His little thumb was lodged between his molars; he absently ground his teeth on it. Mauve streaks traveled away from both eyes. Every now and then, he breathed and his entire body shuddered, like aftershocks of trauma. Yet, he seemed at last somewhat peaceful.

“Do you believe that I will tell her so?” Ana asked and received a slow nod. “Do you trust that Mrs. Underwood will not punish you if I tell her not to?”

Jarvis recoiled. What is this about? He saw Tony shrug.

“My love, might I speak with you momentarily?”

Tony shied away from Jarvis. Ana reassuringly said that Jarvis would not tell Mrs. Underwood where he was. Still, Tony stayed in the trees while Ana crawled out.

She was spitting fire, flaring her nostrils, and pursing her mouth in a curt line. He didn’t need to ask for an explanation before she raged: “The poor child is beside himself because that ignoramus of a nurse has no more idea how to care for a child than a wild badger might. They could have just hired a thug off the street for the nursery!”

“What’s happened?”

Ana lowered her voice and confided that the young sir had wet the bed that previous night. Apparently, Mrs. Underwood became very cross about such things and Maria had approved the nanny to discipline him for soiling any clothes or bedding. Tony had run away because he was “bad” even though he “kept trying and trying not to be.”

“It just infuriates me!” Ana whispered. “He says he’s even tried to stay up to all hours so he will be aware enough make it to the chamber pot. Poor dear. It’s perfectly natural for a child his age not to be night trained. Hasn’t he only just had his birthday? And is it any wonder he’s having trouble with it — he’s so stressed!” She huffed.

Jarvis was silent; it had been quite some time since he’d seen her so incensed. He remembered the days in Cornwall when she’d been a school teacher. Then, too, she had advocated ferociously for each student.

“I’ll just have to explain this to Mrs. Underwood.” Ana declared.

“Allow me, Beloved.” Jarvis offered. “I’ve not been particularly helpful during all this.” To this, Ana scoffed and grinned at him.

Mrs. Underwood ended up quitting on the spot. Jarvis suspected she had been meaning to, regardless; her illicit relationship with Howard had cooled, after all. One of the nursery maids was put in charge until a replacement could be hired.

When Jarvis returned to his cottage to report this to Ana and Tony, he found them hunched over the unfinished lattice. Ana hammered a nail until it was secure but needed a couple more good whacks. Then, she handed the hammer to Tony, who proceeded to bang the thin boards, both fists gripping the hammer, his cherubic face screwed up in rapt concentration.

Jarvis felt his heart lunge forward, almost out from his chest. He exclaimed, “Ana!”

She flashed a look at him and defended herself: “The little mister is doing a fine job helping me—“

At that moment, Tony swung the hammer with extra gusto and it ricchoted from the nail head, smashing the very edge of Ana’s fingertip. She sucked in both her lips and twisted away— then back, nodding. “Very fine!” She piped, but added, meekly: “That was my fault.”

January, 1872

Jarvis chuckled to himself, remembering. Tony had dropped the hammer and toddled up to Ana. He took her hand and kissed it matter-of-factly. He said his mother told him that such kisses should be enough to “make it better.” Oh, that they had opened up their lives then and not waited! If only he had been more cognizant of Tony’s life. If he’d not tried to rigidly return again and again to his own notions of their roles.

Even Ana was resistant, he reminded himself. After Tony was returned to the mansion, with no impending threat of punishment (for Jarvis himself had cleaned the bedclothes and ensured the confidentiality of the nurse maids), he told his wife how he admired her way with Tony. She wilted noticeably. “Thank you, dear heart, but, I am better suited to my current life as a garden hermit.”

How untrue that had proven. Oh well. Jarvis thought. I couldn’t have convinced her any more than I was able to myself. Perhaps it is not too late, though, to support the young sir in the ways he needs.

Just then, Jarvis saw Tony standing before him, in the train aisle. The young man’s face was turbulent. Immediately, Jarvis removed his reading spectacles. “Tony? What’s the matter?”

Tony shook his head. He moved his mouth mutely as he gathered himself. “Are, are you sure you don’t want to, to keep them yourself?”

No translation was needed; Jarvis knew he referred to Ana’s drawings. Although, he noted that the sketches were not in the boy’s empty hands. He smiled at Tony. “They are not mine to keep.”

Huffing, Tony rolled his eyes. Pain had taken residence in him; it announced itself in his every move, every sound. He seemed lost and his words abandoned him. He choked out, “It’s not like she’d know.” He dropped his gaze, struggling to clear his throat.

“Oh, would you chance it?” Jarvis joked. “I don’t believe I am so brave.”

“Why don’t you,” Tony broke suddenly, “just come ride in my compartment? This car is awful.” A few passengers reacted to his statement indignantly, Tony was unaffected. “It’s only me in there, and I can purchase another ticket for you when the conductor comes around, if you’re worried about that.”

Jarvis smiled and stood. “I am not worried, Young Sir.”

January, 1903

Two slices of seared tomato and a stuffed veal cutlet from the ice box were waiting for Peter when he’d finished getting dressed. The aroma of the tomatoes, seasoned with thyme, pepper, and garlic, drew him to the dining room table. He grinned. “Thank you, Mr. Stark! You didn’t need to—“

Peter walked to the parlor and teetered to a stop. Chin slumped onto his wrist, propped on a settee, Tony was sleeping. He was completely sunken and Peter was, for a moment, transfixed by the sight. Tony’s charisma had been shed. The age in his features was revealed as his usual presence sifted away. Even so, he seemed more dignified.

Peter hesitated. Then he crossed on tiptoe to the radiator and turned the knob, hoping the parlor would heat faster. Relieved that Tony was resting, he returned to the dining room table, to eat the meal prepared for him.

November, 1877

Tony’s brain told him someone was counting. Fifteen … Sixteen … But, his body was afloat, unresponsive, as though he’d been molten down and poured into a mold. Twenty… Within the blinding light, he saw the blond, his opponent, laid out on the mat, just beyond his foot. Double knockout? Twenty-Three... Well, he’d better get up.

An impulse sintered him; he felt his knees harden then bend, his elbows dig into the mat. His chin strained against his entire body weight. Twenty-Eight … Half-raised, he groaned before a heavy cloth hit the crown of his head.

In the shower room of the sports club, Tony sat on one of the benches against the bare concrete wall. He was dimly aware of the water flooding his shoes; the squelching sounds when he wriggled his toes sounded as though they were coming from the other side of a heavy board. Stumbling into the shower room, he hadn’t bothered to remove them or his socks or shorts before standing beneath the stream of water.

His body was compartmentalized as if into so many magician’s cabinets— every piece dissembled. From experience, he knew the rejoining would be increasingly unpleasant. He would need to retrieve his laudanum bottle soon to stave off and numb the reconstruction.

