#its harder than it seems to do two peds at once

[gametastic-photography]

A wonderful morning for some fun

[anon-e-miss]

AU where Jazz runs a TON of charge. It takes ten spike overloads to satisfy him, and he doesn’t have a refractory period. After ten overloads in a row, he tends to go utterly feral—as if he’s in rut. Just mounting and clawing and biting and rutting away until he finally knots his partner and blacks out. This is only occasionally a problem, because basically no one can handle getting him off ten times in a row anyway.

Prowl, SiC, sees how this endless charge is impacting Jazz’s work (and quality of life). He has a crush, but he tells himself that’s not his motivating factor. Jazz needs someone he can trust to see him to blackout. Someone who won’t tap out three overloads in. Someone who won’t judge him for getting increasingly desperate and feral and possessive as he frags them.

Jazz maybe thinks no one could tolerate that kind of behavior. He might feel ashamed of the fantasy he has of ruthlessly fucking someone completely helpless. Someone who trusts him. (Possibly someone who would trust him enough to knowingly drink drugged energon hand fed to them)

Fortunately for him, Prowl thinks that fantasy is HOT AS A SMELTER.

Time for Jazz to finally get some satisfaction.

Despite the war ravaging the planet, Cybertron was seeing a mixing of frametypes like never before. It was by in large a positive as cultures that once stood well apart rubbed one side by side. It was not entirely positive. The differing needs if frame types could class, as Praxian Prowl had experienced this firsthand but at the moment he was not worried about himself or his framekin. He was worried about Jazz.

As Praxus had segregated itself from its neighbours with the great dome, Polihex had itself been segregated, the nomadic and semi nomadic groups had roamed the Wastes and the Rust Sea without fear of heat or storms where no other frametype had. Their frames had developed their own quirks and one of Jazz’s was coming into play.

He needed to frag. But Jazz did not trust so much and so easily as mechanisms thought. Why anyone believed a spy would be trusting, Prowl could not begin to understand. There were Bots Jazz trusted, his team, of course but his team did not comprise mecha capable of taking what Jazz had to give them. He was starting go get snappy, standoffish. It was effecting moral, that seemed like a good excuse.

"You need to frag," Prowl declared as Jazz smacked the datapad he was fiddling with. The Polihexian's visor flashed white.

"Not really yer business, Prowl," he replied. Prowl flicked a single doorwing.

"It is affecting your productivity," Prowl said. "There is no way in Pit I will authorize your deployment when you are in such a state."

"Ya can't order me to frag," Jazz said. "OP would have yer helm."

"Why would I order you?" Prowl asked. "We both know how well you listen to my orders. I am offering my assistance."

"I would ruin ya in two overloads," Jazz said. "Not worth the effort."

"You will find I was forged for endurance," Prowl replied. "I could take anything you give and more."

Jazz stared at him and cocked his helm as he looked Prowl up and down. Prowl did not flinch from the hungry in the mech's expression. He had won, and he knew it. At the best of times Jazz was hard pressed to resist a challenge. This was far from the best of times.

"We'll see."

There was something to be said for Jazz’s self-restraint, he had more of it than anyone, including Prowl would have guessed. He did not push Prowl down on his desk and frag him, but made an honest to Primus appointment for the coming dark-cycle and suggested Prowl take them both off the schedule for the next mega-cycle. Prowl had never gotten so thoroughly fragged that he could not work the next mega-cycle but he acquiesced. It was not as if he could not put himself back on duty as it suited him.

They met in Jazz’s quarters rather than Prowl���s, though Prowl’s rank afforded him best quarters; he had never changed from the original suite he had been afforded as a tactical officer. All he used his quarters for was recharge and the narrow berth was adequate for that. That berth would not serve a marathon interface. Jazz’s would serve that purpose far better. Prowl was not clear of what expectations he had possessed prior to his arrival but every preconception fled as soon as he stepped through the door. That unexpected self-restraint he had observed in Jazz in the light-cycle was gone and as soon as Prowl entered, Jazz was there. Prowl gasped with start as Jazz effortlessly disrobed him.

“Nice tits.”

Servos cupping Prowl’s wells, Jazz pushed Prowl up against the wall and covered his mouth in a crushing grip. He hiked up Prowl’s leg, hooked it over his hip and shoved Prowl’s modesty panel aside as it was still retracting. Prowl moaned into the brutal kiss as Jazz’s ground his palm into his node as his digits spread his folds. The preparations were quick, rough and Prowl was at a loss to do anything but cling to Jazz’s shoulders. He was embarrassingly wet, just dripping with slick before Jazz’s digits ever entered him. His valve made an obscene squelch as Jazz digit-fragged him, spreading his too long empty lining. Apart from the squelch all sounds of Prowl’s overload were muted, swallowed by Jazz’s hungry mouth.

With the nip of his swollen lower lipplate, Jazz broke the kiss and stared into his glassy optics. Prowl dug his digits into Jazz’s shoulders as the other mech suddenly pulled his leg over his shoulder and drove his spike deep into Prowl’s frame. The speed and the force knocked the intakes from Prowl and the sudden stretch burned but along with the burn was a sudden scalding pleasure as his internal sensors and nodes were quickly triggered. It was embarrassing how quickly he overloaded, screaming Jazz’s designation, before Jazz had even sheathed himself in his quickly spasming valve. His leg, the one still on the floor felt like gel and he trembled. Before he could fall, before he could even secure his grip on Jazz’s shoulders, Jazz yanked that leg out from under him and held him up as he thrust up into Prowl’s valve, carving through his internal seal, carving him open. Prowl’s mouth fell open in a shocked O. His doorwings smacked back against the wall. Jazz groaned, denta clenched as he took his pleasure. Blistering hot transfluids flooded Prowl’s tank. He panted. That was one for Jazz. How many did a Polihexian usually have in a session? Oh yes, ten or twelve.

Jazz’s spike was already pressurized again before he pulled out of Prowl. He tossed the Praxian over his shoulder and carried he over to his berthroom. Prowl squeaked when he was tossed onto the berth. Flushing madly, he shuffled back so his helm rested on Jazz’s pillow, then through his legs open and canted his hips as he reached between his thighs and he moaned as he held the rim of his oozing valve open. When Jazz fell over him, Prowl cried out with ecstasy. Jazz held Prowl’s legs up and open as he filled him in one great plunge. He caught Prowl’s nozzle between his denta and nipped and sucked.

With his helm pulled back by the firm grip Jazz had on his chevron, Prowl grunted and panted as Jazz reamed out his aft pipe. He had always enjoyed aftplay and nothing at all had changed here. Prowl dug his digits into the blankets below him and he pushed back into Jazz’s churning thrusts. His wells, too large for his frame, swayed under him. Jazz covered Prowl’s long neck with denting bites. When Jazz pulled out, transfluids drooled Prowl’s slack rim. That was three.

“New ya’d have a tight aft,” Jazz groaned as he watched his spend leak out of Prowl’s afthole.

A mech possessed, Jazz gave Prowl quarter, there was no respite. Prowl braced himself on Jazz’s taunt belly as he rode the Polihexian’s spike. Jazz tugged and pinched Prowl’s nozzles. He was rough as he played with Prowl’s heavy wells and fragged up into Prowl’s well fragged core. As his node ground into Jazz’s array, Prowl round Jazz harder, faster. His glossa lulled from his mouth as he moaned deliriously. Jazz reared up, taking Prowl’s nozzle into his mouth again as his digits drove into his drooling afthole.Prowl’s optics crossed and he overloaded with a wail as Jazz’s splattered his gestation tank with more transfluids. That was... four? Five? Prowl had lost track already.

He was not sure if he was overloading anymore, or if he just never stopped. Prowl panted as he twisted the pillow under his helm in his servos. Another pillow was beneath his hips as Jazz pinned him down, servos folded over his shoulders and drilled him deep. Prowl moaned softly as Jazz ran his servos over his back and doorwings and squeezed his round aft segments. He sucked a denta into the edge of Prowl’s doorwings. Somehow, Prowl found the energy to wail as he overloaded. His protoform rounded slightly as Jazz released into his tank again. Prowl panted. He spent. Jazz rolled him  and pushed his legs open. Jazz was not.

