#someone whos too meek to say no to a relationship with Price when he pushes for one even though he's married

[dvchvnde]

excerpt. sugar daddy Price x reader age gap. infidelity. sugar daddy/sugar baby relationship.

He's a good man, you think. Better than a lot of the others.

And so, when he slips his hand over your thigh, thumb brushing up, up, until his nail skims the lace of your panties, you don't think much about it. Welcome it, maybe. You could do a lot worse than him. Find a lot worse, too.

The pale slip of skin around his ring finger is easy to ignore when he looks at you, head tilting down. Eyes flickering toward your lips.

You let him kiss you under the awning of your tired little shop, tasting the expensive malt on his tongue. The salt—loam, brine; sweat—tangled in the sand combed wisps of his beard.

Just once, you think. Once and never again—

But he's groaning into the kiss—a growl, really—and the purr tingling over your lips seems to shake loose the slip of morality you cling to with trembling hands. The one that says this is wrong, not right, but you watch it fall until it is eaten by the rotten hope that he takes his ring off just for you.

That he comes here just for you.

(An idyllic fantasy. But you know better than to dream.)

Still:

You let him devour you. From head to toe. Kissing you until you’re dizzy, and maybe a little tipsy off the malt on his tongue, the taste of salt. Of smoke. Him. Let him slip his hand over the gusset of your panties, feeling for himself—with his thick, rough fingers—this new, unfamiliar heat that burns through you, and hope it blisters his skin as much as it does yours.

(Because maybe if it hurts enough, he’ll stay—)

[ofironandivory]

Some more lore about Emerie and her relationship with Viktor and Jinx:

Emerie's planet has a name that's mostly consistent of frills, clicks and hums, quite inconvenient for the human tongue to say. Most names have a pronunciation similar to whistling, Emerie's resembling a Kauaʻi ʻōʻō's mating call

The varying residents of Emerie's planet have certain physical advantages to survive within their environments, which also means that they can be far more lethal and harmful towards inhabitants of different communities than when facing one of their own.

The main reasons Emerie's planet remained pacifist was because they have no monetary currency, only exchange of goods and services for something of equal value; and because the species is highly adaptable! If someone from the molten lava regions wanted to start anew at the ocean; they could and their body would quickly change itself to withstand their new surroundings

Magic is embedded within nature on Emerie's planet, so she's essentially considered a mage on Runeterra! She has learned that magic can frighten people or attract those who seek to abuse it, so she only uses it when necessary; usually to better disguise herself among humans or to heal herself and those she cares about

Emerie ended up developing opposing world views to Viktor; whereas he considers emotions to be flaws that create faulty reasoning, Emerie sees them as the very drive that pushes someone forward. If someone doesn't feel strongly about a cause, they won't act on it

In Arcane Jinx and Emerie went through a breakup, during one of Jinx's meltdowns. It caused her to push Emerie away and tell her that she didn't need the alien anymore, since she had Isha. Emerie isn't good with reassurance during moments like these, so she just ran off

During her time separated with Jinx, Emerie joined Viktor's commune, but not as an addition to the hivemind. Once Jinx, Vi, Isha and Vander seek Viktor out for assistance, Emerie is too meek to approach any of them other than Isha; having been raised with the mentality of "it takes a village to raise and love a child"

The only time Emerie allows herself to be experimented on by anyone other than Viktor is when Singed is attempting to save his life, after the battle that lead to the commune's destruction. She only does so because Viktor explicitly states that if anything happens to her he will destroy everything Singed has worked for, including Orianna.

In League, Emerie's wound from her first meeting with Jinx didn't heal properly, as she wasn't able to stand still for long enough, so her knee was permanently damaged. Because of that, Viktor offered to make her a robotic leg! He put her under anesthesia to cut off her leg entirely and replace it with the finest tech he could forge and install

Whenever Viktor needs new equipment and resources, she's the one to seek it out for him. She's easy to trade with, sticking with fair prices most of the time; but she's not above stealing if someone's "stingy" enough

In League she's not a champion, because her lifespan and regenerative abilities render her almost immortal. For her to be able to die on Runeterra all of her chemical components would have to be destroyed simultaneously, regardless of its attachment to her body. So if her entire body was destroyed in one location, but a single hair strand of hers was still intact somewhere, she would slowly regenerate from it, consciousness and memories included

[charming-2d-boys]

Hi! How are you doing? Can I request a Hisoka x S/O were he and his S/O broke up a few years ago but then they meet again and rekindle their relationship. Also the S/O changed a lot since there last meeting.

Oh, oh, oh, I've wanted to write something like this for Hisoka for a while, so thank you for this request! 🙇😄

Ah, my heart that loves drama and fluff~ 💕

Also, inspired by From Zero by MONSTA X because I love that song and I think it fits well with the story and even Hisoka in this situation 🥰

Warning: long as hell because Hisoka and might also be a bit OOC, though I hope not too much

A/N: someone please tell me why I spent 5 hours writing this during class? why couldn’t I write it faster? :/

From Zero - Hisoka x Reader

   There were days when you wondered if you’d made the right decision. All those years of short and failed relationships certainly told you so. But then you’d remember all the lies Hisoka had told you, all the - sometimes - mean comments and teasing, the lack of trust and apologies, and the way he always expected you to welcome him back with open arms and no questions or complaints, after months of hearing nothing from him. He always took you for granted, hadn’t he? And look at you now.

   You could only scoff as you were leaving the restaurant after yet another failed blind date. You were never trusting your friend’s taste in people again.

   The cold air still seeped in even as you pulled your jacket tighter over your body and you cursed the dreary weather and your mood making it seem even worse than it actually was. The guy had been nothing but a jerk the entire night: complaining about the food, the prices, the waiter - you apologised quietly to the poor guy when you were leaving and gave him a bigger tip. This whole night was a disaster. And the moment you bumped into someone and almost fell into a puddle seemed to mark the end of your patience. But you were caught just in time by a pair of strong arms and put on your own two feet again.

   “Thank you and I’m sorry, I wasn’t lo-” The words you were about to utter were immediately cut short as your eyes widened. Of course, it just had to be Hisoka who you had bumped into. Out of more than 7 billion people in this world, it had to be Hisoka. Fate really was a bitch sometimes.

   “Oh, (Y/N), fancy seeing you again~ ♦” Your ex’s voice purred as he looked at you and your clothes. “Out on a date? ♣” His eyes twinkled as he smirked at you, though his smile didn’t really look that pleased. You only raised an eyebrow, shaking your head and moving around him so you could leave. Of course, Hisoka had to start following you. “What did they do? Complain? Threaten the waiter? Spilled wine on you? Or something else? ♦” You’d almost forgotten how annoying he could be.

   “Hisoka, drop it. I’m not telling you a thing.” You almost spat the words out as you still felt his presence behind you.

   “Aww, why not? ♠️” You could almost feel that smile when he asked.

   “Because we’re not together anymore, okay? I wouldn’t be in this situation if you would’ve just...” You turned around, looking into his eyes, almost searching for the right words in them. “I’m not having this discussion here.” You kept walking, back facing Hisoka as he followed you, watching you attentively.

   He wasn’t stupid. He knew what had led to you breaking up with him a few years before. And he could see that you’d changed. You weren’t the same meek little thing who didn’t get into any conflicts and would rather turn away than confront someone. Just look at how you had just talked with him. You would’ve probably stuttered at the sight of that smirk of his then. Apparently, not anymore.

   “Then let’s talk at your place~ ♥️️” Hisoka said as he fell into step with you and grabbed your hand, making you almost stumble as you tried to keep up with him. You were so close to ripping your hand out of his and cursing him until ears bled, but you knew it would be useless. Hisoka could be stubborn when he wanted to be. And the only thing you could do was sigh and try to keep up with his long strides.

   It was only a few minutes later when you were both in front of your door as you unlocked it and went inside. You quickly went into the bedroom to change, not paying any attention to Hisoka, at least for a few minutes. Hisoka, meanwhile, breathed in and looked around. He felt as if he was back home. He had missed your place and the way your perfume lingered around even after you had left the room. He took a seat on the comfy couch where he’d stayed countless times, cuddling you while you were watching a movie or making out, a smile on his lips at the memories. You came out of your bedroom a few minutes later, comfortable and feeling better, and asked Hisoka if he wanted anything to drink or eat. Might as well be a good host. Hisoka only shook his head and you got yourself a glass of water before sitting down on the couch, as far away from him as you could.

   “So~ ♠️”

   “So what?”

   “How do I get back in your good graces? ♦” Hisoka’s grin was back as he looked at you playfully.

   “What makes you think you can?” Your eyebrow was raised. Did he really think you’d just accept something like this so easily? He’d have to prove you that he was worth it. You wouldn’t waste another few years of your life on a relationship that none of you were sure would last.