Droplets rolled off his chin, his lip, and the fringe of his dark locks. Deciding he should watch these drops fall instead of move, Tony decreased, little by little, until he was unconscious of all past the end of his nose. He didn’t remember why or what summoned him back to awareness, but he was suddenly aware of Jarvis sitting beside him.

“Did Rhodey write you?” Tony croaked.

“He did.” Came the quiet voice and it stirred something like a breathless cry inside Tony’s chest. A towel, warmed by the stuffy air, draped over his shoulders.

Tony sunk onto a propped elbow. The bone, in contrast to the comfort of the towel, dug into his thigh. He might have straightened back, but he needed the relief of shifting his weight off his left side. He had a feeling that his ribs were bruised there. “Then he’s thrown in the towel for me twice, huh?”

Jarvis was very quiet. Tony felt him shift; he stood, moving to his ankles before Tony on the slickened shower floor. They were eye-level, and the simple gesture was enough to make Tony feel years younger. The waterlogged shoes on his feet conjured memories of tramping back to the cottage from the stream, drenched, and Jarvis would kneel and help remove his boots. Ironically, this meek position that Jarvis offered always ever humbled Tony.

Jarvis’s jaw was grinding as he scrutinized the bruises and lesions across Tony’s upper body. Still, he didn’t speak. Unnerved, Tony looked away; he glimpsed the moonshine jug setting on the far end of the bench. His husky breathing became a cough; he cleared his throat.

“You truly did not need to come all this way.”

“I was not so very far, Young Sir.” Jarvis said, reservedly touching Tony’s face with his knuckles, particularly the swelling knot over his right eye. He drew in a single sharp breath and his brow fell like the end curtain of a play.

Warring within himself, Tony willed Jarvis to leave; of course, though, as contrary as ever, Jarvis did not. Tony began to drum his leg. “You don’t need to call me ‘Sir,’ J. You don’t work for us Starks anymore.”

Jarvis’s hand took his chin and tilted it. Tony didn’t realize, but Jarvis was inspecting a rivulet of drying red that ran from his right ear. Tony caught the sight of the man’s constricting throat and he huffed. “It’s not such a great tragedy, Jarvis. I still could have gotten up and taken the match.” He chuckled and Jarvis’s frown deepened. “It’s just that Rhodey took it upon himself to throw in the towel— as if it were his stakes—“

“Master Rhodes has taken a stake in your well-being , and of his own prerogative. Gratefulness may be a more appropriate response for such friendship, Young Sir,” Jarvis interrupted.

Tony was taken aback by the rebuke. Rolling his eyes, he sighed, and spied the moonshine jug again. “I suppose you’re here to dissuade me from my current path to destruction?” To his consternation, the sarcastic lilt to his voice nearly became hostile.

“Are you on a path to destruction, Young One?”

Tony balked. Now Jarvis’s stare was meeting his, unwaveringly, seeming to expect an answer— or, perhaps allowing for one. He was held by those calm-sea eyes longer than he could stand. Finally, Jarvis released him.

“I should like to offer you a proper meal,” Jarvis said, “and dressings for your injuries. First, however, I must insist you sip some water.”

On instinct, Tony recoiled; he scowled. It had been so long since he’d seen Jarvis. He missed him. Much had happened— so much sorrow and even so much joy— that he longed to share with him. And wasn’t it moments ago that his heart lunged toward Jarvis, repeating that child’s plea: please love me, please love me, please love me …! Yet, here was his arrogance, prickling at the offer of care, as though he were still a helpless child. Causing him to lash out, to isolate.

“I’m not in need of your pity, thank you, J.”

Sternness girded the voice that met him. “On the contrary, Young Sir, my feelings inclined toward quite a different direction.” Tony heard the rare warble of anger in Jarvis’s tone. “I cannot recall ever feeling quite so furious with you.”

The air stilled and Tony became little more than an echo chamber. What he feared, what he felt- all memories- everything- rebounded inside him, without form or temperature. He searched Jarvis's face and saw that it was still as calm as he'd ever known, beyond a slight cinch of his forehead and the tone of his voice.

"Even so," Jarvis said, "I still would prefer to see you drink a glass of water and have a good dinner before we speak further."

[omgnsfwisnsfw-blog]