Jazz stood up on his knees and rutted into Prowl’s sloppy valve.The angle he was using dragged Jazz’s spike against Prowl’s gamma cluster and his internals clenched  as sparks flew across his vision. HIs peds curled, Prowl reached between his own legs to furiously, rub his anterior node. With a shrilled shriek, Prowl overloaded but Jazz never stopped stimulating Prowl’s gamma cluster and soon Prowl was overloading again, his valve sprayed lubricants out around Jazz’s spike.

Prowl drooled against the pillow as Jazz crouched over his upturned aft and growled as he plunged his spike into Prowl’s quivering channel. His protoform was bloated, inflated with Jazz’s transfluids. It was going to take orns for the swelling to go down, Everyone was going to think he was carrying. Something heavy and solid ground against Prowl’s slack folds. The knot. He still needed to take Jazz’s knot. Prowl sobbed as the thick swelling at the base of Jazz’s spike butted against his rim. As it was, he was already so full. Overwhelmed, Prowl tried to wriggle away but Jazz bit his doorwing and hiked his hips up, and forced the knot passed the last of his internals’ resistance.

Jazz’s overloaded with a grunt, the force of his spill so much strong and the amount so much greater. Prowl dragged his servo under him and felt his swollen belly where he was inflated with Jazz’s spend. Groaning softly, Jazz collapsed against his back and his spike twitch with another spurt of transfluids as he fell into stasis lock. Prowl tried to push himself up, to get himself out from under Jazz but he was too tired to dislodge the mech. His optics grew dim and he resigned himself to recharging with Jazz pinning him to his filthy berth and his spike knot deep in his tank.

[fang-wolfsbane]

Transformers Generation One: A Seeker's Triangle: Chapter 02: Missing Memories

“Cover it!”

“Stabilise the thrusters!”

“Somebot come and help me with this!”

“Blade!”

“Star!”

Skywarp lurched upright. His servo resting on his chassis. Frag, he’d lost count of how many times he watched the asteroids slice into the side of the Autobot ship, tearing it open faster than a fine-tuned laser.

He remembered falling against the starboard side of the Ark, watching as both Autobots and Decepticons were yanked from the hole in the port side like dolls from a sparkling’s playhouse. One of them had been a recruit placed under his care. A femme.

No matter who he had asked after helping bring his fellows back online with th Autobots’ computerised assistant, Teletraan One, none had claimed to see her. After reporting his lack of information regarding the femme’s whereabouts to his father, Megatron, he had ended up with a visit to the medical bay and a mockery from his eldest brother, Starscream. He had made certain to repay his brother’s ‘kind advice’ with a fist to the faceplate. It had only been because of their younger brother, Thundercracker, interfering that they had broken up their fight.

All he remembered from the rest of that night was downing the little energon they had managed to steal from what the inhabitants of their prisoner planet, Earth, had called an oil rig. The inhabitants themselves had been disgusting little squiggly creatures that ran into the Autobots’ embrace the moment they showed up. He hadn’t bothered to stick around to hear what they were called, and frankly, he didn’t care.

Sighing, Skywarp sat up on his temporary berth. A pile of crates abandoned in a mineshaft that he had to fight his brothers and fellow comrades for. Megatron and Starscream had taken the deeper, cosier, corners of the mine for themselves.

It was times like this that he wished for a fellow companion beside him, if only to warm his protoform as it was freezing from the cold wind blowing in through the surprisingly large entrance. At this point he didn’t care if it was mech or femme. He hadn’t tried it voice his offer to any of his comrades. On his way to his ‘room’ the previous night, he had overheard Blitzwing mentioning to Astrotrain that he would have tried his luck with their only femme if she had still been around, even if he had to do so by force. He hadn���t known whether to reprimand or pity the mech. Blitzwing was certainly handsome, by Cybertronian standards, but the shapeshifting femme wasn’t one to toss away her armour at the mention of a pretty faceplate either.

Come to think of it, he’d never heard of the femme showing interest towards any of them, at least, not in the more private, intimate way. She had joined in on their mocking of each other about berthroom habits or situations but had never so much as mentioned taking a mech or even femme into hers. Each time one of the mechs tried their luck, she would simply shut them down, and if things got too intense after a cube or two of high grade, the femme, always sober, would put them in their place with a couple of manoeuvres he had personally taught her, along with a couple of others she claimed her frame simply remembered on its own despite not having any memory of it.

That part had always bothered him. One day he and his trine, Starscream and Thundercracker, had been going over a new strategy to try and raid an Autobot stockpile, when Megatron came in out of nowhere, a black and green coloured femme at his side, no older than somebot barely out of her teenage frame.

Starscream, ever his charming self, had resorted to taunting their father for taking an interest in the younger generation. A glare from the grey mech had shut him up with a push against the femme’s backplating, sending her stumbling into his brother’s blue arms with the order to train her to be one of them.

His brother had made a comment about having no interest in femmes that fell at his peds and shoved her over into Skywarp’s purple coloured arms instead. The femme had still wanted to make a retort when Starscream swaggered off with Thundercracker at his side, flashing a sympathetic smile towards the two of them.

Needless to say, neither had much to say to each other, which had made getting to know her strengths and weaknesses far harder than it needed to be, especially with her claim that she could remember nothing about how Megatron found her in the first place. She had claimed to already have been seen to by their resident – well, more like ex-resident at this point – head scientist, Shockwave, who had claimed that even he didn’t know how to fix her memory chips. Personally, he found it hard to believe but hadn’t pressed the matter. If Megatron didn’t need her memory chips intact, then neither did he.

He’d contemplated simply leaving her to her own devices and claiming ignorance when she messed up on her own, but the way she fidgeted had annoyed him enough to the point where he took her outside their old base and asked to see what she was capable of. And Primus, was she capable.

She asked for a couple of forms to scan, which, with some difficulty, he had provided for her. she had scanned them all one after another and changed into each and every one. Normally one bott could scan up to one form, with the rare exception of triplechangers, and be forced to stick with it for at least a decacycle, but there she had been, changing like it was nothing to her, even different types of alternate modes, sky, land and liquid-based. When he asked for her to switch in between, she hadn’t even needed to re-scan them. She claimed to be a shapeshifter, the first of her kind. How that had come to be, she claimed to not know either.

That night when he had asked Megatron for a smidge more information, his father had shrugged and claimed to not know either, only that Skywarp was to take her to Shockwave for further study whenever the scientist requested he do so. She hadn’t been too thrilled about the prospect of being poked and prodded like some lab experiment, but if there was one thing the cyclops bot did, it was staying professional. He had asked her to remove her armour multiple times, but it had always been in Skywarp’s presence, and not once did he go near her chassis or undercover plating. He even let her attach the diodes to measure certain function waves herself, only telling her where to place them and how to lock them in so that they didn’t slip during their sessions.

He had to hand it to the scientist. If it had been him, he’d have insisted on doing it himself with the claim that she would be too ignorant to handle the process. Each time she caught him staring for a little too long, one of Shockwave’s more blunt tools would find a target on the side of his helm. Whenever Skywarp scowled and demanded Shockwave restrain the femme, the scientist had simply ignored him with a comment about her being in the right to defend her dignity from his pervasive optics. Those sessions had usually ended with her demanding that Skywarp wait outside until they were done. Shockwave was inclined to agree each time.

He hadn’t realised that he’d been smirking to himself over the memories until Thundercracker came up behind him and placed a servo on his shoulder plating, yanking him from the thought of that feisty femme’s glare.

“Good recharge?” his younger brother asked, sliding into step beside him.

Skywarp huffed. “If only. It’s so fragging cold down here, I swear I’ve lost all feeling below my cod piece.”

Thundercracker merely chuckled, regaining his brother’s smile. Out of his multitude of brothers, Thundercracker was the only one that Skywarp ever felt he could really confide in. The others had their moments, but most of the time it seemed like too much of a chore to even attempt a form of conversation with them.

Their father hadn’t made it any easier either, always pitting them up against one another to see who would have the honour of taking over his throne one day. So far, whether he was deserving of it or not, Starscream had his greedy little servos flexing for the opportunity. They all knew it was only because Starscream was the first Decepticon prince that he wasn’t tossed out into the cold permanently.

The two of them reached their miniature energon storage, each taking a cube to try and quell the hunger grumbling in their abdomens. The bitter aftertaste didn’t help either. If it weren’t for their short supply or the difficulty in attaining it, he would have tossed it aside and led a raid on the inhabitant of this planet until they found something a bit more to their liking.