   “You’re hurting me, (Y/N)~ ♠️ We had some really good times together too, right? ♦” You felt the blood gather at the tips of your ears and under the surface of your cheeks, and you tried to keep looking into his eyes. He was right, of course. There were plenty of good memories between the two of you.

   “And we also had enough bad ones. What do you want, after all, anyway? To take you back? Do you really think that after all these lies, among other things, I’ll just let you back into my life that easily?”

   “I’m sorry. ♣”

   “What?” Had you heard him right? You were staring at Hisoka with wide eyes, expecting a grin to overtake his face at any moment. But it didn’t happen. There was no smile at all. Only him, staring at you with those golden eyes that still made your heart skip a beat whenever they looked at you like that. Like you were the only one and he just had to have you, no matter what. “Hisoka, what did you say?”

   “You heard me. ♣” He refused to repeat it. Saying it once was more than enough and that meant enough vulnerability.

   “No, I didn’t. And even if I did, it’s not enough, just so you know. One measly apology, no matter how hard it is for you, won’t magically solve everything.” Hisoka only sighed as you crossed your arms stubbornly. You really had changed, huh?

   “I’m sorry, okay? ♣ I missed you and I want you back. ♣” At the look on your face, as if you were expecting a bit more, he only sighed louder. He stretched his hands towards you until you finally, slowly put them into his and he pulled you into a side hug. He smelled like cotton candy, again. You smiled at the memory of pushing him into the shower whenever he sprayed himself with too much of that perfume of his, only to be pulled in with him. “I’ll do better and I won’t take you for granted, so just... give me one more chance. ♣” Hisoka was so close to saying please, but he just couldn’t do it. Not yet. But if he had to beg you some more, then he’d probably do it. He couldn’t let you get away now that he’d found you again. He needed you back with him, by his side, just like before.

   You would’ve never thought Hisoka would ever say something like this. His voice was almost a whisper and he had hidden his face in your neck as he hugged you tightly into his chest. His heart was beating quickly and you were honestly surprised at the blatant display of weakness as he called it. You sighed before hugging him back just as tightly, fingers going through his hair. His heart seemed to slow down and you felt his lips kiss your neck chastely, making you giggle. He always did that whenever you’d gotten into an argument or he felt bad about something he did or said.

   “You’re going to have to work your ass off to make me trust you again. You know that, right?” Hisoka chuckled before nodding, his grip on you tightening just a little more.

   “Of course, lovely~ ♥️️” Things would get better between the two of you, he’d make sure of that.

[ethereaiin]

Meaningless Dream | a3!

synopsis; though you knew your love for him would never become something more, you could still dream of a brighter future.

features; you and rurikawa yuki

[au]

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ 

“There was a limit to how extravagant a person could be.”

That’s what your mother often muttered under her breath when she thought you weren’t paying attention. Your father was much more honest with his opinion of you and he often spoke it as if it were the complete truth. To him, you were wasteful and greedy; a selfish brat who cared for nothing other than herself.

You never paid any mind to their words or actions. It hadn’t once troubled you how poorly your parents thought of you because at the end of it all, the amount of dresses you purchased weren’t at their expense and could never amount to the title of ‘princess’ you bore.

The one who’d bring your family the glory your father sought would not be your arrogant older brother who believed the world belonged to him, but you; the daughter who was once believed to amount to nothing more than another pretty face destined to be sold off to some old widowed duke or whoever presented the right amount of money to your father. Yet, you managed to capture the attention of the most influential figure of all: the crown prince, the future king.

You were never sure what it was about you that attracted him to you. You only remembered dancing with him once at a royal ball, sharing a bit of conversation and then the next morning; a request for your hand in marriage arrived in the mail. You could still remember the voracious grin your father wore when he congratulated you that day and you could never forget the sneer your older brother regarded you with.

Where he was once thought to stand above you in terms of power, you managed to somehow turn the tides in your favor, and in the near future you’d become someone far more influential than he. It undoubtedly irked your brother incessantly to know that his younger sister was someone more important than he’d ever be.

Though you would normally relish in your brother’s despair, you couldn’t even bring yourself to crack a smug smile. You were well aware that the meaning of marriage to a royal would entail a lifetime promise to a man you could never bring yourself truly love.

You could never love him because you already loved someone else. That person was the man who was responsible for making your dresses, Yuki. While he didn’t belong to a notable noble house, he was still very high in status, just not high enough to ask for your hand in marriage. In a society built on financial prospects and benefits, love had no place and your father never set out with your happiness in mind to begin with.

If the price was right, he’d even sell you off to a slaver.

The point was, your relationship was doomed from the start yet you never once regretted it and you were sure Yuki wouldn’t either.

Your hands slightly tremble as they gripped one another and the tiny tears that prickled at the corners of your eyes did not go unnoticed by the man standing before you. He takes your hands into his own, gripping onto your fingers as you place your forehead against his chest.

“What’s wrong?” He asks in the softest of voices and with a wistful sigh, you wish it were the only voice you’d ever hear for the rest of your life.

You relish in his gentle touch, reminded that you’d never feel it again after your engagement. It was a solemn thought that only urged the tears clinging to your lower lashes to fall. You pressed yourself tighter against him, your hands slipping from his as you snaked your arms around his waist. You couldn’t bring yourself to speak, only offering a meek shake of your head against his chest as a response.

You were being undeniably desperate for his affection and despite your shameless act, you couldn’t bring yourself to tear away from him.

He tenderly calls your name and sensing your anguish, he slightly pushes you away but still holds you close enough to cup your tear stained cheeks in the palms of his hands. He gazes at you with a rare look of affection, one you'd usually have to catch him off guard to see and although you would have normally teased him for it, you couldn't bring yourself to think of anything other than the fact that it might be the last look you'd ever see from him again. It frightened you to think of a future where he wasn't present and though the two of you entered this relationship knowing that nothing more would come from it other than sharing secret kisses behind closed doors and looks of longing across ballroom floors, you still hoped for something more.

"I'm. . ." You faltered as your hands rose to grab at his wrists though you made no move to pry his hands away from your face. You stared back up at him, eyes quickly moving across his face as if you were attempting to memorize each and every detail from his citrine golden eyes to the cute pout he naturally wore on his lips. "Last night father delivered the news of my engagement. . ."

At your words his eyes visibly dimmed in brightness and although his expression gave nothing of his disappointment away, you could still sense it in the subtleties of his actions. His gentle grip on your cheeks loosened and you intertwined your fingers with his as you lowered both your hands.

". . .Who is it?" He whispered, eyelids lowering over golden eyes to express his concealed heartache.

You're reluctant to tell him, worried that your answer would do nothing more than serve to hurt him. As if anticipating your hesitancy, he squeezed your hand as an act of assurance. You pause for a moment longer as you nervously nibbled at your bottom lip. Your gaze lowers away from his in favor of staring down at your intertwined hands.

“Prince Sumeragi,” You finally say after some thought. “That’s who I’m marrying.”

You weren’t sure what you were expecting when you finally told him the identity of your fiancé. Maybe you thought he’d leave, sparing you the pain of a goodbye by making you wish there was one in the first place, yet he did nothing of the sort. You even thought he’d be a little mad for essentially forcing him into this relationship knowing that he could never make you his through marriage. Instead of sharp words or an unfinished farewell, he pulled you back into an embrace before burying his face into the crook of your neck.

“Will this be the last time I see you?” He mumbles against the skin of your neck and you bite harder down on your lip to keep yourself from breaking down right then and there.

“I hope not.” It’s the only guarantee you could promise and as much as you wish you could offer more, you weren’t too hopeful for the future. “The royal family uses their own personal tailor and besides. . . continuing this when I become princess would be too dangerous for you.”

You paused, pushing him off you to take his face into your hands. “They’ll kill you.”

Your brows furrowed as your gaze searched his. The possibility of his death had yet to occur to you until that very moment when you’d given it more thought. If there were any rumors that were to surface or even the prince catching wind of the unusual amount of time you spent with your tailor, he’d have Yuki executed for even the suspicion of seducing the prince’s consort.

It broke your heart to see his expression shift to dismay and then eventually melancholy when your words sunk in. This would be the last time you’d see each other and the last time you’d be able to hold each other so intimately without the fear of horrendous repercussions. You wished your parting could have been on better terms. You would have preferred it if the situation were reversed. While it would have been painful to see Yuki fall in love with someone else who wasn't you, you wouldn’t ever have to deal with the painful curiosity of wondering when he’d move on. Now, you were stuck with never finding out.

“This will be your last dress for me, so make it your best work.”

You attempted to smile at him though it quivered and mixed with your teary eyes, it appeared more sad than anything. He looked no different from you. Crystalline tears rolled gently down his reddened cheeks and the golden gaze you adored was obscured with longing.