NSFW #05: No Limit

A phone propped up on a stool. The screen displayed the last time NSFW had been on television. Broken and battered. Stacked on top of each other like cordwood. Through the wreckage of tables, twisted cables, and busted equipment. The shot pulled back. Two brown mahogany caskets. Each accompanied by flower arrangements. One light green. One orange. The caskets are in a spacious parlor. High ceiling. A wide arched entrance. An exquisite crystal chandelier hung overhead. The carpet looks soft and plush and like no one’s ever set foot upon its mint-colored surface. Sunlight from a row of tall windows naturally illuminated the room despite the somber display. A moment of silence was observed. From seemingly beyond, they speak. Narrowed back on the screen of the phone. More precisely, the phone. The room’s acoustics amplified the little speaker for all to hear. “I know what this looks like. More on that later. Look right here. Right where I’m talking out of. That’s us.” “Ugly, ain’t it? I’d say we wouldn’t wanna be those poor sods, but unfortunately, we were.” “Mike and I promised to bring it up North and we did. Until we didn’t. Alexander. Frank. The Limit. Once again, we had to find out about your intentions after the fact. We heard about the challenge. But before that. You don’t want competition. You don’t want to be a part of this resurrection. You want us out.” “You see, my dear lummoxes, we put out the challenge we did hoping someone who actually cared about this division would come and prove us wrong. That’s who we were talking to. Not a couple’a fuckin’ mercenaries.” “Here’s the problem. Maybe just mine to be completely honest. Why? That’s what I keep asking myself. Keep asking my partner, too. It’s not worth answering that question. You made it clear that you don’t believe in tag team wrestling. You’re a team, sure. Can’t say otherwise. But not like us. That doesn’t matter. Can’t use that line anymore because it may say that NSFW is one up on The Limit but at the end of the night we sure didn’t look like we won anything. Take another look at us. Then listen to what you’ve said. Doesn’t matter if The Limit wins or loses. Only matters if you two destroy us.” “Do you really care about anything but that, boys? What if the shoe was on the other goddamn foot? D.J., say I grabbed ahold of ol’ Ethan and gave him the same crash landing you treated me to. Would you want nothing more after that than to tear me to shreds? How about vice versa, Ethan? Because if you don’t fathom that, you have no idea what kind of team we are. I said it before. We are a team. We care about each other a hell of a lot.” “That doesn’t matter either. So what is all of this? Maybe we should be be speaking about ourselves in the past tense.” The audio from the phone cut off. That harrowing image still prominently displayed. “No.” And there was the distinct sound of hinges creaking in unison. The camera panned back out. John Bishop Church. Mike McGuire. Both in matching black three piece suits, him in an emerald silk tie, her tie-less but sporting a rather fetching coral shirt with the top button undone. In front of what could be construed as their respective final resting places. However, that was not the case. “This is a celebration of The Limit’s legacy.” Ethan Alexander. D.J. Frank. Both men were laid to rest in black suits of their own. Their hands were placed over their chests. They looked at peace. An eternal waxy rest. John turned to look onto the face of Ethan. “As of late there has been disdain for hyperbole and rhetoric. Personally I abhor it. But to put us out of this sport would be death.” Mike gave a cursory glance to the figures at rest. They were quite convincing. Imposing figures if not for the peaceable resting expressions. One dark skinned, one fair, both the very figures of Detroit tough guys. If they weren’t dead as doornails. She cracked her knuckles in a distinct lack of subtlety. “You caught us unawares. You came to war with hand grenades, which is great, but they ain’t gonna do you no good when we bring out the goddamn tanks. You two have made the biggest mistake of your entire sorry fucking lives. And no bloodshed or payday is gonna be worth it once we’re through with you.” John nodded in agreement. “The irony is not lost on me. To get past The Limit, NSFW has to do what theyare so easily capable of doing. Maybe easy for my partner. Not so much for me. I would be lying if I said the criticisms didn’t bother me. But I don’t want to lie anymore about this.” He looked over at Mike and nodded. He turned back to face the camera and after a deep sigh, he resumed. “I view what I can do as dangerous enough. But I know that it won’t be enough this time. Some would put me in the camp of those who abstain from this company’s trademark out of wanting to take a stand. That isn’t the case. I was afraid. I am afraid. Of this ideology that success is justified through any means necessary. The extreme violence. To cause it. To be a victim of it. But some good advice that I received put it all in perspective. I need to face that fear. And I need to use what I feel for The Limit against them.” He balled up his fists and almost seethed the next statement through his teeth. “Anger. And to use that anger to do what is necessary.” Mike made a slight move closer to her partner. Nothing huge, but a further display of solidarity. “And I ain’t gonna stop him. Because whatever he’s got a bead on doing to you? I probably got designs on doing even worse. Nobody crosses the line you two’ve crossed without paying through the ass for it. And come Night of Champions? Those asses are ours. You’re going to fly like Peter Pan’s uglier, stupider siblings and hit one sad landing. But before you eat table? You’re gonna wish we’d just chuck you through. Every little bit of hurt you put on us. Every single bruise you put on my partner’s body. You’re gonna pay for that fuckin’ tenfold. Nobody Strikes this Family and Walks.” Perhaps Mike was making this even more personal than need be: after all, having to physically throw someone through pressed wood was fairly personal on its own. But in her mind, The Limit had committed an unforgivable crime by laying hands on John outside of the bounds of combat, and she was out for blood. “And so this little macabre display. It symbolized who The Limit were. Their story is a cautionary tale.” “See, once upon a time there were a couple’a tough guys who may have been paid off by some jerkoff with a grudge. Or they may not have been. Who’s to say, and who even gives a flying ratfuck at this point? But either way, these two shitheads came to a place of battle, answered a challenge not meant for them in a way that it wasn’t meant to be answered. And for a while they were pretty pleased with themselves. But then the people they attacked? They came back. They came back pissed, and even the sweetest of them came back fucking mean. And they sent those so-called tough guys flying right into splintery oblivion.” “And here they lay. Their rhetoric. Their insistence that there is no goingbeyond The Limit. That’s just what we’ll have done.” “We won’t have just gone beyond it. We are going to break through The Limit. We’re going to fucking shatter The Limit. And when we’re through?” Mike looked at the pair of ‘corpses’ resting in their caskets, and snorted. “There will be NO LIMIT.” Cut. Except the audio. Once again in unison, NSFW closed the lids shut. The final noise being an emphatic thud. “An expensive way to make a point.” John turned his back to the coffins. He wondered for a brief second if push had come to shove that he would have even been in one of these. He flicked that thought away. “And an ultimatum so to speak.” “Hey, they seem pretty fuckin’ dense. You don’t make a point this extreme it’ll never get through their thick-ass skulls.” They swallowed over a lump in their throat, poking at the nearest dummy-stuffed mahogany box with a well-shined dress shoe sheathed toe. They knew quite well that the contents of both were fake as fake could be. Nothing but a pair of suits, a ton of flesh colored wax, metal frames. But nevertheless, their presence made Mike a little uneasy. Perhaps their train of thought was on the same track as their partner’s. Or perhaps it was on a different track at the same station- how close they’d come to filling that box at the hands of a violent hypocrite. They fought the urge to cling to his arm in a simultaneous gesture of protectiveness and seeking comfort. They couldn’t slip like they almost had at the hospital. Especially not here- that would be an even bigger slap in the face to Natalie, who was far too wonderful for someone like them. They cleared their throat instead. “How’re you feeling, bud? Ribs still hurtin’ you? Head doing okay?” John stepped further away out of the parlor. Just under the arch of the entrance. He braced his back against the wall and turned his gaze to them. “I think I’ll be okay when it’s time. You’re moving better.” “Yeah, it’s nice to not be moving like a little old granny. I mean, not MY granny, she’s fuckin’ eighty-something and still does farm work every day, but… yeah. I mean back still smarts like a motherfucker but I’ll be good too. A’course, I’d go into this beat to shit if I had to.” They stood beside, fingers flicking a bit. A cigarette would be nice, but they were being good. He acknowledged her dedication with a solemn nod. “I guess we should be grateful for this opportunity. Nothing at stake except retribution. Part of me feels frustrated with that. Makes me feel like we are fighting against more than just those two.” “You got that too, huh? I mean… bless Carlos and his adorable fuckin’ self, but fuck Mucho Grande. They never pinned Pirate and Puss, we did. Shit, I don’t think anybody has but us. And we’re fighting the goddamn Lummox. Not that they don’t deserve a serious ass kicking but yeah. That should be us fighting for those belts.” Their fingers stop flicking and tighten into fists, which they were trying their damndest not to punch into Natalie’s nice walls. John raised a finger as if it were an objection. “Personally, I agree with that sentiment. But that’s not what I mean. There will always be that argument that they got it done when it mattered. No, think back. The last two months have been a ghost town for the division. Now on the backs of our dedication, they’re crawling out of the woodwork. Makes me think we should take credit. Makes me also think others are reaping what we sowed.” Mike blinked, their jaw dropping a bit, as if they hadn’t thought of this. “Holy shitting fuck. You’re right, you know. I mean not that I wanna go out and make us our own Saviors Of The Motherfucking Tag Division belts, but shit. Some recognition would be nice? Hey NSFW, thanks for working your asses off to get this derelict fucking tag division going again? Geez.” “Doesn’t make me feel so great to make these assumptions. Plants seeds for bitterness and resentment. Something makes me feel that was the path I was going down...” He trailed off. “I think it’s good that we said this here. Between us. Because it can’t define us.” “Yeah. I mean, it’s okay to feel frustrated about stuff. Get mad about things. That’s all part of being, y’know, human and shit. But you start airing those kind of grievances on TV and the internet and stuff, yeah, some people might have your back but then rumors get started that you’re bitter ingrates bitching about not getting enough attention. Like, what are these assholes complaining about, they’ve only been here how many months?” Huffing a bit, they looked up, and grinned a little. “But that’s what we got each other for. You gotta get any of that shit off your chest, I’ll listen to you. And I know you’d do the same for me because you are a fantastic fucking listener.” Reaching their arms up, they give a long, almost cat-like stretch. Their back cracks a bit. “Ow. Shit. Anyway… we’ve got this entire huge-ass mansion to ourselves. Whaddya say we do some exploring? Maybe we’ll find a hidden vault where Natalie keeps her secret stash of exotic cookies.” Normally, John would have opted to lay up in a hammock near Natalie’s garden, flicking through the virtual pages of a book. But Mike was very good at getting into trouble. He figured he could be complicit this time. “Let’s go.”