Megatron had forbidden any attacks on their own, especially after Starscream’s usual blunder that had ensured the Autobots knew they were still online, but he had also given them the mission to find their fellows wherever they could and to return them back to their mine base so that they could replenish their forces, if nothing else. It meant a tighter restraint on their supply, but with more bots on their side, the higher their chances were of increasing their supply. And if they just so happened to run into a potential energon supply along the way… well, there was no way they’d get into bigger trouble than Starscream would.

Tossing the rest of the pink-coloured fuel down his throat, Skywarp slung his arm around his brother’s neck, nearly causing him to spill his portion. Frankly, he’d be saving him the disgust.

“What do you say we go out and stretch our wings a little?” Skywarp asked, his lips pulling into a cunning smirk he’d had eons to perfect. Thundercracker only eyed his older brother, holding onto his cube a little tighter.

He nodded.

[narcissene]

Lost | Smoke

↳ a MikoTotsu Week 2017 fic ♔ Suoh Mikoto and Totsuka Tatara have never once known where they were going or why. | My pieces are for Ped, who I would be lost without. Thank you for keeping Mikototsu Week going too ♡ | (AO3) ゜ﾟ･*･゜ﾟ･*･゜ﾟ･*･ﾟ゜ﾟ･*･゜ﾟ･*･゜ﾟ Totsuka’s heart slammed back and forth against the cage of his chest with every sprint forward. His worn out sneakers scuffed the asphalt as he rounded another street corner, just missing the path of an oncoming car. These schoolyard bullies had grown persistent, and he kept hearing their taunting voices not far behind. So he ran until he couldn’t hear them anymore. He ran until his skinny frame shook with exhaustion and he collapsed to his knees behind a line of shrubs. These shrubs were unfamiliar. This neighborhood was far from his own. “That was close,” he said to himself, examining the large tear they’d made grabbing onto the back of his shirt. He winced feeling through to the dark bruises they’d left from kicking him down. A few places he touched came back bloody. The cuts and scrapes stung, and one or two of his bones felt suspiciously like they were fractured. At least he was out of sight. Those guys must have gotten bored.

Wind shivered through the bushes. It had grown so cold, and Totsuka had forgotten his coat somewhere. Nothing new. Though he doubted there would be room in the budget for a new one. ‘Maybe I should go back? Ah, I don’t recognize any of these streets, so maybe that’s out of the question,’  he thought. So he wandered around, clutching at his arms to try shielding himself from the wind. Going street by street wouldn’t give him any clues, and there were no convenience stores in sight to ask anyone for directions. ‘I’ll just have to keep looking, that’s all,’ he thought. Totsuka lifted his head then. He smelled something carried on the wind. It was smoke. It watered his eyes, getting a lungful. But when it curled up in his chest it warmed him somehow. He took another deep breath and followed the scent to the railing which overlooked the winding street lower down the hill.     “My old man wants me to visit for the holiday. You got any plans?” “Hm. Nah.” Totsuka blinked, recognizing the voices before he spotted the two boys walking below. “Wanna’ come with? I mean, my houseful’ve siblings can be a bit much, but we’ve got the room and it’s a good time. Good food, and all that.” Suoh thought about it, but didn’t answer. He just took another drag and sunk lower into the hood of his coat. He wouldn’t know how to act around an upper-crust family like Izumo’s anyhow. “Suit yourself.” Totsuka felt the urge to run down the railed steps and chase after them. But the sharp pain in his ribs wanted him to turn around and find a way home. Stuck in between, Totsuka ended up following on the street that climbed the hill just above them at a pained, slow distance — unable to decide what to do. He’d followed after King and his friend plenty of times before, only to be shooed away. It’s dangerous, don’t you get it by now? Totsuka never let their warnings sink in for long. The pain stinging all over his body was trying to make him think about it this time. His chest was begging him to leave them alone with every breath of cold air. But there was always a certain warmth that drew him closer. A magnetic pull. The pair below came to a fork in the road and it was time for Kusanagi to part ways to his uncle’s place. “See ya’ after break,” he called, “try not to have too much fun without me.”   Suoh nodded in the usual serious way. From where he watched Totsuka expected him to set off in his own direction. But as the moments passed he found Suoh standing in the same place at the fork after Kusanagi disappeared. Just smoking and staring off. Totsuka searched his expression from a distance. He thought it looked sort of hurt to be left alone without his friend; maybe he was just projecting. Totsuka felt a pang in his chest, deeper than his bruises.    You’re lost without him. You don’t have anyplace else to go, a voice told Totsuka from the confines of his heart. One that visited him, not often, but usually deep in the middle of the night when sleep couldn’t find him. I can go home. Totsuka tried to formulate a reply. To make sense of the unpleasant things he wasn’t used to feeling. You have a home? Do I? You couldn’t hope to belong anywhere. You are a forgotten, cold hearted child, who won’t amount to anything. The thought only made Totsuka concentrate on King even harder. Suoh’s cigarette had burnt out and met its end crushed beneath his shoe. You couldn’t. Unless, The inner voice faded, mistful, the closer he came to King. Still feeling unwell, Totsuka held onto the railing as he limped the steps down the hill, and closer. “King could feel just the same way,” he said under his breath. Suoh must have heard him climbing down from behind, because before he could step any closer he shot out an open palm, signaling him to stop in his tracks. Totsuka obeyed, and paused at a healthy distance in the street. He couldn’t keep the stupid smile from his face despite the ache in his ribs. “I’m lost!” his voice rang out, foolish. It wasn’t like he ever thought of what to say before he said it. Suoh’s expression screwed up. The kid looked like hell had run him over again. And a concoction of rage and annoyance and confusion began bubbling in up in his center again. And fuck if he could ever figure out what to do with it. It bore a striking resemblance to the feeling when he’d come across that group of kids tormenting a kitten at the playground. But not quite the same. Because this kitten had big, stupid brown eyes that were constantly searching for something lodged deep within Suoh himself. Something he’d rather not unearth. You pull it out, you bleed more — that’s just common sense. He turned around to find those eyes so often these days he’d memorized them. Totsuka wouldn’t grow up to have claws or the street sense that kitten would when it became a cat. He never seemed to learn from past mistakes. And it bothered Suoh most all the time, even when he was alone, to think about. He wanted so much to go back to thinking about nothing at all, ever. But the brat was lost, and shivering. No one was watching. Suoh took off his coat and threw it at his head. “Go home the way you came. Don’t let ‘em steal that one too.” “Oh, they didn’t steal my coat. I forgot it somewhere again. But I won’t lose yours! I know! I’ll bring it back to you tomorrow.” Suoh took the right side of the fork and went on his way, just to make an escape. “Are you going to be ok in just your sweater?” Suoh seemed to prickle as the kid’s voice piped up again. It was even closer this time. “King, are you going back to your house?” “No.” You couldn’t hope to belong anywhere, Suoh felt something lodged in his heart say. Unless, “Then where?” “Nowhere.” “Can I come?” Nothing hurt so much after that. Or perhaps he forgot that it did. ゜ﾟ･*･゜ﾟ･*･゜ﾟ･*･ﾟ゜ﾟ･*･゜ﾟ･*･゜ﾟ Years passed. Time wound its red string tight around the two of them. So that one day when they went on walks to nowhere they grew so close it seemed the King and Vassal were attached at the hip. Under the streetlights, far deeper into the heart of the city, in the middle of the night, Totsuka would never ask where they were going or why anymore when King got it in his head to take off on a prowl. The only thing to do was prowl along. He slipped his hand into Suoh’s coat pocket, and found himself almost too warm for the layers he hadn’t forgotten to wear this time. This world was different from the one where he’d gotten lost in that strange neighborhood as a child; the one where Suoh recalled giving up on pushing him away. The fork in the road had shifted them into a new one. This world was densely populated; all flashing lights, violence, and color. It was filled with disorienting attachments and emotions that plagued the Red King’s every waking moment. It was full of something akin to happiness. “Why don’t we ever get anything like these around our place?” Totsuka ogled the modern art statues posted up in a tiny city park square. They were just colored metal looped and bent this way and that into viscous looking shapes. “I ought to make something like this, something modern, experimental of my own for outside the bar.” “They let people put up whatever shit they want to these days, huh,” Suoh squinted at the weird fixtures. They tilted their heads side to side together, neither of them getting the point. “Now now, you should try to have an open mind, King. Isn’t that the nice thing about getting lost? You never know what you’ll find.” They had been walking for hours. It was the way Suoh liked it, when he was particularly restless. “But it’s getting pretty late.” Suoh grunted in agreement. “Let’s get a hotel room,” a wise little quirk of a smile replaced the naive one of Totsuka’s youth. Though it seemed to hold the same power over the Red King. “You that tired?” he teased the kid into following him off again. “Not especially,” Totsuka hummed, tucking himself up under King’s arm, “Not at all actually.” It was just as well to keep losing their way together. ゜ﾟ･*･゜ﾟ･*･゜ﾟ･*･ﾟ゜ﾟ･*･゜ﾟ･*･゜ﾟ

[orangeyouglad8]

Something’s Spooky in Your Blood

Having some fun with #clexahalloweenweek! Thought I’d throw something in for the Free Day today. Thanks for the fun idea @clexabrasil

This takes place in my SEIYB!verse (in case the title misled you…)

Halloween at the hospital is an event unto its own.