“Of course.” He pulled you closer once more, circling his thin arms around your waist as he brought his lips to yours.

The last kiss you shared tasted salty. A remnant of his grief for a love that could never blossom.

[tarithenurse]

On my mind, in my soul - 12

Prompt: Anon was kind with “Highway to Hell” by AC/DC (shown in blockquotes as usual), Asgard, the throne. Pairing: Loki x Burglar!reader. Content: Swearing as usual, references to lemon and sugared lemon (nothing detailed this time), a truckload of feels, and a pinch of...recklesness? A/N:  I know my writing is very slow at the moment and you may all blame my BA for that. I hope this chapter ended up as good as I claim and if you do like it PLS reblog <3

Is it madness?

A golden glow manages to worm its way past your heavy eyelids, reminding you of a world outside of the cocoon you’ve snuggled into. A nest of soft sheets and cool limbs, a gentle breath fanning your shoulder in a slow but steady rhythm.

Blinking against the morning sun, you take in the serenity that are the ruins from the night: parts of the pretty dress are scattered in a path to the bed and the golden horns are dangling from the canopy above, gleaming playfully at you until you see the warped reflection of you and Loki who’s practically wrapped around you.

Craning the neck only brings a sliver of the god’s face and pale upper body into view. Time to be sneaky. There’s no way you want to wake him up already. He needs the rest…and honestly, you want this moment to last. All too soon this dream of a morning will be shattered in some nasty way that probably involves guards and a prison cell…if lucky. So you twist slowly, careful not to jostle Loki too much with the series of wriggles it takes before you finally lie chest to chest with him.

If someone would have told you this is where you’d end before you’d stolen the tiger’s eye pendant…the would have sounded like liars. Or at least you’d have made sure to let them know how crazy there were. Crazy indeed. Of course stealing from a god could have consequences! It just wasn’t supposed to have included falling for the freaking guy.

How could you not have? Chiseled features hides one of his best assets: the highly intelligent mind that enjoyes challenging you and holds immense knowledge on any subject you could possibly fathom even a fraction of. Combining that with a personality which you don’t even have the vocabulary to fully describe and a body tha–

“You’re staring, my queen.” Loki’s voice is raw and sweet, still heavy with sleep.

“Still got your eyes closed so how’d y’know?”

When they open, there’s only a tiny hint of crimson at the edges to contrast the turquoise. Perfect and cold like ice to some, it’s hard to understand how warm his gaze is. Loki isn’t one person with neatly defined traits. No. He’s a living, breathing, goddamn paradox.

“My eyes are open now,” he smiles, “and you’re still staring.”

“A cat may look at a king.”

Living easy, living free Season ticket on a one-way ride

Dark brows wrinkle as he ponders the meaning of the idiom, and you can see the moment he realises what it means. “There are some laws here that we will have to abide by.” The smile’s gone, the joy too.

“What’s gonna happen to you?” If you’d wanted to sound brave, well, that’s not what you managed to pull off as the question’s reduced to a meek whisper.

Soft lips seek out your forehead and mouth. It’s not a real answer. Less so the answer you actually want because you can taste the desperation on his tongue as both of you try to commit the other to memory in the hopes of stretching this glorious morning into infinity.

It’s to the sound of the birds and rustle of silk sheets that Loki makes love to you. Sweet and tender. Toe-curling bliss rolling through your body like waves onto a dry beach until the second orgasm pulls the god along in the surf, your name spilling from his lips in a broken whisper.

We belong…

…   Loki’s PoV   …

He had never intended for things to go the way they did. [Y/N]’s feistiness had drawn him in, her wit and skills had dazzled him…and none of it was enough to explain why Loki had found himself falling for this woman. The many excuses he’d thought up during the long days as he tried to distract himself from her memory were, in the end, bullshit. And the curses he’d been prepared to spit in the woman’s face after yet another lonely night haunted by her scent with nothing but his mind and hands to quench the burning desire? No…Loki’s intellect and foresight had not saved him from this fate.

I love her.

The knowledge isn’t new. He’s known for quite some time although the god has done anything to avoid both thinking and saying it. Nearly losing her was just the latest push in the same direction, down a path that inevitably will break [Y/N]’s heart because that’s all this cruel semi-Asgardian can offer. It’s selfish of him to covet her heart.

A broken heart is better than a dead heart, he’d thought as he chose to repay his debt the only way he could. But it hadn’t worked as intended, and while [Y/N] could ask him anything of him, Odin would be the one to deem it possible or not. One night. The request had been Loki’s even though he knew the price would be high. At least Thor had pleaded his case or the All-Father surely would have denied it without a second’s hesitation.

One night…and then what? What seemed like a great idea once has turned into a sweet nightmare which Loki has to distract himself from by doting on the Midgardian woman in the hopes that she might understand how much she has come to mean to him.

I could just tell her? They bathe together, barely speaking a word because no words will be enough anyways. He dresses [Y/N] in dark blue and silver, hoping to spare the pain it would be to see her in Loki’s own colours because there’s no way anymore that she will ever be his in this world or another…not even now as she willingly gives herself to him. Not give. No, this time the god is the one who has prayed for and received nothing short of a miracle. But the sweet satisfaction has come too late, on the very cusp of judgement.

Breakfast is brought to them, brimming with the best delicacies Asgard can offer. It’s with a feigned smile and unnatural cheerfulness that Loki speaks of his childhood when he was causing mischief in the great halls of Valhalla and more often than not pinning the suspicions on Thor. Time and time again, an honest laugh is coaxed from [Y/N] only to be snuffed prematurely as reality catches up with the game of pretence.

Their time together is brought to an end by the arrival of a dozen guards preceding Odin and Thor. Heavy manacles and chains are wrapped around Loki despite the oath he’s given. Upon [Y/N]’s life, the prison would neither struggle nor attempt to escape. His distaste of the safety measures are not for himself (he wouldn’t trust himself either), but for the pain in her eyes that never waver from him once. Thor’s by her side, a heavy hand upon the comparatively narrow shoulder as though to comfort her or keep the woman in place.

“Wait!” They’ve already marched Loki to the door when he hears her cry.

Someone must have accepted the plea, because next moment the taste of [Y/N] is on his lips once more, mingling with traces of salt.

Don't need reason, don't need rhyme Ain't nothing I would rather do

…   Reader’s PoV   …

Just like that.

You can only surmise Loki’s being brought back to the prison, but it has been more than obvious that this time there’ll be no visits. Even though the guards and Odin left now without as much as a word to explain, you can’t risk sneaking after them because Thor’s hovering around in the room that suddenly seems cold and barren. Maybe you should be comforted by his presence. At least it’s keeping you from doing some pretty stupid things that could make Loki’s situation worse. Glancing over at the blond meat-wall of a guy, you don’t feel any better.

“Lady [Y/N],” he offers lamely, an apologetic smile on his lips that does nothing to hide the pity, “do not fret…my father has not decided on the verdict yet.”

“What are the odds?” You can hear it yourself, how hollow your voice is.

Falling onto a chair, which groans under the sudden strain, even Thor seems to be at a loss for anything optimistic. “There’s a strain in the relationship between my brother and father.” No shitting. “Over the years, my word has come to way less and less. In fact…” He pins you to the ground where you stand with electric-blue eyes. “In fact you may be the best hope there is for him.”

Then we’re fucked. The odd wording of the thought makes you hesitate. It’s his freedom or worse on the line. Not yours. A year ago, there’d have been no “we” and you’d never have ended up this close to anyone, instead stayed detached enough to simply walk away without a second thought. It had been a simpler life. A lonely life. Well this is gonna be fucking lonely anyways unless I do something.

“Tell me how the justice system works here.”

Nobody's gonna mess me around Hey Satan, paid my dues

…

For three days, you and Loki are kept separate and the news on his wellbeing are close to non-existent. It’s fairly clear, how badly Thor wants to speak with you, tell you something to bring comfort. Maybe the king has made him swear to keep quiet in that respect but at least the prince compensates by giving you a crash course on Asgardian courtroom etiquette which turns out to be surprisingly simple (and prone to flaws).

Odin’s the judge. There’s no jury, save for anyone the old ruler might call upon as a sort of council. And the executioner? Anyone he points to.

At first, you make the mistake of thinking it’ll make things simpler because the way of addressing Odin as judge will be no different from the manners required when addressing him as a king, but the next second you realize that you’ll be talking to a man who’s used to complete obedience and that for all his rumoured wisdom…he will most likely be biased. This is his son. Adopted, sure, but a son nonetheless and Odin’s not forgiving towards the mistakes of his children.