[wellplacedrocket]

Second Half GIFvalanche: So That Happened

I honestly don’t remember much of the halftime show. I think that’s when I got up to go to the bathroom, refill my water, and pace nervously, awaiting my fate. I know Justin Timberlake played, and there was a Prince element involved as a nod to Minneapolis. If only the Vikings would have been in the game, I’m sure this would have been the Culmination of Being for many of their fans. Sorry, Minneapolis, I had no time for your (our) cultural moment in the national spotlight that night.

The Patriots started the following drive and it sure looked like during halftime they clicked everything into place and solved the Eagles’ defense. And the solution was to Gronk them to death. Hell, the first attempt was a rare miss on a pop route but it was horrifyingly open.

No matter, the next one was a leisurely 15 yard out to him in a very comfortable hole in the Eagles’ zones.

Then another pop for 20 yards, same route as the one they’d missed two plays ago, except the defender was in much better position - but fell over. Then another portent - Brady gets pretty decent protection, but with no one open quickly, he wisely chucks it out of bounds, making all the Eagles fans wish he’d hung onto for literally a quarter-second longer.

Just for funsies, the Patriots then sent Gronkowski wide left from where he easily, almost casually pick up the 3rd and 6, and a couple plays later had him basically box out Ronald Darby (who slipped) for a 5 yard TD.

Slipping and losing your footing is a tough break, so I’m not gonna yell at him. But Jesus H. Christ. But most of the drive just looked so, so easy, like why hadn’t they just been forcing it at Gronk the whole time? Looking at the scoreboard now, all the Eagles’ unlikely heroics in the first half and they were still only up three. My sphincter clenched.

The next sequence is emblematic of Nelson Agholor’s career. I always defend receivers against the slings and arrows of fans who spit angrily at drops, because man...this shit is just way harder than it looks. But he’s still gotta make this catch. And so Agholor, much maligned as a bust last year…

...manages one of the greatest career turnarounds I’ve ever seen a skill position player make, improving his catching ability, but as an added bonus and unexpected twist, he somehow also turned into an outstanding yards-after-catch threat.

Way to go, Agholor.

It’s easy, particularly in football, to get nauseating with fawning cliches about how much of a team game it is, and how credit is due everywhere, but every position group really did have their moment here. The Eagles kept their drive going with blocking that was merely serviceable, but just outstanding rush talent from Blount…

...and Ajayi.

Then I gotta highlight great TE action, because this is a textbook block-to-pop by Ertz, starting from the right wing.

Having expected the Eagles to deflate and lay down softly as soon as the Patriots reasserted themselves in the game, this drive was blowing my mind in all the best ways.

Now I want to contrast a couple plays’ worth of QB action. This first one shows Foles doing something that has always made me squirm and scream in my brain. He’ll look super indecisive with where he wants to go and double clutch on throws. Football is so fast, that if you double clutch even for a half second, your window is probably shut. He hadn’t done this all game and it’s not a good look here…

...although good on him for just chucking it away. Now look at this one, where he’s back to Nick Foles: Unstoppable Football Howitzer.

This wound up being the first of two reviews that made me want to snap my own neck. Much has been made about the review system in sports - particularly football - with many calling for it to be abolished for how it kills the action, and sends everyone down a labyrinth of byzantine rule-parsing. I say technology has made it impossible for sports viewers to tolerate human error that goes against their interests. In earlier days of sports on TV, there weren’t a bajillion camera angles with high-def picture in ultra slow motion that could instantly analyze the action. That genie is out of the bottle now - you think anyone would just let it go when an obviously blown call, revealed by the most advanced video technology in the world, goes against them? Sports would devolve into nothing but judgement about officials’ human imperfections and conspiracy theories, even moreso than it is now.

Still, the emotional limbo that a video review puts you in is excruciating. Do I lose my shit?! Do I lose my shit in a bad way?! Is third RB Corey Clement a god damn hero? Is he an unforgivable putz/traitor?!?!

It was a hell of a run, throw, and catch, another case of the entire roster showing up for their moment. And I was surprised they let it stand. I don’t know that I have ever heard the argument that a ball carrier can be considered to have “control” of the ball if it’s moving around in his grasp, even though it makes intuitive sense. Ball movement is just the visual fulcrum point on which judgement of control sits, for lack of a better one. But the refs, in a rare instance of this, went with the intuitive judgement rather than the driest rule interpretation. And if this had been the Patriots scoring a TD like this, I’m sure I would still be hulked out, speaking in tongues of rage, and fighting gladiator matches on planet Sakaar.

Eagles fans immediately burned effigies of Chris Collinsworth and Al Michaels for being so confident this play would be overturned - I’m a little more forgiving. I would later read about their awful PRO-PATRIOTS BIAS as they continued to harp on how it was called...I was too stressed out to notice much of what they were saying at the time, but I suppose it was a little more airtime than commentators usually give to matters of dubious officiating.

The Eagles defense now had a 10 point lead to protect again, and while their D line depth seemed to be paying dividends by limiting the Patriots to short runs, their pass defense once again struggled. A defensive holding call coughed up a first down (it looked like it was reeeeeaaaaaaally upsold by Gronkowski), and then Brady again just barely beats the rush to get it to Hogan, working against pillow soft coverage once again. You could make a plush bathrobe out of this coverage.

Hogan might have pushed off, at least Darby thinks so. But he might not have even needed to.

Check out this tackle by Malcolm Jenkins, it’s hard to see where the hell he even comes from here. Somewhere, Brian Dawkins sheds a proud tear.

I dunno, I probably shouldn’t be getting super pissed about the soft coverage, because even when they press it, it’s burned.

Tom Brady has a very comfortable pocket there. That one is on the rush as much as the secondary. Jesus, what a collapse of one of the strengths of the team, but you also have to tip your hat to the Patriots O-line, they were a wall.

It would have been nice if the Eagles Defense didn’t just lay down softly in this game, you know? But here’s where I was hating myself for ever thinking that maybe the Eagles could pull this shit off. I should be more detachedly cynical than that by now. For all the eye-popping limit-breaks that the offense had made happen, there the Patriots were, and their highlights just looked easier.