It doesn’t surprise Clarke or sneak up on her. She’s been well versed in the oddities that happen on this night since she was a child. Those nights when her mother would only come home well into November looking dead on her feet.

It’s nothing new.

What is new is being smack dab in the middle of it.

The weekend prior to Halloween stretched from Thursday to early Sunday morning. Full of shenanigans. Ghouls and goblins and drunken broken idiots all around.

The ED bursting at the seams. People of all shapes and colors – literally she saw a blue monster wheeled away on a gurney – poured from every nook and cranny. Fake blood mixed with the real and everyone was confused.

And now, now they arrive on the day itself. A Tuesday. Something so middle of the week, Clarke hopes the crazed frenzy of the weekend will not find it’s way back to the hospital.

She knows her hopes have no shot of coming true.

Indra gives them a strong speech at the start of their shifts. Reminds them all they probably won’t be leaving anytime soon.

Except Clarke is already on an overtime shift. Dangerously close to crossing the line and getting into serious trouble. Indra gives her a look and a nod before she leaves the locker room and Clarke understands it for what it is.

They both are aware of the situation.

But for now, Clarke will deal with whatever comes her way. And ignore Raven’s near constant pestering about the party at her friend’s giant apartment.

Her phone chirps in her locker and she grabs it, smiling at the picture she finds attached to Lexa’s message. She sniffs under her arms and applies another coat of deodorant, grabbing her lab coat and sweeping out of the locker room while her fellow interns get ready for the day.

The day she started hours ago.

She plays with her hair hastily, pulling it back into the tiny bun she can manage. Not yet used to the new short length.

Lexa, though.

Lexa’s eyes went wide when she showed up fresh from the salon.

Her fingers card through it every chance they get.

When the elevator slides open she practically dances through the lobby to the coffee cart. Lexa stands there waiting. Her shirt tucked in, her shoes shiny. Her hair perfect. Clarke’s heart beats so loud she’s surprised everyone can’t hear it.

“Hi, stranger.”

“Hi yourself.” Lexa’s eyes dip to Clarke’s lips. She needs them on hers. Settles for the soft look they both share. “How was your night?”

“Long, boring.”

“Boring is good though for post-op, right?”

“Boring is good.” She leans in then. Brushes her hand against Lexa’s arm, briefly.

Not yet over how well Lexa pays attention and how much she cares.

Lexa holds up a white paper bag that Clarke didn’t even see, too entranced by the girl before her. “I brought you some breakfast.”

“Lex-” She swoons. Constant fucking swooning.

“You need to eat,” Lexa says it low as they inch forward in line. And now Clarke really needs to kiss her. Wonders how much persuading she’ll have to do to get her into a closet or empty room somewhere.

Clarke takes the bag and spies inside.

“You didn’t.”

“I did,” she answers around a grin.

“Lexa…”

“Just eat your sandwich, Clarke.”

Clarke bites into it and releases a hearty moan, hungrier than she realized and happier knowing it was Lexa who was thinking of her. Who woke up early and waited in line before work to bring Clarke her favorite breakfast sandwich to the hospital.

“You’re too good to me.”

“I know,” she laughs.

Clarke nudges her with her shoulder while taking another bite. She offers the sandwich to Lexa, who declines with a soft shake of her head.

This day is already off to a better start than she would have hoped.

They sit in a small hallway off the lobby that no one frequents and enjoy their coffee. Clarke finishes her sandwich and tries not to focus too hard on Lexa’s soft admiration. She chances a small kiss on Lexa’s cheek and takes a deep breath in.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

Lexa gulps. Visibly and loud. “You’re welcome.”

“I need to get back. It might be a little crazy today. I’m already pushing up on too many hours for my shift though so there’s a chance I might make it out.”

“Just let me know.” Lexa’s eyes are still focused on her lips.

Clarke loves it.

“Any chance you’d be up for a party if I do?”

A confused brow finally looks up. “What kind of party?”

“Something crazy I’m sure. Raven has been pestering me nonstop.”

“A Raven party…”

Clarke laughs, “I know. But… it could be fun.”

“I guess it will depend on the shift you have, doctor.”

“I guess so.” She remembers her main selling point. “No one from the hospital will be there…” she dangles it in front of Lexa like a carrot.

Lexa’s eyes light up, just as she hoped. “That sounds promising.”

They smile at each other for a beat.

“Don’t forget,” Clarke says, leaning back in and brushing her lips against Lexa’s ear. “You first kissed me at a Raven party…”

Lexa grabs her wrist, doesn’t let her move. Clarke hears her intake of breath.

“As if I ever could.”

Xx

Her quiet morning with Lexa seems like it was days ago.

The hospital roars to life around midday, when a group of stupidly drunk frat boys roll in, already bleeding with bones protruding in ways they never should. Their togas leave nothing to the imagination.

“We’re pledging,” one of them grimaces as Clarke pokes at his slowly bleeding gash.

“Yeah, that’s the excuse for this?” She sends him a look. Poking again and earning a flinch. He smells like the bottom of a bar floor and Clarke hopes the banana bag she hooked up will start hydrating him. He’s already tried brushing up against her ass more than once. She can feel his eyes heavy on her chest too.

“We’re almost through it.”

“You have to survive it first.” She snaps off her gloves and glares again. He looks up from her chest and his cheeks at least have the decency to blush. “You’ll need stitches. I’ll have to numb the skin, I’ll be back.” She leaves and pulls the curtain closed behind her in a huff.

“Murphy, can you handle bed three? This guy is about two seconds away from sexually harassing me and I just don’t have the strength to ignore it right now.” Clarke leans against the nurses station and lets a little bit of whine into her voice.

“If you take the kid in five, then no problem.”

“Done deal.” She switches to the chart for bed five and walks away. When she pulls the curtain back she’s met with a surly little girl and a worried dad. He would dwarf anyone, but the way he looks at his child melts Clarke’s heart a little bit. The girl has curly brown hair and dark dark eyes. Black ringed around them and a little dot adorning her nose. She looks so sad and small under the hospital lights.

“Hi, I’m Doctor Griffin. What do we have here?” Clarke smiles. It’s harder when it’s a kid. Harder and yet… easier.

“She passed out at school. Clutched her stomach and just passed out.” Her father answers, worried and standing. His hand never leaving her shoulder.

“Dad, I told you my tummy hurt today.”

“I know, baby. I know. I’m sorry.”

Clarke checks the chart again. Seems like appendicitis.

“Maisie, did you throw up today?”

“Yeah. Right when I got to school. I ruined my costume!”

“Well, that is a shame.” She sets the tablet down and pulls on some gloves to assess. “What were you today?”

“I was a raccoon,” her voice breaks a little and Clarke hopes she can distract her enough to stop the tears.

“Looks like you’re still a raccoon to me?” Clarke boops her nose and smiles.  “Can I check your belly, Maisie?”

The girl nods. Her lip quivers and Clarke knows she’s trying not to cry more.

“Which side does it hurt on?”

She points to her right and Clarke starts palpating. She barely touches her before the girl flinches and wails.

“Yep, alright. I think I know what’s wrong.” She nudges for Maisie’s father to stand and follow her out of the bay. Keeps her voice low to not scare the girl. “She’s got a pretty bad case of appendicitis. We’re going to need to take her up to surgery right away – we need to get it before it ruptures.”