Anything I say can and will – fuck! Poking at the smoldering wood in the fireplace, it seems to you like there’s no way out unless you and everyone else are willing to sweet-talk the King until his ears are dripping with honey. Loki chose to return despite the banishment, and it had been clear from the beginning that the consequences would be harsh if that were ever to happen. Idiotic god. The poker releases an eruption of sparks. Fucking, grudge-holding, semi-sadistic stepdad. At least Odin’s kind to you, treating you tenderly on the rare occasions you are together to the surprise of even Thor.

The shadows from the poker dance and dive blackly against the surrounding stones while you ponder the obvious. Why? You’re a freaking human, Midgardian, an outsider in whom the king isn’t supposed to show any particular favours or interest…except he does.

Ignoring the clatter and angry flares from the hastily discarded poker, you push to your feet and grab the nearest cloak to throw around your shoulders. Soft and dark green, it allows you to blend into the shadows as you leave the room in search of answers and limits.

I'm on the highway to hell Highway to hell

…

Considering that Asgard and the royal castle are supposed to be more or less impenetrable there sure are a lot of guards. But guards are people and people are, well, simple. Thankfully, the Asgardians don’t prove to be anymore complicated than those at home, in fact, none of the motionless figures clad in golden armour even bother to ask what you’re doing out of bed as you hurry quietly down the halls in search of set of double doors taller than a house.

When you find the entrance to the throne room, you walk by as if perfectly disinterested and only come to a halt once you’re past the corner and into a stretch of the hallway with no one in sight. Could work.

Only a few minutes have passed before the guards rush past where you’re crouched in the shadows, the catalyst a strange wail which they automatically attribute to the unusual shape in the darkness further on which they don’t know what belongs to yet, just that it’s not supposed to be there. Attention solely on the possible threat, neither guard notices the green flurry of movement that dashes away.

Why in the freaking universe do they not event big doors that don’t weigh a shit ton?! At least you only need a narrow gap to slip inside the room, back against the door to make sure it closes without a sound. A few embers in the braziers in the wall sconces cast an unnatural glow like puddles of faded heat which hardly is enough to navigate by, so you send an unspoken excuse to the designer of the castle who thought far enough to allow the natural light from outside shimmer in through impossible arches at the very top of the walls, each showing a sliver of star-spangled night sky. The room is warped in shadows and splotches of cold light to create a scene from an old photograph with the imposing throne at the far heart of it all. No longer golden but silvery it looks even bigger now and should hold your interest better than it does, but your eyes are glued to the object stretching from armrest to armrest.

It does seem too good to be true even as you finally stand before the seat. Tentatively, you reach out to brush the fingertips along the metal shaft. It’s real. Gripping the spear firmly, there’s no immediate reaction other than a shiver from the nerves you suddenly find ablaze with worry and exhilaration. Lighter than it appears, the weapon slides soundlessly through the night air as you wield Gungnir for the first time.

Probably last time too, you accept as you finally take a seat with the spear in hand. Before you are two sets of eyes belonging to predators and your only consolation is that rather than attack you, both wolves lift their heads to the ceiling and howl.

And I'm going down All the way

[the-walnut]

The Umbrella Academy- Five

So, for no other reason than the fact that I just love to over-analyze shit:

*SPOILER ALERTS!!!!!!!*

We all know how dysfunctional the Hargreeves family is, and I know lots of people have been looking at the relationships the siblings all have with one another and are picking those apart, which is really cool. I love seeing all the theories that are popping up and the headcanons and whatnot- but one thing I want to see more of (which I know has been catching traction slowly) is Vanya and Five.

I’ve come across a couple people talking about this, but I want to expand on it a bit. In episode one, of course, we hear Vanya talk about how she used to leave the lights on and make Five snacks just in case he found his way home one night. And of course, adding to that, when Five does make it home, he talks to Vanya about her book and he’s not bitter. Unlike the rest of their siblings, who are all pissed about Vanya’s biography, Five tells her it’s well written, that he read the whole thing, and that it was a ballsy move, which is the best feedback we see her get throughout the entire season. It’s validating, even if it is in a snarky Five-ish way.

It’s been pointed out by a few people on here, but there are more scenarios than this. Vanya is the first person Five goes to after the Griddy’s Donuts attack and when he needs someone to listen, and Vanya, upon her power surge in the finale, goes through each of her siblings’ rooms, remembering times when they shunned her or let her down- all of them except Five. She doesn’t go near his room, and he’s the only sibling she doesn’t recall with anger, which is intriguing to me. And while one could argue that maybe it’s due to a genuine lack of memories including him due to his disappearance, which is fair, I find it interesting that Ben was part of that sequence as well.

When Five first decides to time travel and is arguing with Hargreeves, they make it very clear that Vanya doesn’t want him to push it, and he notices, but still leaves anyway. 

This is what I really wanted to get to.

The first people that Five yells for when he gets stuck in the future and finds the Academy in ruins are Vanya and Ben. Instead, he finds the bodies of his other siblings, all of them far older than he remembered them being.

And believe me, there’s no way he wouldn’t have known it was them. Five’s a genius, and even before he managed to jump back in time and find his family again, he would have known who they were. Combined with the fact that he knew what year it was, due to the newspaper (hence how old they all should have been), as well as the fact that they were all in the rubble of the Academy, matched the physical characteristics of each of his siblings, and, of course, sported that umbrella tattoo, he absolutely would have known. One other thing that he would have noticed immediately? That two bodies were missing. Particularly, the first two of his siblings that he thought to look for, because damn it, Ben is small and meek and doesn’t like using his powers, so how could he have handled this, defended himself against this kind of utter annihilation- but Vanya, Vanya is powerless. How could Vanya Hargreeves, Number Seven, the girl who “cried when they stepped on ants” and loved the violin, and had no powers have survived that amount of destruction?

She couldn’t have. 

So how long do you think he searched for bodies before realizing that he wasn’t going to find any? That maybe he could find four of his siblings because they’d gone down fighting right at the very end, but that the other two could have been buried under five feet of concrete and brick and memories, the first victims of a fight that had been too harsh for them to win?

Later, he finds Vanya’s biography and it’s like a punch to the gut because somehow, despite all his intelligence, he had never really thought of a time or place in which one of the siblings would be gone before the rest of them- that, in a way, because they’d all come into life at the same time, they’d all leave it that way as well. And yet, as he reads, he discovers that Ben, the brother he couldn’t find, wasn’t ever going to be found in that rubble pile, because Ben hadn’t lived long enough to be a part of it. But almost in an equally damning way, the fact that he’s holding that paperback in his hands, with the picture of a woman he doesn’t recognize on the back- a woman with his sister’s name, and her sad, drained smile, and the same shoulders that slump like she has the weight of the world on them- means that Vanya did survive up until the apocalypse. Survived up to it, and could do nothing to defend herself when the time came. Died, and died the same way she’d done most things when they were kids- alone.

And maybe that’s why he holds onto that book like a lifeline, choosing to write his equations and thoughts along the margins and in between the sentences created by his sister’s hand, even if her words are sharper and more scathing than he can remember Vanya ever being. It’s the closest he can be to explaining his thoughts and plans to them, circling important memories and writing the occasional response back in the corners of crumpled pages, tiny notes of familiarity and remembrance that keep him going. That biography doesn’t serve as a notebook so much as a motivator to get the damn equations right and return home to them, save them, save everyone before it’s too late to save them at all.

So when the opportunity comes, he does his time with the Commission and cuts all ties with guilt and emotion each time he pulls the trigger, reminding himself that with every kill, he’s a day closer to fixing things, to making sure that it doesn’t end this way, that he’s not the only one of the Hargreeves children who makes it past thirty. Taking a life here or there to ultimately save the lives of billions seems a small price to pay in a twisted sense he doesn’t want to think too deeply about.

When he makes it back and realizes he has literal days before the end of the world, it’s both a breath of air and an overwhelming amount of pressure. Turning to Vanya for help feels natural because it’s what he’s done for the last few decades, writing out all his thoughts in her book, rereading paragraph after paragraph until he has the whole thing near-memorized. Her voice, her writing, the work that she dumped her time and energy into that none of her other siblings appreciate, that was his link back home. Whether she realizes it or not, his going to her and saying “You’ll listen,” isn’t by random chance. He goes to Vanya because she’s the person he’s been subconsciously been bouncing ideas off of and turning to since the first day he found that smouldering biography in the ruins of an old life, now unfamiliar.

Out of sheer necessity more than anything, he finds himself reaching out to his other siblings as well, frantic above all else to stop the apocalypse (something that nobody else seems to understand the full gravity of), the fate of humankind being a burden that needs a little spreading around at times. 