There was no telling when the universe would catch wise to Nick Foles and the Eagles offense’s historic success and move to correct the error, but those guys looked like they gave zero fucks:

Holy shit.

HOLY SHIT.

What is going on?!

Then it was the fourth quarter, where hopes go to get snuffed out.

The drive would ultimately stall in the red zone thanks to a nice open field play made by the Patriots’ defense, but I wanted to call attention to the play design here. The Eagles had already hit on an Agholor end-around, and they used that motion again…

...but had him stop and go back the other way. It’s interesting, but I would have preferred if they were going to use the end-around as a decoy to decoy all the way - fake to Agholor and have the RB pop out to Foles’s right. As it happened, the Patriots’ OLB didn’t even rush the pass, and Lane Johnson didn’t have anyone to block. His defender just went with Agholor and was on him right away.

Nice job by Jake Elliott to boot the FG through, but I couldn’t help but notice in a game wherein a touchdown almost always gets 7 points, the Eagles were now only up 6.

And the defense wasn’t inspiring much confidence.

I mean, that’s right into the teeth of what the Eagles defense is supposed to be great at. Mighty Fletcher Cox gets into the backfield, but on the wrong side of the play. Vinny Curry might have been doing a stunt here, but he gets turned aside, and then the Patriots’ O-line does a good job of getting second level.

I actually didn’t mind the blitz here. Usually blitzing against Tom Brady is suicide, but it’s not like anything else was working, and the D-line just wasn’t getting it done. The results were pretty predictable, but Defensive Coordinator Jim Schwartz had to have been tearing his hair out like “FUCK IT! SEND ‘EM ALL!”

When two guys in pass coverage end up in the same space, someone has screwed the pooch. I mean, this looks just beautifully textbook, like it’s during practice for the Patriots. I know exactly how this game ends, and this drive still fills me with dread.

I can’t actually blame the defense too much on that play. Darby’s position wasn’t bad, it was just a difficult throw and a very difficult catch in a perfect spot. But everything leading up to that play made me regret the part of my brain that allowed me to believe the Eagles could win the Super Bowl. I felt so stupid to having opened that emotional door. Grass grows, birds fly, sun shines, the Scout hurts people, and brother, the Eagles lose in the postseason. Like a force of nature. Of course the Eagles defense would shit the bed this game. It was so obvious. Of course the offense would spend all game lighting it up, and would now come crashing back down to earthbound reality. Of course this would be a record setting game in NFL history for total yards of offense that the Eagles would lose in the 4th quarter.

I flashed forward to the L I’d be chewing on for the rest of my life over this. The immediate sympathy from some friends and coworkers over how close the Eagles were, and the schadenfreude from others. How it would sting when I had to next see people. How years down the line, the pain would be reduced down to a duller ache as I recalled the time the Eagles almost...almost...

It would be internalized and just part of my existence. I would wonder at times what ripple effects it ultimately had on my psyche.

Tom Brady makes fourth quarter comebacks in the Super Bowl like people make eggs for breakfast. The Eagles don’t. Haves and have nots, a tale as old as life.

Ah, yes. This was what I expected. Foles and the offense had been on fire, and now it would cost them as they tried to force increasingly ludicrous miracles.

Hm, a 3rd and 6 converted, down 1 with under 9 minutes to go in the Super Bowl. That’s actually...pretty...clutch?

Another 3rd down…

...and that is a great job on defense. It was actually a pretty good play call, the Patriots blitzed the middle and Foles barely gets it away to the outside. The Patriots blitzed right into a screen, which often burn blitzes, but S Devin McCourty gets around Vaitai, who was after him, and flows out to chase down the play.

It would make for a better story if I said I was surprised they didn’t punt here. But I’d watched the Eagles all season, and going for it on 4th and 1 from their own 45, down 1 with 5:45 left fit their personality. It just seemed like everything was setting up for them to fall on their faces and the Patriots to get the ball back, and burn a few minutes of the clock on their way to another game-sealing “Tom Terrific” touchdown.

The fact that they clutched it out, in the biggest moment of the franchise’s history, demonstrated there was something different going on here. I was in uncharted waters. Looking at that play, it’s a pretty classic pick (a quasi-legal technique executed to perfection by Celek) that is overlooked only because it’s so close to the line of scrimmage. Hell of a backfield dodge under pressure by Foles and a great throw made off his back foot - a posture he has long taken heat for throwing out of too much.

Wha…

How...

What is this?! What is going on here?! You got Foles making Aaron Rodgers throws out here, and Eagles receivers catching them. For all the marbles. EVERY MARBLE. The Eagles do not rise to the occasion! THE EAGLES SHIT THEIR BEDS.

You can argue this was the play of the game, because it got them into reasonable FG range. Vaitai gets beat, but pushes the edge rusher just enough to give Foles the time to get it away. And Foles isn’t taking Ertz in the flat, who is wide open. No, Nick Foles is now Big Dick Nick: Gunslinger and he fires it in a tight window to the slant.

Foles and Agholor have the hot read going on the corner blitz. This is probably just a bad idea by Patriots’ D-coordinator, Matt Patricia. Agholor, a first round pick in 2015, had, after two underwhelming seasons marred by drops, a breakout season and had shown himself to be excellent running with the ball. You don’t want to be putting him in a situation to get the ball quickly with lots of space by drawing away his defender. But maybe the Patriots felt like they had to get weird.

They did a trap block with the LT Vaitai here, and it’s nice to see that in this game, given the context, and despite his previous struggles, they weren’t treating him like a liability with the playcalling. They were featuring him with this call. It’s also very nice to get able to get a few yards and the cloud of dust.

Oh, man. This play.

First of all, I want to snark at McCourty, the S who’s on Ertz 1-on-1 at the top of the screen, but I can’t. It’s a very tough spot he’s put in. This is TE territory, and TEs very much like getting matched up against smaller DBs in tight quarters. McCourty then slips on the break just like Darby had, which made the throw and catch pretty easy.

Then in the biggest moment for this team, which has been around since dirt, from a city that breathes football and in which it has been played since it was a thing, that hadn’t ever won the primary professional football association’s championship - on this play where they take the lead, Al Michaels, of “do you believe in miracles?” fame, says “Zach Ertz for the touchdown! And again, all you can think back to now is the Jesse James play with Pittsburgh. Does he complete the process?”

I’d like to think he’d want to take a mulligan on that one, given the context for Eagles fans. We know the review is coming, god damnit. Just let us have this moment, give us a memory, Michaels. But no.

I don’t know how long the review took, so I’m going to conservatively guess it was 8 months.

This was truly awful, and I get the “down with replay!” crowd here. You lose your shit in those few moments of sports fan glee, before the blood drains from your face because the thing you just saw happen might not have happened. They launch a forensic investigation over whether a knee brushed a blade of grass. Then you wait in trepidation, and if it goes your way, you feel awash in relief more than you feel the ragejoy you were just robbed of. If it doesn’t go your way, you want to crawl under your couch. All if this amplified 10,000x by the Super Bowl.