He nods, tears streaking his face. “I should have brought her in sooner. She never complains.”

Clarke second guesses for a second before placing a hand on his shoulder. “It’s a hard thing to diagnose sometimes. I’m going to get her upstairs and we’ll get it handled, okay? You did the right thing.”

He nods and shuffles back into the bay to sit by his daughter and Clarke grabs a nurse to page Indra and the OR.

Murphy stands by the cart, picking up a suture kit and bandages. He glares hard when she shrugs and gets ready to roll Maisie upstairs.

“Thanks, Murphy.”

Xx

The surgery goes smoothly and Clarke gets to assist the attending, answering questions at rapid fire while she asks.

Peds is… peds is no joke.

And when it’s all over and Maisie is being patched up and taken to post-op, the attending lets Clarke notify her father.

A feeling she’s still not used to.

She finds him stalking the waiting room. Feels his relief and chokes on her words as she watches him break down, tears streaking down his face.

Indra finds her as she checks in on Maisie and brings her dad back. The rooms in peds are decorated with all kinds of animals and fun colors and Maisie gets a good drug induced giggle when she finds out that she’s in the room with raccoons and foxes and forest creatures prancing on the walls.

“Good job, Griffin.”

“Thanks,” Clarke nods. Always appreciative of Indra’s tough love.

“You performed well in there today. Dr. Hunter was impressed.”

Clarke blushes, Dr. Hunter is a rock star and everyone knows it.

“Thanks,” she stammers again. Indra barely conceals her eye roll.

“Make sure you watch that clock. I don’t need you getting written up for going over. We’re already pushing the limit… I should just send you home.”

“It’s barely five yet…”

“I know, but Halloween explodes around here. Something you seem familiar with.”

“Another perk of growing up with a surgeon for a mother.”

Indra simply hums out an affirmation.

“See to her post-op checks, don’t get trapped in the pit.”  She offers gruffly and then she’s gone.  “Don’t be surprised if you find yourself on Hunter’s rotation before long.”

Clarke blushes furiously.

Xx

The pit is slammed when she gets back and there will be no going home for her. Not when her colleagues are up to their ears again in Halloween shit.

Which is fucking crazy, because it’s still just a Tuesday.

But with so many college kids in this city, she really can’t be surprised.

The drunk frat boy with wandering eyes is still floating around. His almost-brother got taken up to surgery to repair the broken femur he came in with. He tells Clarke as much before sobbing and trying to earn some consolation.

Clarke just points him to the waiting rooms and gives him another banana bag. How on earth is he still this inebriated?

She handles two gashes from drunken fights and diagnoses a set of broken ribs and a concussion before Indra finds her and pulls her by the elbow out of the ED.

“Griffin, what did I say?”

She’s livid.

“I can’t just leave! Look how swamped we are!”

“Out. Now.” She growls and Clarke turns on a dime. The fight is not worth it. It’s almost eight and she’s definitely over her time limit. She drops her tablet at the charging dock at the nurses station and grabs a plastic set of devil horns out of the box of gathered and forgotten Halloween accessories.

The locker room is a ghost town and suddenly Clarke feels the exhaustion in her bones.

Raven has blown up her phone.

Lexa has left a few messages as well.

Clarke should shower, she really should, but she’s too tired. Suddenly completely over this hospital. Cannot bear another second of being here.

She changes quickly, asking Raven for the address again and sending it to Lexa. She coats her underarms with another round of deodorant and fluffs her hair, grateful that it always seems to hold better with a little bit of grease and dirt and sweat. Her boots feel comfortable on her feet even after her marathon day and her leather jacket is a warm, soothing comfort.

She sneaks out before anyone can find her. Not in the mood to deal with Octavia’s sass. Or Murphy’s grumping. Or Monty’s guilt trip.

She stops in the bathroom in the lobby and adds a dark coat of eyeliner to her tired face. Adjusts the devil horns just so on her head and grabs her bag not looking back.

Xx

The party is in full swing when she arrives. Bursting out of the big old house in Cambridge out onto the lawn and the porch. Clarke shakes her head, mystified by it all… it’s the middle of the fucking week.

She sets her bag down by the door and looks around. She sees a few familiar faces from her evenings out with Raven and her friends from school. Searches each room until she finds Raven cackling by the keg. Suited up in a stellar replica of a NASA space suit. Helmet under her arm and head thrown back laughing.

She can’t help but smile as she works her way through the crowd.

It’s a packed party. The air is humid and sticky with bodies and sweat and alcohol.

“You really outdid yourself this year!” She surprises Raven. Laughs at the shock and squeal her friend emits before turning around and punching her in the arm. “Ow, what the fuck?”

“Don’t sneak up on me, Griffin. You know I hate it!” She yells. Wraps her arms around Clarke’s neck and pulls her down for a hug. “They actually let you out?”

“If they didn’t I would have been written up so, yeah.”

“Oh, I never thought I’d be happier about your crazy hours than right now, Clarkey.” She pinches Clarke’s face. “Here, have a beer!” The red cup sloshes over her hand in Raven’s enthusiasm to hand it off.

Clarke more than happily obliges, downing the cheap light beer in large sips and refilling the cup before she pulls Raven outside to talk and enjoy the cool fall air.

“I can’t be inside another minute,” she says, leaning against the porch railing. There’s music, but it’s not so loud that the neighbors will complain.

They watch little superheroes and ninjas walk around collecting candy.

“How’s it been?”

“Busy as fuck. Halloween, Thanksgiving and New Year’s… the holy trinity of hospital visits.” Clarke ticks them off on her fingers with a sigh.

Raven raises her cup, “It’s all the alcohol, babe.”

“Mhm,” Clarke answers and gulps the gross beer down, already feeling a warm buzz. She should have eaten something on the way.

“I’m glad you’re here. You needed a night off.”

“I did.”

“You’re not going to be practicing hungover tomorrow are you?”

“No, my hours… I’ll have tomorrow off.”

“Good, because your laundry situation is getting out of hand.”

“Thanks for reminding me.”

“Anything for you, my dear.” Raven swings an arm around her shoulder and smacks a loud kiss on her cheek.

They stand outside chatting for a while. Clarke props herself on the porch railing and rests her aching feet. Raven refills their beers again and comes back with double decker orange and purple jello shots. Clarke groans but chews the shot and swallows it down with a grimace.

Raven is summoned to play beer pong and Clarke waves her off, needing a moment for the world to stop spinning and for the jello taste to leave her mouth.

This is how Lexa finds her.

Lexa who walks out of the crowded doorway and steals Clarke’s breath away. She almost falls backward off the railing.

Lexa. In scrubs. In a lab coat. Hair pulled up on top of her head in a messy bun and fake stethoscope around her neck.

Lexa with her real hospital badge clipped to the front pocket.

Lexa with a smirk – that smirk – on her face.

“Here you are,” She says, sauntering towards Clarke.

“Lex…” Clarke reaches out and pulls Lexa to her. Hands around her waist bringing her between Clarke’s legs. Clarke sees the familiar hospital logo stamped on the scrubs. Gets a thrill when she thinks about where Lexa must have pulled them from.

Brings Lexa down into a kiss.

She’s been wanting to kiss Lexa like this all day. There’s a sharp intake of breath, a hum, a tongue sliding along lips, and then it’s deeper.

Is everything Clarke wants and needs.

“You look really good,” Lexa whispers against her lips.

“So do you, doctor.” She purrs. kisses her again, because she can. Because Lexa is here with her, and Lexa is playing along, and Lexa looks really, really great in Clarke’s scrubs.

“Now you know how I always feel,” she says, dragging her lips down Clarke’s throat, giving them time to breathe.

“A taste of my own medicine?” She jokes. Lexa sucks a little too hard in response.

“Just proving my case,” she mutters into skin, her tongue soothing the spot.

“You know, sleeping with a doctor doesn’t make you qualified to practice medicine, Lex.”

“Why don’t we go home and test that theory.” Lexa husks it out against her ear and Clarke is about to say yes when another voice startles her.

“Griffin, come on, I need a new partner!” Raven calls out and breaks them apart. Clarke glares over Lexa’s shoulder to the door where her friend stands, hands on her hips and an expectant look on her face.

“Fuck off, Rave. I’m busy.”