Family means a lot to Five, and he demonstrates it in small ways throughout the course of the season. Sure, he can be a self-confident smartass, and his concerns are often veiled but if you look, they’re there. His first question to the Handler, upon having her make him an offer, was whether or not he could go back to his family. Upon making it home, he asks about Ben, whether or not his death was bad, warns Vanya about her windows, and checks in with Klaus after his return from Vietnam. Despite his conflict with Luther, he reminds him that he’s lived a lifetime already, and that Luther should be more concerned with looking out for himself than watching Five’s back, taking the time to analyze and change the scene before leaving with the Handler the second time to ensure none of his brothers would get hurt. Clearly at one point or another, he has the time to look into Allison’s life and find out about Claire, saying that he wants to meet her. And then there’s also Diego, who he thinks ahead for in order to have his name cleared, as well as talk to him about Patch.

When Five first tells the Handler what his conditions are for returning to the Commission, the first priority on his list is the survival of his family. All of them. The only exception he’s willing to make in regards to priorities over his own brothers and sisters is ending the apocalypse. That’s the line.

So when they first find out that Leonard is Harold and can’t get a hold of Vanya, Five has two strikes against this man- one, is that he’s the supposed cause of the apocalypse, which makes him the priority to get rid of in the first place, but the second strike is that Five knows something the rest of his siblings don’t- that Vanya’s body isn’t found with theirs. And while he claims “Vanya is not important,” he immediately follows up with, “I’m not saying I don’t care about her, but if the apocalypse happens today she dies along with the other seven billion of us.” He tells his siblings that Harold Jenkins, the man Vanya’s with, is their main priority without ever telling them that on the day of the apocalypse he found all of their bodies except hers- meaning she might not have died in that house.

Horrifically, and previously unthought of, she might have died only a day or two before the apocalypse. And it doesn’t take a brilliant mind to put together the pieces that if she’s with a murderer, there’s a good chance she’ll be a victim. So no, his priority isn’t finding Vanya- his priority is finding Harold and killing him before he initiates the apocalypse or potentially does anything to his sister, because Vanya’s storyline in regards to the end of the world isn’t clear. They can focus on finding her after both threats are gone.

After finding Harold dead, Five is the first one back at the Academy to start searching for Vanya and see if she’s come back. Upon discovering that their sister is still nowhere to be found, Five’s immediate reaction to Diego trying to leave is to ask, “Where are you going? Vanya’s still out there.”

Even when everyone else seems to find better things to do and nobody questions where Vanya Hargreeves ended up after the incident with Leonard, the first thing out of Five’s mouth when he finds an armed Hazel pointing a gun at him and standing in his doorway is not the anticipated and appropriate “Are you here to kill me,” but, in fact, “Do you have my sister?”

With all of this leading up to the fact that Vanya causes the very event that Five’s been working to prevent for a literal lifetime, the solution that we expect to see from him (as we’ve seen in other scenarios up to this point) is that averting the apocalypse is priority over even his own family and, therefore, Vanya has to die to guarantee the world’s safety. And yet, at the end of all things, when Luther questions whether or not they should be bringing Vanya with them, Five answers on everyone’s behalf that they’re not leaving Vanya behind- that she’ll always be the cause of the apocalypse, but maybe they can prevent it if they help her, which is what she needs. While the easiest solution would be to off Vanya and prevent any chance of the apocalypse occurring, Five is (for once) willing to risk the whole apocalypse happening all over again on the chance that they might be able to mend past rifts and build the bridges that they never did with their seventh sibling.

So, to summarize, I want more Hargreeves sibling interaction, particularly between these two, because I’m up for some quality character development coming out of this, and I think they definitely have the potential to build off of it.

[shakingshore]

Giac x Fanny, “I can’t keep kissing strangers and pretending that they’re you.”

hiding behind

31. “I can’t keep kissing strangers and pretending that they’re you.”

from this prompt list

roughly 2.4k words, a bit of angst with a happy ending

Giacomo felt the needle prick at his leg, then again in thesame place, before the tailor by his feet scolded him to stand still. Heexaggerated, of course, not even breathing until the man made an annoyed huff.

“At this rate, I won’t get anything done, sir.”

“I think it’s fine,” Giac replied impatiently. The balldidn’t start until the late evening, but Giacomo felt the nerves crawling uphis spine. And there was a small window of time for him to sneak away withRocco to attend without his parents finding out. Not like they cared where hewent, anyway.

But there was one rule they strictly enforced: do notinteract with the Price family. Ever. As in, if his parents knew where he wasgoing tonight, they would disown him for good.

Fanny told him about the feud once, that their ancestorshave fought for decades over money. On her side, one of his great greatgrandfathers stole a share of land and a flock of sheep from her great greatgrandfather. His father told him that the Prices were lying, thievingscavengers. Less plausible in his mind, granting that his father was anuntruthful bastard himself.

“I think I believe you more,” he had said to her.

She only shrugged. “It wouldn’t matter.”

He kissed her for the first time that day.

A letter arrived a week after that, telling him that shecould never see him again. Warning that her father was growing suspicious. Herfather, a high-ranking general that earned their status of near royalty, whowould have his head if he knew what they were doing.

It ended in a goodbye.

That was months ago, and in his heartbreak, he hadn’t seen orspoken to her since. Time passed in a flurry of drunken nights, gambled money,and whoring women. He was surprised his parents had noticed his stranger-than-normalbehavior and advised that he got his act together before they relinquished hishold on the money they spoiled him with.

He would have told him where they could put their money ifit wasn’t for Rocco. His closest friend wasn’t blind to what he and his belovedwere up to but had warned him of the dangers of losing his status, which gavehim the security he needed. He was safe. He could be happy if he ever tried.

The half-empty bottle of rum in his hand told him otherwise.

He woke up that next morning in his bed, arms sore andstomach queasy. Rocco was the only person at his side.

“You were in a brawl. With an entire pub.”

“Did I win?”

Rocco gave him a good-natured smile. “There’s word at thisside of town. A ball.”

“Do I even need to ask who is hosting?” Giac said, rollingover for the water at his bedside table.

“It is a masquerade.”

The gears turned in his head.

“They wouldn’t even know,” Rocco continued.

“She wouldn’t want to see me.” God, he sounded more thanhopeless. Convinced that Fanny was done with their hidden affair, theirsituation riskier than either were comfortable with. He didn’t want to push hertoo far.

How much farther could they be?

“Her family trusts me, despite my connection with you.” Everyoneknew he and Rocco were an inseparable duo. But Rocco was a great businessman,trustworthy enough to keep everything confidential.

Everything financially knowledgeable, at least. Gossip wasbound to spread, one way or another.

“She cares for you deeply.”

Giacomo squeezed his eyes shut, keeping his heart from soaringtoo high before it came crashing back down. He was clever, sure, unquestionablyso. So why was this such a hard decision for him to make?

So much was dependent on the road he paved at this moment.Teetering on a tightrope that would have him falling harder than he would like,in either direction. He had to be sure.

The masquerade would give him a chance. The thought of Fannygave him enough courage to risk everything.

The rush of adrenaline made him shoot up from his bed, hisromantic side blaming the dizziness on the hope in his heart.

Days of planning and groveling and hoping led him to the westside of the manor, half hidden by low hanging trees and the expansive garden. Roccomet him there, handing him a deep red mask that concealed half of his face. Theywalked around the street to a carriage and fled to a house he never dared to benear.

He and Fanny always met in the middle, a small town in betweentheir cities that their families would never dare to be seen in.

He had suggested it once, running away. They could start anew life, even in that little town. Locals were already vaguely familiar withthem, their true identities the only mystery. She refused adamantly. Shecouldn’t do that to her family, nor to him. He praised her compassionate heartand never spoke of it again.

They were in stasis, she unwilling to go as far to betrayher family name and he not reasoning with her. Giacomo only wished for herhappiness, but now he was afraid that without compromise he could never givethat to her.

This was his one chance to pour his heart out to her, he wasconvinced.

The carriage pulled up to an enormous house with largewindows pouring with light, men and women in extravagant costumes more to showoff than to rise to the occasion.

“Maybe we should go around back,” Giacomo suggested, losing hiscourage.

Rocco shoved him forward. “Nonsense. We’re already here.”

They clambered out of the carriage, Giac’s nerves making himstumble. “Just try not to attract so much attention,” his friend added as anafterthought.

Giacomo put his mask on, smirking at the man in front of him.“You’re asking the impossible of me, Rocco.”

They bounded up the steps behind a woman in a very largeskirt, straying away from the center of the room where everyone was dancing in agreat routine. He stood tall to look over the heads of the dancers, hoping tospot one woman out of the sea of people. An impossible task, really, even if hethought he would recognize her anywhere. Her kind eyes and ever genuine smile,the graceful way she moved, he could see her in his mind’s eye and it onlystrengthened the need to see her in person.