The fact that this is the first place Michaels goes is, I suppose, not really his fault and mostly just an example of where we’re at with football now. Everyone has to suspend their emotional reaction for however long it takes to reach a conclusion, and when that conclusion is reached, the losers feel shittier and the winners feel about 25% less ecstatic with the loss of immediacy.

Lots of Eagles fans and people rooting against the Patriots had out their torches and pitchforks for what they perceived as favoritism by Michaels and Collinsworth toward the reigning champs that had been going on all night. I didn’t really see what the complaints were about, but I was baffled that these two found this TD controversial. Michaels hit on it right away, the crux of the matter was whether Ertz was ruled a runner with possession of the ball before he broke the plane with it. And look at it. Yeah, he was a runner. He literally runs with possession of the ball. How much is he possessing the ball? Enough to shove it out over the goal line as he makes a desperate dive. The Clement TD was more up in the air than this one, by far.

When the refs finally confirmed the TD after their forensic analysis, this should have been the biggest moment of my sports fan life, but instead...nah. It was more exhaling and unclenching my butt for the first time in 5 minutes than it was “FUCK YEAAAAAAHHHH.” Suggesting we put scrap video review is stupid, but I understand I was emotionally robbed by it.

Going back to that clip for a moment, my favorite reaction is Jeffrey’s (#17). He looks like he wants to jump on Ertz but then doesn’t and instead does this kind of childlike hop with his arms up. It’s a heartwarming moment of pure human joy.

Anyway, if you’re up 5, there’s little reason not to go for 2, but of course it didn’t work out. Good defense.

Now here’s Tom Brady with the ball, a timeout, and 2:21 remaining. Like, it’s supposed to be unlikely they score, right? That’s what makes the legends for those who pull it off. Here was THE BIGGEST LEGEND in the history of the sport. The Eagles Defense was hot garbage that night. “2:21, the two-minute warning, and a time out, he’s got all day,” Michaels remarked with confidence. It just felt so inevitable.

Yes, here was the beginning of the end for all of us Eagles fans. Soft coverage, a quick out to Gronkowski for 7 yards. Soft coverage isn’t actually a bad idea here, but still, if it means you’re going to give up at least 7 yards each play, then the Patriots have plenty of time. The pass rush is actually getting into the backfield alright here, but Brady is able to make the decision quickly to a wide open receiver, so they’re not super close to him.

!

!!

Again, I wish I had a better story of my reaction to this play, but I was as frozen as I would have been if something horrible had happened, if the Eagles defense had all just fallen over and allowed Brady himself to slow-jog the 70 yards for the TD. But truth is stranger than fiction, and the Eagles pass rush had finally - FINALLY, after a game of being at best a step too slow as everyone danced to Brady’s tune - got to the target.

Although they had plenty of time, the Patriots still had to move the ball, and probably felt they had to crisscross the entire field with route patterns, and so couldn’t afford to trade receivers for extra blockers. Once again, the Eagles coverage is soft, they’re sinking back into zones starting at 10 yards. However, the soft coverage came through here - Brady is looking for a deeper throw and climbs the pocket, burning time not finding any targets. He goes to checkdown, but as he turns to dump it, Brandon Graham is in his face, hacking at his throwing arm. The D-line, the rock of this team, which had spent the game unexpectedly and embarrassingly vanishing, had burst back into the story.

Tom Brady doesn’t get strip sacked and force fed a fat L, like a lowly Brandon Weedon or Trevor Semian. Brady dishes out the Ls to other hapless chumps. But there he was, ass on grass. As an Australian football radio guy would shoutcast, “Tom Brady...bereft on the turf!”

By the way, Michaels goes “Derek Barnett comes away with it! Brandon Graham was one of the guys who got in there!”

I mean...holy shit, Michaels. That’s some real godawful play by play there. Boom goes the dynamite.

I suppose I should have been leaping for joy, but with the Eagles in the driver’s seat and 2:09 remaining, I was silent, “leaned-in” as though my focus on the ensuing events would ward off the many ways the Eagles could still manage to find to fuck it all up. First sack of the game, for the Patriots’ only turnover, and it bounced straight to Barnett. That was catching a break.

My friends, if you believe in the healing, soul-nourishing power of schadenfreude, please feast your eyes.

Even Big Balls Doug wasn’t about to go styling in this situation. The Eagles came out and went with the prescribed heavy package runs, bringing on Seumalo and 2 TEs to try to zone block through all the guys the Patriots would certainly be crowding the line of scrimmage with. Kelce gets blown the hell up here but scrambles and sticks with it. Blount does a nice job extending the play for as long as he could.

The exact same playcall next play was Pederson showing confidence in his kicker for what would be - and I know I’ve beaten this phrase to death - the biggest kick of his life. Jake Elliott, the rookie replacement after starter Caleb Sturgis was injured. Elliott, who got signed off the Bengals practice squad, who had an alarmingly high miss rate for close range kicks, but was somehow money from deep, who had a record-setting walk off 61-yard FG for a win against the Giants at the Linc...go win the game, kid.

Kickers are strange animals. They spend most of their time at practice and during games off to the side, just repeating their one craft over and over again. They get together with teammates to practice special teams execution and how to deal with given scenarios, maybe some trick plays. But by the nature of their job, they don’t get to be all that social with their teammates very much. Then they come in the moments that everyone remembers, sometimes to perform the game winning act after their team has spent the last several hours scrambling with sprained joints and peeing blood to set that kicker up for his shot. All the superstar QBs, WRs, LBs take a backseat, hold their breath, and stand to the side watching the skinniest guy on the team do his thing. Nothing else matters in that moment - not the touchdowns, sacks, clock management. All the egos fade away. Everyone has invested 100% of their emotional selves into this one dude.

If he comes through, he’s the hero. Multimillion dollar superstars storm the field with big goofy, unselfconscious smiles to dogpile him…

...and carry him into legend on their shoulders.

I’m always touched by this scene. Sports does this in a way we don’t get to see much in other walks of life. Everyone loses their god damn minds in hilarious joy and swarms this guy, and each other. It’s a human moment. All the other shitty contexts in life, all the conflict and racism and Steve Bannons vanish because it’s time to scream bliss gibberish at the kicker as they jump on his shoulderpads, for he is their guy.

And if he blows it, you have the Minnesota Vikings.

It’s an exercise in clutch. So on comes Elliott for a midrange FG to put the Eagles up 8 with just over a minute to go in the Super Bowl. No big deal.

It should be noted that rather than the ecstasy of a walk-off W here, Elliott’s teammates give him the usual workmanlike acknowledgements. It was still a one score game.