“Come on, Clarke. I can’t go down like this!” She whines and Lexa giggles into Clarke’s neck where she is still hiding, cheeks red and warm on Clarke’s skin. That’s what does it for Clarke. If she stays here with Lexa between her thighs and kissing her neck, they’ll be doing things that can only be done in private.

“Fine, but you owe me.”

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s go, sweet cheeks, move it.” She disappears into the house and Lexa finally looks up.

“Sorry…”

“Don’t worry about it.” Lexa’s eyes are dark and her lips are plump and red. “Go show off for me.” She smirks again and Clarke laughs.

“Alright, you got it, doc.” She pushes Lexa back and hops off the railing. Grabbing Lexa’s hand and pulling her into the house.

“The horns seem appropriate…” Lexa whispers behind her. Clarke squeezes her hand and wishes they went home instead.

Xx

They beat the next five teams handily. Clarke only has to drink two cups of beer in their run.

Raven is sassy and on fire next to her, sinking shots and talking smack like she’s not short and barely a hundred pounds.

Clarke thinks their luck has to do with the tall lean girl off to the side. The one who can’t take her eyes off Clarke as she shoots. The one who sends her dark looks and private smiles behind her cup.

The one Clarke needs to get her hands on.

They are forced to relinquish the table after the host of the party and his roommate are beaten again for the second time, and declare Raven and Clarke the ultimate champions. Clarke blushes and laughs at the round of begrudging applause and cheers the partygoers cynically throw their way. Raven, though, Raven bows and lifts her hands up to her ears asking for more.

She is…

She is so ridiculous and Clarke loves her so much.

Lexa hands her a fresh cup of beer when she is finally released from her partner duties. Kisses her with a little extra something and smiles against her lips.

“Impressed?”

“Definitely,” Lexa nods. Her voice is husky and Clarke can feel that tension that lives in the space between them ramp up.

“Come on,” She pulls Lexa through the large kitchen away from the beer pong and to the bathroom she found in the hall. They only have to wait a moment for a tiny blonde girl to stumble out with a laugh before she has Lexa inside and the door shut and locked behind them.

They meet in a heated kiss, well past any teasing or propriety. Clarke knows what she wants and thrums with it. Lexa’s hands grip her ass and pull her close, her lips nonstop and devastating.

Hands sneak under Clarke’s shirt and scratch lightly at the skin at the base of her back. She gasps and pulls at Lexa’s lip a little, spurning her on.

Swallows the moan that lives in the back of Lexa’s throat.

Comes alive with it.

Tugs at the scrubs and tries to get Lexa closer, closer.

“Where did you get these,” she says, nipping along Lexa’s sharp jaw.

“My hamper,” Lexa replies, tilting her head to allow Clarke more access. They thud back against the door and Clarke groans at the way their bodies bump together. Push up against each other and seek the heat. “They’re the ones you wore home last week because you were-” she stops to gasp as Clarke’s hands rake up her stomach. “Too tired.” She finishes and tilts Clarke’s mouth back to hers.

“The coat?”

“Hospital laundry. Rhonda seemed particularly keen with me.”

“Do I have to keep an eye on that?”

“Hmm… maybe.” Lexa jokes. “I washed these by the way.”

“I can tell. They don’t smell like a fifteen hour surgery.”

“Just checking.”

Clarke dips into her again and keeps sliding her hands up, up. Teasing just under Lexa’s bra. There’s a patch of skin there that is so soft, and so sensitive, it always causes a reaction.

She’s not disappointed when Lexa inhales quickly and pulls her lips away from Clarke’s.

“Clarke,” she gasps.

“Shh, babe.” Clarke captures her mouth again and slides her thigh between Lexa’s in earnest. All too familiar with the very thin barrier the scrubs provide. Lexa’s teeth sink into her lower lip for a moment before her head tilts back again, enjoying the way Clarke’s thigh moves up against her.

Clarke smirks and kisses the strong neck under her lips, runs her tongue along that little dip just before Lexa’s collarbones.

Smiles as Lexa’s hands press into her lower back and pull her closer, tighter.  She wiggles her fingers and gets up under the cloth and wire barrier, teasing the underside of Lexa’s breasts.

“Clarke,” Lexa hisses. Breaks out of their trance. Stands up straighter and looks at Clarke with wide, dark eyes. “We can’t.”

“Why not?” Clarke bites her lip.

“If we start this here we’ll have to finish. And I am not about to do this quickly.”

Those words send a shudder down Clarke’s spine. She’s suddenly speechless and gaping.

Lexa releases her grip on Clarke’s back and toys with the devil horns that have started to slip down her hair in the wake of their make out.

“Very, very appropriate.” She smiles and fixes them.

Clarke tries to shake the lust off of her, but it’s just not happening with Lexa looking at her like that.

“Come on, let’s go home and you can get me out of your scrubs.”

Another shiver. Clarke has to kiss her again after that. It’s hot and wet and insistent.

“Clarke, please…” Lexa begs and that’s what breaks her out of the trance. She needs all of Lexa, and she won’t be able to have her in this stranger’s bathroom.

“Okay, okay. Let’s go.”

They exit the bathroom much the way they went in, with Clarke throwing open the door and dragging Lexa behind her. They earn a smirk and a low whistle of appreciation from a guy waiting in the hall and Clarke would stop to shove him if she could think about anything else. But all she can focus on is getting Lexa inside of her.

Instead, they make their way to the door, grab Clarke’s bag and spill out onto the street.

“Wanna order a car? It’ll be quicker.” Lexa asks, tugging Clarke to a stop and waving her phone in her free hand.

“Yeah, do it.”

“Two minutes,” she says, eyes focused on Clarke’s lips again.

“Good.”

The wait is agony. They get closer and closer together. Share heated looks. The tension building.

The blue car pulls up and they both jump inside, eager to get back. Their pinkies touch on the seat between them, but nothing else.

Clarke can’t risk it.

Can’t even touch this girl next to her for fear that the unstoppable urges will take over. She leans her head on the window instead. Watches the city pass by outside and enjoys the cool glass on her face.

It’s soothing. Lexa’s presence relaxes her and the long shifts she’s had for the past few days creep over her. The beer she consumed on too empty of a stomach starts to work its magic. Her eyes feel heavy and she sits back in the seat even more.

The car ride isn’t long, but it’s long enough for Clarke to start drifting.

Even with the dirty make out still prickling her skin. And Lexa close to her, ready to reconnect after a long week.

She doesn’t realize she drifted off until Lexa is nudging her gently. “Come on, Clarke. We’re here.”

Clarke hums and allows Lexa to guide her out of the car. She hears hushed thanks and then the driver is gone. Clarke opens her eyes and tries to wake up. She smiles when she sees Lexa standing there under the streetlights in her scrubs with her bag over her shoulder and hair messily falling out of its bun.

It’s such a sight.

A warm wave tugs at Clarke and she steps closer to Lexa. cups her elbows and pulls her in for a soft kiss.

“What was that for?”

“I just like you, I guess.” Clarke shrugs. She loves the smile that plays at Lexa’s lips. It starts slow but opens and blooms beautifully into her full wide smile. The toothy grin that Clarke knows is special.

Lexa pulls her into a hug and hums happily.

“Ready to go upstairs?” Clarke teases it out.

“To bed? Yeah,” Lexa responds.

“No…” Clarke sasses. Stifles a yawn.

“You’re exhausted, Clarke.”

“No, I’m fine, I’m fine. It’s time for me to do dirty, dirty things to you, Lex.”

“Let’s see if you can make it all the way up and to the bedroom. Then we can renegotiate.”

Clarke groans as Lexa guides them up the stairs and to the front door. She feels weaker with every step, and grumpy because Lexa is probably right.

But all she really wants to do is make her come.

“You look good in my scrubs…” she purrs, her face tucked into Lexa’s neck.

“Don’t worry, I’ve already made note of that for the future.”

“Oh yeah? I think you’re the one who needs these devil horns, Lex.”

Lexa laughs as they begin the slow climb up to her apartment and Clarke’s heart flutters in her chest.

Xx

In the end, she does get Lexa out of her scrubs with a few long, slow, wonderful kisses stretched between them. But instead of the hot, steamy, dirty sex she was craving, she is pushed down into Lexa’s sheets with arms wrapped around her as they settle next to each other and drift away to sleep.