Someone tapped on his arm, and his head whipped around insurprise. Her face partly hidden by the white and gold mask, a meek smileappearing when their eyes met.

“Would you like to dance?” Fanny asked.

He swept her to the dance floor as soon as the words lefther mouth, the joy that he’s been deprived of for months flooding back into hisbody. She squealed when he spun her around, it was like a breath of fresh air.

“I missed you,” he said as he pulled Fanny to him. Her handon his shoulder trailed up to his neck, thumb stroking at the nape in awordless apology. He was desperate to hear her voice again. “Did you miss me,too?”

“I asked for a masquerade for a reason,” she giggled. Hersmile dropped a fraction. “I’ve been kept at home more often, ever since myfather confronted me about sneaking away. This party was a consolation, Isuppose.”

He edged them towards the door of the ballroom as theirdance slowed. He knew her relationship with her father was a sensitive topic, andFanny dropped her eyes to the floor to hide from him.

“You have me now,” Giac told her, lifting her chin. “How didyou find me, anyway?”

She looked at him like he grew another head. “My family maynot know you, but I only know one man with a fashion sense like this.”

He looked down at his red silk shirt and dark trousers.“This is all the rage in Italy, Miss Price.”

“I would never have guessed.”

“You would only like to see what’s under them,” he winked,feigning hurt when she lightly smacked him on the chest. She looked away andtook a step away from him, making Giac realize how close they actually were. Hefollowed her gaze to a man and woman who were staring at them as well.

By the scrutinizing look on the man’s face, he would guesshe was her father. Rocco’s impeccable timing stole the attention from thegeneral, however, giving them a little more time before either he or Fanny feltthe need to run from each other.

Giacomo wasn’t sure if it was fear or bravery that struckhim in that moment, but Fanny deserved to know how strongly he felt no matterhis consequence. Now was his chance. “We shouldn’t be afraid anymore.”

Her eyes shone with unshed tears, not knowing what to say.“Giacomo…”

He held both of her hands in his, fully aware of the people startingto wonder. Quite the spectacle, Frances Price being wooed by a mysteriousstranger. She knew nearly everything about him, from his childhood toembarrassing moments to sexual conquests, and accepted him wholeheartedly. Hetrusted her to his very core, and they found new strengths in each other. Theywere in danger of falling from the start.

Giac smiled, knowing that it would lift the tension from hershoulders. His hand followed the path from her chin to her bottom lip, pausingthere before following the line of her jaw. The collective gasp behind her madehim chuckle. “I can’t keep kissing strangers and pretending that they’re you.”

Her choked back laughter was like music to his ears.

“So, what do we do?” she inquired, a bit breathless.

“Do you trust me?”

“Yeah.”

He reached out to take off her mask and removed his as well.Her eyes widened, even if she looked a little relieved to his face without anyobstruction.

“Alright, because I’m about to do something utterly stupid.”Before she could ask what it was, he looped his arm through hers and led themright in front of her parents. He held out his hand for her father, whostraightened defensively as they approached.

“Hello, General Price. Giacomo Casanova, at your service.”

His brow arched. “Excuse me?”

“See, I am an associate of my friend Rocco here. Only herefor business.” They turned to Rocco as if to confirm his statement, and henodded in response.

“Business, is that what your family calls thievery?” hermother jabbed at him, and then directed a question to her daughter. “Frances,is this why you’ve been sneaking away?”

Fanny’s lip twitched, a sure sign of her quiet irritation. “Actually,yes.”

He gaped, not knowing where she was going with this. “What?”

“What?” her parents said at the same time.

“I’ve been meeting with him to discuss a negotiation betweenour families.”

She had a confident edge in her voice and nudged an elbow athis side, pressing for him to continue. He didn’t have much of a plan otherthan asking her parents for their permission to court her, a blind faith in hisability to convince them of his good intentions despite his family name. Not avery good plan, mind, but at least that way she wouldn’t be in trouble forbeing courted without their knowledge. He would just be a bloke who fanciedtheir daughter, which he already was.

“That’s right,” he stuttered, thinking on the spot. “Theconflict between Price and Casanova is an old one, as we all know, so old thatwe don’t even know why. Would it not be socially beneficial to end it soonerthan later?”

Rocco stepped in just then as well. “General Price, it wouldbe advisable to consider this new compromise. The Casanova family has severalconnections that reach across the continent.”

Madame Price mulled it over, her husband stoic as heconsidered this suggestion. Fanny and Rocco were right. Other than two familiescompeting, a stronger bond would ensure financial security and reputation.

“How do you plan on ending this, then?” her father said,taking him from his thoughts. Giacomo took a deep breath.

“Well, I was considering a merger.”

“A merger, as in marriage?”

Fanny squeezed his arm. When he looked at her she didn’tmeet his eyes, but he could tell she was not averse to the idea. A proposalwouldn’t work here and now, though.

“Well, it’s a possibility.”

“I do not have a high opinion of you, Sir Casanova. As ofyet.” He only nodded in understanding. “Does your family know about this?”

“Nope!” Giac answered cheerfully. “Truthfully, it will takea lot of convincing. But I was raised on the importance of debate and persuasion,how hard can it be?”

He’s already had the majority of responsibility with his family’s finances anyway, his parents more concerned with the social aspect than anything else. The Price family was in good standing, and their feud has brought more gossip than it has done any good, really. If they would just let him explain, he would have their reluctant approval at the very least. He was very clever. If only he put any of that intelligence into something other than moping over what he thought was a lost cause. 

“You think highly of yourself,” General Price observed.

“Yes, I do. It is high time I clean up my act, so to speak.And I think that first step is extending an olive branch to you.”

“You are very different than I imagined you to be.”

“One’s true soul is never how you imagine it, I suppose.”

The general turned to Fanny. “Frances, do you agree withthis idea?”

She looked shocked that he included her in this decision. Shegazed up at him, a beautiful expression lighting up her face. Giac couldn’thelp but respond to it in kind. She was a guiding light in this situation, always motivating him to be good enough for her. 

“I think… it’ll take time,” she said slowly, considering thegenerations of resentment between their families. It was all in the past, andthere was no need to be so closed off from each other any longer. The vision ofspending the rest of his life with her became more vivid and clear. “But itwill be worth it.”

[consciousowl]

The Gift of Anger

In all the world’s literature, secular or sacred, conflict is the most essential element, usually ignited by anger. Without conflict you quite simply have no story. Thus, all the great epics, such as Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey and India’s Ramayana and Mahabharata, revolve around continuing conflict, involving danger and death, accompanied by fear and anger.

And the Jews' passover was at hand, and Jesus went up to Jerusalem.And found in the temple those that sold oxen and sheep and doves,and the changers of money sitting:

And when he had made a scourge of small cords,

he drove them all out of the temple, and the sheep, and the oxen;

and poured out the changers' money, and overthrew the tables;

And said unto them that sold doves, Take these things hence;

make not my Father's house an house of merchandise.

And his disciples remembered that it was written,The zeal of thine house hath eaten me up.

Jesus Christ in the Gospel of John

Conflict is even essential in comedy, where it may not always become violent. Anger is an indispensible component, typically based upon misunderstandings that eventually get sorted out. When the fairy tales assure us that the heroic couple lives “happily ever after,” they usually leave out anger management. As Joseph Campbell, who dearly loved his younger wife, Jean Erdman, put it, “Marriage is an ordeal!”

Why We Get Angry

If the truth be told, anger simply happens. Watch little children together, even at play. They will have disputes and start pushing or even biting each other.

We, as adults, go about it more smoothly. We hide or suppress our anger; whereas children quickly forgive and make up. Anger just happens, but we almost always attribute it to someone or something.​

We all have expectations, as we are rational creatures with acute imaginations. We quickly get a sense of entitlement and start insisting on certain outcomes based on past experience. When they are blocked, we get frustrated and flare up. We are not content with the basics of food, water, shelter and clothing. We require so much more.

Western religions point to our “sin” nature, our innate tendency to rebel against our Creator. From an Eastern perspective, our false sense of self makes us insist that we are confined within this bag of skin and bones, rather than realizing that we are the whole of life, the whole of creation.​

Anger as a Blessing

We all admire, and often emulate, fictional characters who keep their cool under all circumstances, such as the many incarnations of James Bond. James has the aplomb to make love to a beautiful counter-agent just before being thrown out of a fast-moving airplane. These make-believe characters seem so professional, powerful and totally together.

Yet anger can actually be a positive force in the face of systematic exploitation, or as Pope Francis I put it, “structural evil.” We disempower ourselves when we pretend that it is all cool when the very ground is falling out from under us.​

If our species had been without the fight or flight response, we would never have made it out of the trees. This is the automatic response of fear or anger where we decide to take on the lioness, or run for our lives right back up the tree.