Failed trick plays always make the attempting team look like goober losers, but I don’t blame the Patriots for getting weird here. They sacrifice the maybe 10 - 15 yards that they’d have likely gotten with a standard return to shoot for the moon with this thing. It went nowhere, mercifully, but it was a solid idea. “That is a really interesting call,” observes Collinsworth. Was it? Seems pretty reasonable and justifiable.

Yesss, yesss, this is where the soft coverage becomes a smothering pillow. At least it should. That is a very tough throw and catch they attempt, but it was possible, god damnit. The zones were swiss cheese.

The pass rush was making its presence known. They were starting to give Brady tickles, which was a better late than never sort of thing. In fact, it was a “if you’re going to do it at all, late is the time to do it” sort of thing.

I mean...come the fuck on. The pass rush certainly was breathing down Brady’s neck here, and I get the secondary is playing waaaaayyy deep, but it’s 4th and 10. Still better safe than sorry by LB Nigel Bradham there, who was in the middle on those sink zones. He just wanted to make sure he was well behind Amendola.

Now let’s take a moment here for football probabilities. In all likelihood, I should have been already celebrating, right? Like there’s no way, right? The Patriots had 26 seconds to get another 78 yards plus a 2 point conversion just to tie it. Even for Tom Brady that’s a steep ask, right? Right?

No, it wasn’t. No, it fucking wasn’t. There was zero chance I was going to cease sweating and unclench my sphincter for even a nanosecond.

See? SEE?! The Eagles were giving the Patriots this kind of quick out for 10 yards, but the Patriots were happy to take it. They hit one of those every 6 - 7 seconds of gameclock, then they only need one (one!) bomb miracle and the Eagles will have LOST, THE SKY WILL OPEN, THE SEVEN TRUMPETS WILL SOUND, AND A MOUNTAIN OF FIRE WILL FALL, AND LAND IN THE OCEAN. THE ANIMALS WILL CRY AND FLEE, AND THERE WILL BE MUCH WAILING AND GNASHING OF TEETH AMONGST HUMANKIND. GREAT C’THULU WILL ADJOIN WITH BEELZEBUB, THEY WILL OPEN ONE OF THEIR 17 SCREECHING MAWS AND SING THE SONG THAT ENDS THIS EARTH.

I’m glad no one was around to make even a single god damn sound as I was watching this. If anyone were to have piped up with “Man, this is getting surprisingly suspenseful, given how 2 minutes ago it looked as if the Eagles were clearly going to win,” I’d have uppercut them to the sun.

Darby makes the right move hugging the sideline after Gronkowski makes the catch, trying to tangle him up inbounds, but the Patriots look like they’ve set up sort of a pick play just for the this purpose. Listen to Collinsworth rooting so hard for Gronkowski to get out of bounds. “There he is!” he exhales in relief as the real life centaur stumbles across the line. OH, THERE HE IS, COLLINSWORTH? THAT SURE IS A LOAD OFF, RIGHT?! HEAVEN FORFEND HE GETS TACKLED IN BOUNDS AND SOMEONE OTHER THAN TAWM FACKIN’ BRADY WINS THE SUPER BOWL.

Good defensive positioning here, but why couldn’t he just reel it in? Can’t we please have an anticlimactic crunch-time INT to put the game away, followed by what would be my favorite victory formation? I love victory formation, partially because I had very few opportunities to run it. All the routine trappings of football execution that you’re having to perform - huddle, line up, get your alignments right, listen for snap count, execute your prescribed action - are 1000% more fun in victory formation because 1. It’s an easy thing to do 2. There’s no pressure 3. Everyone is smiling and someone is probably making a joke and 4. There’s always that tiiiiiny chance someone on the other team is salty and is gonna pull some dickish shit. One of the dark sides of sports for me is that being pissed off is often thrilling. And in victory formation, you hold all the cards. “Scoreboard,” is the unbeatable comeback to any insult. Imagine how fun it would be in the Super Bowl!

But no. No, now we gotta have actual excitement. I didn’t want excitement. I wanted anything but excitement. I wanted a hilarious blowout like the NFCCG. I wanted the game to be over after the first quarter, and the rest of the game to be a joyous victory lap. I wanted to start happy drinking beer, rather than slowly sipping room temperature water. This game had already had miracles. Jeffrey, Blount, Clement, Ertz, the Patriots O-line, Gronkowski’s 2-TD performance, Tom Brady again, the Philly Special, Brandon Graham, Derek Barnett, the world holding Nick Foles’s beer and watching what he did next. 1,152 total yards of offense, the most in any NFL game ever.

You think there was any chance anyone thought a 51 yard heave into the endzone was impossible? Or some crazy never-before-seen hook-and-ladder or whatever Emperor Palpatine on the Patriots sideline cooked up to make use of the best QB, the best TE, and whatever role-player-come-unstoppable-superstar the Patriots have elevated this week?

I didn’t blink as the ball was snapped. Dug my fingers into the couch arm as Brady spun out of the arms of Graham, who was suddenly in pass rush hypermode. Brady found a moment, a platform, and reminded everyone of his weird agelessness as he cannoned the ball downfield. I remember being aware of the crowd roar and wondered how anyone had any juice left to make sound as the ball flew. It sailed upward into the middle air of the stadium, tracked by hundreds of cameras and millions of eyeballs, and then down to a tight bunch of desperately grappling men. It bounced once off the players, and those watching who had the diaphragm strength left to gasp did so. Then it fell to the turf and into history.

[pardontheglueman]

The Nightingales Live

A casual pre-gig chinwag with Robert Lloyd while loafing around the Nightingales’ merchandising table, (FYI assorted goodies include “Bullet for Gove” t-shirts, copies of Only My Opinion, Volume I of Lloyd’s collected lyrics, a bright orange tote bag and a branded glasses case!), made for an intriguing start to a rare evening in the company of the (still) most underrated band in Britain. A chatty Lloyd confirmed that the forthcoming set would mostly be made up of newer material, including a half-dozen unrecorded numbers (I confess my heart nearly sank to the bottom of the Taff at this point as I was hoping, against hope, for a grand tour of the band’s back catalogue). In truth, that was never likely to happen and Lloyd was quick to elaborate on why he didn’t want to end up fronting his own Nightingales tribute band, citing how he’d once turned down comedian Stewart Lee’s offer of a high profile festival slot that was conditional on the band playing their debut album Pig’s on Purpose (1982) in its entirety. Lloyd was as good as his word, with “Parrafin Brain” (the combo’s debut single for Cherry Red which reached no 39 in the Independent Chart in April of 1982), the sole classic dusted down for tonight’s show. And, really, given that their latest album Mind over Matter (2015) reveals an inspirational Lloyd still engaged in mortal combat with his muse, who can question his mindset?