[junker-town]

NFL Panic Index 2017, Week 5: Eli Manning leading his team in rushing TDs is a GIANT problem

Seattle’s snakebit on running backs. Eli Manning leads the Giants in rushing TDs. Matt Ryan doesn’t look like an MVP. There’s plenty to panic about in Week 5.

The Seattle offense had a slow start against the Colts, but when things started rolling in the second half, the Seahawks blew the game wide open. But just when the team was putting the finishing touches on a 46-18 win, rookie running back Chris Carson fractured his leg.

The seventh-round pick climbed to the starting spot in Seattle, but now they’ll have to go to the next man up, which isn’t anything to the Seahawks because they have the worst running back luck ever.

It started when Mr. Reliable, Marshawn Lynch, needed sports hernia surgery in 2015 — right after he got a two-year, $24 million extension — and missed most of the season. He promptly retired during the Super Bowl a few weeks after the Seahawks were eliminated.

But Thomas Rawls looked like the next star in the Seahawks backfield. Or at least until he fractured his ankle at the end of his rookie season, and then fractured his fibula in Week 2 of the next season.

C.J. Prosise briefly looked like he’d take the reins with 234 total yards on 30 touches in two starts during the 2016 season, but a fractured scapula ended that momentum.

Others like Eddie Lacy, Christine Michael and Robert Turbin have had a chance to step up, but haven’t done much with the job.

Panic index: Losing Carson is disappointing for the Seahawks, but the biggest concern is the team’s offensive line. Asking anyone to hammer out more than a few yards per carry is a tall ask, but J.D. McKissic gave some reason to be hopeful. It’s not time to panic, but some decent luck at running back would be a welcomed change in Seattle.

The Rams were 3-1 last year too, and that didn’t end well

The Los Angeles Rams look like a good football team! They’ve started off the season 3-1, which is tied for the second-best record in the league. Pretty good, right?

Well, the Rams also started off 3-1 last season. They’d go on to finish 4-12 — not good!

The Rams have actually looked much different this time around, though. They’re fifth in the NFL in total offense, and have the No. 1 scoring offense. Their first three wins of last season was really just the Rams getting by. They had a -13 point differential, a -442 yardage difference, and a five-point average margin of victory.

This year, those numbers are immensely better. They have a +37 point differential, a +64 yardage differential, and a 14.7 average margin of victory. Jared Goff actually looks like the player the Rams hoped he could be, and Todd Gurley looks like the old Todd Gurley.

Panic index: Jeff Fisher is gone, Jared Goff is good, Todd Gurley is back, and the defense is making plays when they need them. The only panic should be about the lack of people in seats.

The Dolphins are regressing on schedule

Last year, the Dolphins were almost the reverse Rams. They started out so cold that their only win in the first five weeks was an overtime victory over the Browns, but then Adam Gase’s team went on a tear, eventually earning a spot in the playoffs.

This year, Miami’s start to the season looks the same. The Dolphins are 1-2, with their only win coming against the 0-4 Chargers. Then they almost got shut out by the Jets (the Jets!), and then did get shut out by the Saints, whose perennially awfully defense hadn’t blanked any team in five years.

But that was in London, and London games can get weird. Gase doesn’t seem too worried, either:

#Dolphins coach Adam Gase, who has a way with words: “It's not time to panic. We've been way worse than this.”

— Ian Rapoport (@RapSheet) October 1, 2017

But why isn’t he? The Dolphins were always a top candidate to regress this year, and not only because Ryan Tannehill was lost before the season even began. Last year’s team rode a weak schedule and close wins to an 10-6 record. They went just 1-4 against teams that finished the season with a winning record.

This year, while Jay Cutler’s getting paid $10 million to basically show up and do the bare minimum like an 18-year-old with a bad case of senioritis, the schedule is much harder. None of the Dolphins’ opponents for the rest of the season have a losing record right now. That includes the Bills (twice), Patriots (twice), Falcons, Raiders, Broncos, and Chiefs. A turnaround like last season is much more improbable.

Panic index: It’s hard to panic too much about something we all thought was coming anyway. But here’s the best advice we can give to Dolphins fans: Follow Cutler’s lead and try not to give any effs.

Matt Ryan doesn’t look like an MVP

When the Falcons started 3-0, it looked like they might cruise right to the top of the NFC again this season. But over the past couple of weeks, Matt Ryan has looked like a shadow of the player who was named MVP and Offensive Player of the Year last season.

Ryan went nine regular season and postseason games from 2016 to 2017 without throwing a single pick. He’s thrown five of them over the past two games against the Lions and the Bills.

A step back was expected this season for Ryan and Atlanta’s offense. Former offensive coordinator Kyle Shanahan was a play-calling genius whose talent got him the head coaching job with the 49ers this offseason. Steve Sarkisian, Shanahan’s replacement, had no experience calling plays at the pro level before accepting this role with the Falcons.

The Falcons still pulled off the win against the Lions. They lost to the Bills, but Buffalo is actually good this season. Still, Ryan’s performance over the past couple of weeks look like a bigger setback than anyone expected.

Panic index: There’s some context needed here. Atlanta’s starting right tackle, Ryan Schraeder, is out with a concussion, and the right guard, Wes Schweitzer, is inexperienced. Plus, Julio Jones and Mohamed Sanu both left Atlanta’s Week 4 loss to Buffalo with injuries. Let the Falcons get through their Week 5 bye and get healthy and the offense, and Ryan, should rebound.

Sean McDermott has an addiction ... to coachspeak

Every coach does it. They say inane things to answer questions without actually revealing anything of substance. But Sean McDermott took it to another level.

#Bills HC Sean McDermott: "If we're going to get addicted to anything, let's get addicted to the #process"

— Joe Buscaglia (@JoeBuscaglia) October 2, 2017

The good news is that the #process is not a banned substance under the league’s policy on substance abuse or the PED policy. So if the Bills are going to get hooked on something, the process seems like a safe enough place to start.

Panic index: The Bills are on top of the AFC East, so if they’re addicted to the process, it’s working.

Eli Manning is the Giants’ leader in rushing touchdowns

New York hasn’t done a great job of fixing its rushing woes of 2016. Through four games, Paul Perkins is the team’s leading rusher with *61* yards. Eli Manning is fifth on the team in rushing yards with 21, and has the only rushing touchdown on the season.

It was this spectacular athletic feat:

That 14-yard run was the team’s longest rushing touchdown since 2015. It also broke a streak of 21 games without a 10-plus yard rushing touchdown for the Giants.

Eli. Manning.

Panic index: The Giants are 0-4, and have no running game to help open up the pass. Something’s gotta be done — and they have to hope rookie Wayne Gallman can be that spark.

The NFL is home to entirely too many bad starting quarterbacks in Week 5

Week 5 will feature some dire quarterback situations. Derek Carr’s back injury will throw EJ Manuel into Oakland’s starting lineup; Manuel is 6-11 all time as a starter. If Marcus Mariota’s hamstring strain keeps him from playing, the Titans will have to turn to thrift store mannequin Matt Cassel in his place.

And then you have the veteran starters who have been microwaved trash. Jay Cutler is earning $10 million to throw for fewer than six yards per pass. Blake Bortles is completing less than 55 percent of his passes. Joe Flacco, in the midst of his worst season as a pro, has thrown for just 150 yards per game.

Some help is on the horizon. Mike Glennon has been yanked for Mitchell Trubisky, who despite his rookie status, can’t realistically be much worse than his predecessor. Andrew Luck has returned to practice, which means the Tolzien-Brissett era in Indianapolis is coming to a close. Sam Bradford could return, uh, well anytime, according to his entirely unspecific coach Mike Zimmer.

But those glimmers of hope won’t help in places like Jacksonville, Baltimore, and San Francisco — all of whom could be looking at a lost season after just one month of play.

Panic index: Seems like there are a whole bunch of teams who could use a quarterback who once led his team to the Super Bowl. If only there were one who wasn’t signed for 2017...

Every game is an away game for the Chargers

There’s no such thing as home-field advantage for the Chargers. They’ve had three games in a row in their temporary stadium, the StubHub Center in Los Angeles. It’s a tiny stadium by NFL standards, with just 27,000 seats. But the Chargers can’t seem to bring in their own fans to fill them.

It was so bad on Sunday that when Eagles linebacker Jordan Hicks tried to rile up the crowd to make things more difficult for Philip Rivers and the Chargers offense, it worked.