Few Americans were thrilled with the results of the 2016 Presidential election. It seemed nobody got what they really wanted, and the candidates with heart got eliminated in the primaries. The attendant shock and dismay of the public led many Americans to actively protest and seek to change the political system in more fundamental ways than had ever been contemplated. This would not be possible if everyone maintained a “grin-and-bear it” attitude.

How Anger Utterly Transformed Three of the Greatest Men

When we think of saints and sages, let alone avatars, bodhisattvas and messiahs, we think of infinitely pure beings who have transcended their egos, given up all attachments and do nothing but radiate bliss 24-hours a day. Jesus is the “meek and mild” shepherd, Gandhi is the playful grandfather who gives candy to children and Mandela is the ultimate diplomat who brings black and white people together in a World Cup love fest.

It wasn’t always that way!​

1.  Jesus of Nazareth

Before Jesus threw the moneychangers out of the temple, he had called the Pharisees, the most visibly religious members of His society “whitewashed tombs that look beautiful on the outside, but are inwardly filled with dead men’s bones.” A powerful young man in the prime of His life, Jesus spoke in metaphors and was gifted in shocking people out of their complacency. He was anything but thrilled with the status quo.

2.  Mahatma Gandhi

Gandhi’s grandson, Dr. Arun Gandhi, recently wrote a book, The Gift of Anger, based on the early guidance of the Mahatma, when Arun came to Gandhi’s ashram as a child. When Arun would get angry, Gandhi did not try to punish him, but to encourage him to channel his anger in a positive way, just as Gandhi did as a young man when thrown out of the train in South Africa solely on the basis of the color of his skin. Don’t fight the people, fight the oppressive system. Love the perpetrators; hate the system, itself.

3.  Nelson Mandela

Madiba Mandela started out life as a tribal chieftain with a good education, prepared to play a positive role in society. However, he couldn’t accept the arbitrary nature of Apartheid, and the indignity that Black Africans suffered in a deeply segregated South Africa. Mandela got involved in the terrorist wing of the African National Congress and was convicted of a car bomb that killed 19 people. For that, Mandela was sentenced for 27 years to an offshore prison breaking stones. Mandela gradually faced his dark side, and developed compassion for the ruling Afrikaans as people. He finally realized the evil was with the system, itself, that ultimately served neither whites nor blacks.

Forgiveness the Flip Side of Anger

Forgiveness is the capstone of Christianity, as Christ taught his students in the Sermon on the Mount to forgive their enemies. Anger is part of life, but we are to let go of our anger before the sun sets and reconcile ourselves with our offender. This wasn’t simply an empty platitude on Christ’s part. When He was tried in the Sanhedrin, He refused to defend Himself. Even on the cross, He prayed that His Father would forgive the very Pharisees who mocked Him “for they know not what they do.”

It is no sin to get upset and angry. It is, however, self-defeating to nurture it and cherish a grudge. Modern medical and psychiatric studies reveal how an unwillingness to forgive is behind many dysfunctions and diseases, such as cancer. Sustained anger is its own “reward,” it devours the body! Consider anger much like pain. It alerts you to needed changes, but it is counterproductive when it persists.

It is no sin to get upset and angry. It is, however, self-defeating to nurture it and cherish a grudge.

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When Christ forgave his enemies, He revealed a powerful insight: They literally didn’t know what they were doing. We are all at various stages of being conscious, and when we are totally unconscious, we end up doing stupid and hurtful things.

Punishing these people for that is inappropriate. We are to have compassion, and see ourselves in them. We would say and do the very same things at their level of consciousness.

Communication Always the Way Out

With anger management, communication is the foundation, especially in intimate relationships. We literally don’t hear each other. When we pretend to listen, we too often compare and contrast and interpret what she says, rather letting her speak for herself. In addition, we often interrupt her or even talk over her.

Werner Erhard revealed the power of sharing withholds. Conflict most often starts out of what is NOT said, what we are unwilling to share with our partner. This typically results in smoldering resentment. Werner taught people in his seminars to HAVE their anger, rather than BE their anger.

If you get your head out of the way, you will find that your upset is often gone in a flash.

Over the years, I have tested out Werner’s insights and realized that he was totally on the mark when he disclosed that love is a function of communication. As he put it, when you have said it all, both the good and the bad, you will find that what you have really been withholding is: I LOVE YOU! Deep listening is the most fulfilling possible price to pay for the love that is just waiting inside you.

Never Put a Person Out of Your Heart

Baba Ram Dass served as a missionary from the East to an entire generation of Westerners, having dropped out as a professor at Harvard through his preoccupation with psychedellics. He traveled to India in search of the truth and stumbled upon Maharaji (Neem Karoli Baba), a spiritual master with very advanced psychic ability and siddhis (inner powers). Ram Dass fell in love with Maharaji when spoke about Ram Dass’s mother.

While Ram Das went through his initiation at the foothills of the Himalayas, Maharaji happened to do something that deeply offended Ram Dass’s standards of right and wrong. Maharaji had harshly fired one of his assistants for making what Ram Dass felt were very minor mistakes. If Maharaji were really the enlightened man everyone says he was, he would never do such a thing.

When Ram Dass eventually confronted his master, he received no apology. Ram Dass then and there had to choose between upholding his standards over a trivial incident, or forgiving the person he loved most in the entire world. It was no contest. Then Maharaji called Ram Dass over to his private quarters with good humor and admonished him that, yes, he can get angry, but never put a person out of his heart.

We can have anger AND love. One doesn’t necessarily cancel out the other.

Far More Loving Than You Ever Imagined

The most important person I have ever met, the woman I have been in love with for nearly 20 years, has often argued with me, and I with her. I can’t count all the times that we have been angry about one thing or another. Looking back it couldn’t matter less. We love each other very deeply. This love has grown over the years. We live within a context where you can love one another and still get angry.

We have gotten a whole lot more skillful with our anger. I am beginning to learn that she is almost always right, and I am getting more than a little tired of my own stupidity. So, I would say that we are making progress.

But what about the truly difficult people, such as President Donald Trump? Where does anger management apply to someone like him? Whether I voted for him or not, he is still the American President. I can hate what he does, and yet still love him. As Voltaire put it, “I may not agree with a word you say, but I will defend to death your right to say it!”

We can actually be thankful for the difficult people of every persuasion. They stretch us spiritually and take us to the edge of enlightenment and sainthood. Christ made no conditions on forgiveness. Why should we? We can continually bless people every morning and evening and realize that the divine love that emerges from this exercise is the most powerful force in the entire Universe.

We can even forgive our own folly along the way. The final gift will be to realize that WHO WE ALL REALLY ARE, our very essence, is ABSOLUTE LOVE.

The Gift of Anger appeared first on http://consciousowl.com.

[ars-simia-animus]

You’ll Rise Up, Free and Easy

Chapter Eight: “Carried to Avalon”

Summary: Tony’s love for boxing only grew as he did. Ana and Jarvis both feared that Tony’s recklessness would lead him to danger.

Tony cares for Jarvis in his final hours, touching upon the relationship, loving and full of grace, they’ve had all the years leading up to this season together.

Read after the break...

June 1st, 1870

To Pepper,

Seeing how your last letter began with “Happy birthday!” I decided to wait to read it until my actual birthday day, so I read it on the train to New York. I am back at the old Posh Stronghold now, where I have time and space to write, and I have much more to tell you than if I had written right away, even in a few short days!

I punched a man— a real colossus, too! My hand is still brightly bruised from it and tingles. He was a walking monolith, Pep! You would have been scared, I think. Well, I was, too, but I’ve trained in boxing, after all.

What follows is what happened:

Mrs. Ana took me to Manhattan yesterday to celebrate my birthday and my successful first year away at the academy. She says she’s very proud of me. She arranged for us to go to the National Academy of Design. I spoke to Martin E. Thompson! If you are unfamiliar with who that is, he designed the very building the Academy of Design is in— The Arsenal. I told him about my designs and he showed real interest in my engine-powered platform for ascending and descending stories in a building.

We left the National Academy of Design and Mrs. Ana was leading us toward Central Park; that’s when I spied a crowd of men down an alleyway. They were boxing , Pep— real, bare-knuckle boxing, the way Jarvis does, but faster and just more manly and dash-fire! I had never seen anything like it before. While Mrs. Ana was occupied at an ice cream cart, I slipped into a group of pedestrians and sneaked off to the alleyway.

You’re probably saying to yourself that this was a gravely stupid idea, but, strangely, nothing has ever made better sense to me before that moment.