For the uninitiated (a.k.a the young), Robert Lloyd is the real deal. As a member of The Prefects, the first punk band in Birmingham, the 17 year old frontman somehow found himself supporting The Clash on their legendary White Riot Tour (payment, four cans of beer!) and then playing alongside seminal punk bands Buzzcocks, The Damned and The Slits throughout 1977/78, delivering a raw-boned set which included their seven second long opus “VD”. The Prefects famously split before releasing a record, although Rough Trade did wangle a posthumous Indie hit with the band’s Peel Session track “Going through the Motions” in 1980. Lloyd, Joe Motivator (guitar) and Paul Apperley (drums) went on to form The Nightingales, and the rest, as they say, is History.

Except, of course, that Robert Lloyd is a central character in an alternative, off the record history of popular music! Even when you allow for the group’s seven Peel Sessions and their unanticipated longevity, the spotlight has barely creased the Brummie singer’s brow, let alone lingered there for the full fifteen minutes! Lloyd, despite making a series of wonderfully abrasive post-punk albums and writing a plethora of incendiary pop tunes over a 40 years period, remains completely invisible to the population at large. This is despite the fact that you could make an excellent case for Robert Lloyd being the best British lyricist of his generation. If you were to imagine a spectrum of pop wordsmiths stretching from Lennon and McCartney to Alex Turner and Ben Drew, incorporating the likes of Ray Davies, Kate Bush, Elvis Costello, Ian Dury, Billy Bragg, Mark E. Smith, Morrissey, and P.J Harvey, then you’d have all the bases covered. Yet none, in my opinion, are the equal of Lloyd.

Discussing the merits of Lloyd as a lyricist in the context of a ‘Gales live performance, where language is often pummeled into Glam gibberish by a thumping rain of Mickey Spillane riffs, may be a case of launching yourself headfirst down the rabbit hole, but hey, on this blog I’m my own boss.

Lloyd, though capable of writing neat one-liners like this gem from “Bachelor Land”

‘Even Martial Arts Masters must have some washing to do’,

or my all-time favourite pop punch-line, from the queasy noir of “Insurance”,

‘Most words are there in the dictionary, it’s just getting it off the shelf’,

is, more often, than not, as surreal and impenetrable a lyricist as you’ll find anywhere in the art form, as the lyrics to “The Bending End” (which, along with “Bachelor Land” and “Insurance”, can be found on the group’s best album Hysterics) makes (un)clear.

‘Reminds me of the TV weatherman, a household face with a forgettable name / he had access to film and camera, he said he had a perverse nature / It said so in the stars the day he read ’em / This could be why he had no inclination to use the medium he had access to, maybe it’s his lack of imagination / Who’s to say, who cares anyway? / Whatever the reason he never worries about the choice, he don’t even consider it / Tomorrow could be colder or warmer, what’s the point in complicating things further?’

The song’s rollicking chorus,

‘Come the day all people agree to get Paul Daniels on the job / Belief in the magician is a futility / Remarkable powers are out of place in democracy’,

is a corker but, somehow, you can’t imagine it was played at the family entertainer’s funeral.

The splendid Urban Ospreys - Are you worried about the eggs too?

When the band re-formed in 2004, after a 15 year hiatus, which Lloyd spent mainly working as a Postman, the “comeback” album “Out of True” (2006) saw the band pick up exactly where they left off, with a bellicose Lloyd demonstrating that he still had the stomach for the fight on tracks like “Born Again in Birmingham”, “Let’s Talk about Living” (Single of the Week on BBC 6) and the gigantic slab of glam rock that is “Taking Away the Stigma of Free School Dinners”, each being as good as anything they’d ever committed to vinyl in their heyday. “Out of True” also proved that Lloyd hadn’t lost his eye for toe-curling character assassination either, as the devastating ballad “Black Country” highlights,

‘He’d borrow cash and grass his pals / and scratch his rash and ever shall be a user / The empathetic liars down the boozer, they love a loser / But overpriced is such a friendship and they thank Christ he drank himself to death / He was a boil on the arse of the Black Country’.

“Out of True” was the beginning of a prolific period for Lloyd, with four other studio albums and a couple of live albums flowing from his poison pen in the past decade, all to widespread critical acclaim and, as usual, blanket commercial disdain. Each of those latter-day releases evidenced the fact that the old punslinger was still shooting from the lip, a fact borne out once again by tonight’s coruscating set

Upon taking the stage, bass player Andreas Schmidt lightheartedly introduces the band and that is where all communication promptly ceases, until exactly one hour later when Lloyd, in response to rapturous applause from the seventy or so punters present, clarifies his standard position on encores “Thanks for coming out, but it doesn’t matter how long you clap or shout we don’t do encores.  There are other groups that do, but not us”. Then, suddenly, he’s gone. I last glimpse him, upstairs in the Moon Club slumped on the corner sofa, arms outstretched, head tilted back in exhaustion.

There was, however, still plenty to like about the Nightingales on the night. Lloyd seemed in good humour, which is not always the case (a Sŵn Festival performance in 2011 sticks in the memory not only for its breathtaking set, but for Lloyd’s constant berating and baiting of his audience), while at the Buffalo Bar some years ago a manic Lloyd prowled through the crowd brandishing a microphone and I suddenly found myself conscripted into an army of backing vocalists on a swashbuckling rendition of “How to Age”.

Lloyd was content to simply circle the stage tonight, coming on like a punch-drunk heavyweight from Rocky XVIII with one too many bouts under his well-stuffed belt, occasionally throwing a flurry of airy punches at an imaginary opponent, before busting a set of moves last practiced by King Kong atop the Empire State Building, while swatting aside a squadron of fighter planes. It’s glorious stuff, calling to mind the half-crouched can-can Lloyd executed when I saw the band for the first time in the Poly of Wales thirty years ago.

Lloyd has been quick to heap praise on the star quality of the band’s present line-up (while the bio entry on the Nightingales’ Facebook page is contrarily unforgiving about some of their predecessors describing them as ‘part-time starry-eyed wastrels, precious sorts and mercenaries’) and they more than live up to their big billing tonight. “Dumb and Drummer” a modern-day Nightingales tub-thumper, and one of a number of songs to showcase a howling duet with ex Violet Violet drummer Fliss Kitson is an early highlight, closely followed by jackhammer versions of “Thick and Thin” and “Bullet for Gove”. Un-named and unknown songs (a request for a set-list has, so far, gone unanswered) spurt by, segueing into a vitriolic cacophony of rockabilly, post-punk and Glam, (the band even break into “Blockbuster” mid-way through “Taffy Come Home”). A blistering “Booze, Broads and Beauty” is suddenly becalmed, leaving Lloyd to “recite” a piece of performance poetry “Learn to Say Maybe”, sadly, though, omitting its best lines,

‘Next he got a job on Eurosport covering dominoes, falconry and kendo / Then went mainstream and won awards for dirty-old-man-isms and innuendo’.

The gig reaches a gale-force finish with a bone-crushing rendition of “Bit of Rough” from Mind over Matter before the band beats an honorable retreat. Lloyd will be doing some more heavy lifting in Leicester, Manchester, Bradford and Edinburgh before the month is out. Don’t miss out!