“Sixteen away-game season! Every game’s an away game,” a Chargers player yelled in the locker room after the loss to Philadelphia, according to Jack Wang of the Orange County Register.

Rivers tried to be a bit more circumspect when speaking to the media after the game, but admitted the crowd noise was a factor.

“I don’t think, in a lot of ways, it compares to other teams having three home games,” he said. “Yeah, it’s tough.”

The Chargers have nearly sold out every game at the StubHub Center, so attendance isn’t a problem. The problem is that their fans aren’t the ones showing up.

Panic index: The Chargers aren’t very good, and that makes winning over fans in a new city a lot more difficult. But look on the bright side: At least they only have five home games left on the schedule.

[othersportsnews-blog]

Class of 2017 can open Hall of Fame to excluded stars

New Post has been published on https://othersportsnews.com/class-of-2017-can-open-hall-of-fame-to-excluded-stars/

Class of 2017 can open Hall of Fame to excluded stars

COOPERSTOWN, N.Y. — When Jeff Bagwell, Ivan Rodriguez and Tim Raines get to the podium for their Baseball Hall of Fame induction speeches on Sunday, in lots of respects there will be nothing at all outstanding about their time on the phase. Oh, it is a outstanding issue to be receiving baseball’s optimum honor. And due to the fact they are one of a kind people today with distinctive lives and careers, the stories they notify can only be their individual. But it will be a common scene, and that’s a superior issue, due to the fact the once-a-year renewal of this ceremony reminds us how this issue we all really like is as embedded into our past as it is in the existing.

Nevertheless there are lots of, myself among them, who would level out that the Hall is not fairly all it ought to be at this second in time. This has nothing at all to do with those people presently enshrined but every little thing to do with those people who are missing, a checklist that contains some of the most attained players ever to engage in. You probably know who I’m referring to, but I am going to checklist two of them for clarity: Barry Bonds and Roger Clemens. There are others who are worthy of to be in Cooperstown and have been saved out for equivalent explanations, but till Bonds and Clemens get in, none of the others have any actual hope.

Which is why this year’s Hall course is more than just one more group of wonderful players with wonderful, one of a kind backstories and legions of lovers swamping Cooperstown. Far more than any prior to it, this group signifies the gradual shifting of attitudes and the relinquishing of old grudges. Tiny by tiny, the Hall voters is allowing go of the moral indignation and embracing the certainties of accomplishment. If the Hall has been hurt, this year’s course indicates that it is finding greater.

Jeff Bagwell, Tim Raines and Ivan Rodriguez headline the 2017 Baseball Hall of Fame course.

He fell limited of three,000 hits. He hardly ever set up gaudy home run totals. And his profession lacked main awards. So why is the outfielder going into the Hall of Fame this weekend? Simply because the way we evaluate baseball greatness last but not least caught up to Tim Raines.

Tim Raines was more than just rapidly. He was an exceptionally successful basestealer and a wonderful hitter in clutch circumstances.

2 Connected

Raines’ prolonged street to election is a separate problem, and I wrote about that wondrous development presently. It is really distinctive for Bagwell and Rodriguez, who have prolonged been lumped in with the perceived sins of an era.

It took seven yrs for Bagwell to get in. He got just forty one.seven percent on his initial ballot, hovered in the 50s for five yrs, then jumped to 86.2 percent in January, conveniently enough to crystal clear the seventy five percent bar for enshrinement. Early on, there have been voters who shunned him due to the fact of PED suspicions, which is all they have been. Bagwell has constantly denied working with PEDs — outdoors of acknowledging his use of androstenedione in 1998, when it was allowed by MLB — hardly ever examined optimistic for PEDs, was hardly ever suspended for them nor was named in an investigation. But he designed ability late, became muscle mass-bound and was mates with Ken Caminiti, who was open about his steroid use. Bagwell was saved out by the strategy that it was greater to omit those people who may be guilty than vote in anyone whose guilt was learned after it was too late.

That looks rather ridiculous, but the superior issue about the collective model of ridiculous is that it has a way of jogging its course prior to petering out. There was nothing at all borderline about Bagwell’s scenario. He ranks sixth all time in JAWS at initial base. Whilst there is a lot of discussion to be experienced about the dividing traces amongst in and out by superior metrics, sixth all time is nowhere in close proximity to any kind of line. Year by yr, innuendo gave way to simple fact, and Bagwell is taking his rightful location in Cooperstown.

In his just-launched guide, “They Contact me Pudge,” Rodriguez suggests that he hardly ever partook in PED use. Like Bagwell, there is no tricky proof that he did. Jose Canseco, whom some may take into account an unreliable narrator, explained Rodriguez employed. And Rodriguez dropped fat prior to joining the Tigers in 2005. Which is it. And Rodriguez was elected in his initial try out, further proof of the weakening of the PED-suspicion barrier. Nonetheless, his vote overall wasn’t as substantial as it may have been. Rodriguez cleared the minimum amount by 4 votes, even while he ranks third all time in JAWS among catchers. Johnny Bench, whom Pudge joins as the only catchers to be elected on the initial ballot, been given 96.4 percent when he became eligible. But it took No. 2 Gary Carter 6 attempts to get in, so maybe Pudge’s percentage was hurt due to the fact we’re even now just not that wonderful at assessing catchers.

Now that we have cleared the suspected-but-not-established barrier, after this weekend’s celebration it will be time to appear at the Hall with a contemporary eye — and check with major inquiries. The place is Bonds, whose video games we tracked for 4 straight yrs to make certain we hardly ever skipped an at-bat? The place is Clemens, who was dominating for a long time? The place is Sammy Sosa, who thrilled the lovers in the correct-subject bleachers at Wrigley each and every time he ran onto the subject? The place is Mark McGwire, who served restore some excitement to the sport after the 1994 labor conflict?

At its essence, the follow of sports assessment is to location the goal into an appropriate context and extrapolate lessons to apply to the long run. When it comes to the Hall, you try out to evaluate players to those people they played in opposition to, see how they did and how prolonged they did it, and stack it up in opposition to some requirements for induction. It is really an unsure follow made harder when you get started assessing what’s speculative. It is really most effective to stick to assessing the overall performance on the subject of those people who are eligible for enshrinement.

Increasingly, it seems like the transforming Hall voters is starting up to see things this way. Bonds’ vote percentage has gone from 36.2 percent to fifty three.8 in excess of his five yrs of eligibility. Clemens has observed an pretty much equivalent leap through his five yrs, going from 37.six percent to 54.one. In both of those instances, there is no reevaluation of overall performance to be made. The two are on the limited checklist of best players of all time. Sticking with JAWS, Bonds is the all-time chief at left subject, though Clemens ranks third among starting up pitchers.

The bottom line is that all of these players stay eligible for election. The information and statistics established by Bonds, Clemens, McGwire, Sosa and others all stay on the guides. The things they attained are concrete, established points. Every thing else is speculation, which includes the effect PEDs may or may not have experienced.

We’re laying a major stress on long run variations of the veterans committee, which will have to address the underrepresentation of players from the nineties and early 2000s in Cooperstown. Which is not just due to the fact of PED-associated players, but due to the fact others, such as Kenny Lofton and Jorge Posada, quickly dropped off the ballot due to the fact of the logjam produced by the voters’ schism in excess of PEDs. Individuals players did not acquire a truthful shake, and we will finally have to remedy that.

As time passes, more essays will pile up on the instances of the omitted, and the PED factor will fade further into footnote status. PEDs on their own may well turn out to be an acknowledged component of the sport as long run variations give only gains and tiny to no danger. It is really most likely that yrs down the line, we will welcome those people we have shunned. And we will have to take into account those people marginalized — we suspect — due to the fact they selected not to use. The voting membership alone will continue on to evolve. But baseball’s Hall of Fame — a museum, as well as a corridor of fame — will all over again serve its main perform, which is to honor and commemorate the most effective performers in baseball record. All of baseball record.

It is really tricky to say how prolonged this will get, but amongst past year’s election of Mike Piazza and this year’s honorees, the system is underway. There will be no greater proof that we’re returning our emphasis to in which it belongs — on the subject — than the speeches specified Sunday by Jeff Bagwell and Ivan Rodriguez. In the yrs to come, let’s hope the therapeutic will continue on.

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