I pushed my way to the front just as the victor won the match— he knocked out the other fellow cold ! — then he called for challengers while they dragged the loser off to the side. Well, someone noticed me standing there, watching with everyone else. It wasn’t as though I was the only child there, but they started laughing at me and pulling at my clothes, asking what a “rich snot” like me was doing on that side of the shopwalls.

Then someone else asked if I had paid for the show. It was obvious that none of them had paid any money. This was just some lowlife street fight, but they all were shouting about how I could afford it and that I ought to pay up before they “ran me off.” Someone tried to grab my shoes, too, talking about getting a good price for them.

That’s when I planted my feet, the way Jarvis has taught me, and I clocked him on the chin. Must have really hit the button because he went down! I’ve never been so exhilarated. To be honest, though, Pep, I thought I broke my hand; it hurt so— more than I expected! I suppose the punching bag would absorb force better than a chin bone, after all.

Everybody was quiet. Then, the man who won the match, this titanic brute, said I didn’t have to pay if I was a challenger. The crowd pushed me in and circled around us. I squared up, which he wasn’t expecting. He laughed but I landed a good one right to his sternum. Well, he didn’t laugh anymore afterwards. In fact he was quite hot about it. He said he wasn’t above giving “a babe a good anointing.”

But I didn’t make it easy for him; I was quick and dodged all around, minding my footwork like Jarvis taught me. I got behind him once and got a shot to the back of his knees. Nearly went to the ground, I swear! He raked me across the nose and upside my head a few good times, but I wish we could have finished the match, no matter how it ended.

I say that because Mrs. Ana found me then, and she dragged me back to the carriage. But, Pepper, believe me: when I was in that ring of men jeering and rooting for the ape facing me, and I was fighting back against that Titan of an opponent, it was like seeing the Lady of the Lake, or being carried to Avalon! Like my entire life transformed into this one moment of survival. I’ve never felt like I could hold my own before; I am not trying to say I would have won, but to even just have the ability to fight back— instead of standing there and taking it— it was indescribable, Pepper!

I think I’m meant to be a fighter. I’m meant to be a boxer.

Anyway, maybe when you’re finally able to come to New York, you’ll see my name on a board for a prizefight and you’ll come cheer me on?

By the way, how’s your family?

Your friend,

T. S.

January, 1903

Tony listened intently to Dr. Pym as he instructed Rhodey and him on how to administer morphine to Jarvis. “There’re vials enough to last; and, I’ve just given him a dose. He'll likely sleep a way, exhausted as he is. It’ll be the pain what wakes him.” The doctor said and Tony bristled a little.

Tony muttered: “Your bedside manner is astounding as ever, Doc.”

Dr. Pym was nonplussed. “You can requite it, then, Stark, by paying good mind to his condition. Moving him didn’t do him any great favors, Christ knows, but I understand it was his wish.”

Rhodey interceded. “We’ll care for him, Doctor, and keep him comfortable.”

“I’ve little doubt.” Pym turned an eye on Tony. “I know he was a father to you. At this stage, there’s likely more you can do for him than I. Even so, I’m sorry I cannot stay.”

Rhodey answered. “Thank you, Dr. Pym.”

Pym nodded firmly. “Send for me nonetheless if you have a mind to.” He took a step but lingered. “Jarvis is a good man. His wife was a good woman.”

“You hardly need to tell me that.” Tony said. The bite had left his voice, though he remained decidedly aloof with the doctor.

Dr. Pym nodded. “One last thing and I know you’ll be loathe to hear it, but,” he said then cleared his throat. “The morphine— well, the more generously given… could help him sleep… longer, if he wished for it.”

Tony walked away, but said nothing. Rhodey told Pym goodnight and shook his hand. From the parlor, Tony only faintly heard their words. He stopped when he noticed Harley blending into the shadows in the corner, his eyes puffy and raw.

“Harley? Kid,” Tony stepped toward him. “What are you doing here?”

Harley sniffed roughly. More tears spilled down the tracks cut across his cheeks. “Please, let me stay.” He asked quietly.

Sighing, Tony closed the distance. He looked at Harley and grimaced painfully. Jarvis had devoted special time to Harley. Much like Tony, Harley was sensitive and hotheaded. Jarvis had allowed Harley to talk freely with him about any troubles. The boy had plenty .

“Listen, Harley,” Tony said gently, “I know Mr. Jarvis means much to you, but I thought you were going to retrieve Mrs. Stark and take her home. Happy’s already left with the cart.”

“I know, sir.” Harley hung his head. “It’s just…” He panted sorrowfully. “The next time I see Mr. Jarvis will be, be, well, the funeral, you know.” Harley couldn’t raise his gaze, but his voice became hopeful. “And maybe there’s something I could do for him, or for you, sir.”

Tony laid a hand on Harley’s shoulder. He let the boy sniffle a moment. Harley’s tone was unusually meek, Tony noted. He had no pretense about whether Jarvis would or could “get better.” His mind was compromised with definite tracks, hard lines, and clear “sight” —all of these Tony knew too well and knew the sobering agony of such a mind.

Yet, he was surprised by the mature grace with which Harley bore it. At this point, in his own youth, Tony would have made a joke or sarcastic comment. Or, even, sauntered around distractedly. Anything to wriggle out from under the weight of his thoughts. Here, Harley wanted to be helpful; Tony was filled with warmth for him.

“I can send a groom to Pepper,” Rhodey said from the doorway. Tony and Harley looked at him. “She’s at the Parker residence, right?”

Harley guiltily ducked his head. “Please, sir, I’m sorry—“

“It’s no trouble.” Rhodey replied with a small smile. He glanced at Tony, who nodded approval and thanked him. “Of course. Why don’t you go find Mrs. Barton and let her know that I sent you?”

Harley hesitated but followed directions. He tipped his head respectfully to Rhodey as he passed, gave a lingering glance back, then left the cottage. Meanwhile, Tony moved down the hallway and stood at the master bedroom door. His hands began to twitch. It wasn’t, however, the gentle motion of playing piano that he had seen Jarvis do since his childhood. It was more of a stridulating or malfunctioning.

Never before had he hesitated at this door. In fact, for the first time ever, he recognized his brazenness as a child. Since the night he had hidden in the thunderstorm and watched Jarvis and Ana sparring in the cellar, he had always strolled right into the cottage, into any of its rooms. If he wanted one of them, he would just open the door.

They never chided him or sent him away.

Tony felt Rhodey at his shoulder. “I don’t know how to do this, Rhodes.” He heaved a full-bodied sigh. “When Ana died,” he said, “I was away at school. And Howard— even if he’d wanted me at his bedside— was killed overseas. I don’t…” Letting another sigh take his words, Tony turned away from the door. “I don’t know what to do.”

Rhodey was quiet. “To be honest, Tones, I’ve never been in this situation off of a battlefield.” He rubbed a hand on the back of his neck and searched for something encouraging to say. Coming up empty, he looked at Tony and apologized in a smile. “Be with him. He’ll tell you what he needs from you.”

At that, Tony actually chuckled. He turned and laid a hand on the doorknob. “I’m sorry. I thought you had met Jarvis before.” He jabbed sardonically, then opened the door.

May, 1870

Ana had long since thrown down both ice cream cones as she diligently searched the Park for Tony; yet, the viscous, syrupy cream that had melted onto the cuffs of her gloves was very noticeable as her hard palm smashed into the street fighter's nose. The smell of strawberries exploded into him, along with the white light of pain behind his eyes. The man stood a foot higher than she, and, as he flung back onto the tips of his feet, he towered almost another foot taller. The crowd of onlookers began to back away slightly, grins frozen in place. Ana didn’t shift until she was certain that the big man was not going to retaliate.

Tony sat, cast away, on the dirt. Even with his sight rimmed in pulsing rainbows, Tony somehow interpreted that Mrs. Ana had stepped between him and the figure that had been stomping him flat. He heard: “What kind of coward beats up a child?”

“Ask your brat who threw the first punch!” The man said. His huge hand indicated the crumpled body behind her.

Tony inhaled and a deluge of blood and mucus rushed his throat. It surprised him, but shouldn’t have; the fist that broke his nose had the weight of a collapsing building behind it. Tony blinked his addled brain back into order. He looked and saw Mrs. Ana staring into the man’s face; there was a purplish stream snaking down from his nose.

“And you girded yourself with courage and faced down the babe, did you? You Philistine!”

To Tony’s horror, he realized that the man he’d been fighting was reared up and bellowing at Mrs. Ana. “No woman calls me a coward. I don’t mind warming your backside and his well!” The brute stepped in, slinging a long jab forward.

But, Ana knew how to box a taller, stronger opponent. She ducked inside, close to his chest and struck him with an uppercut to the throat. Because she was so riled up, so fearful for her Little Mister, Ana lost a little control and wrathfully drove a knee to the man’s crotch. He collapsed like a windless sail. Whirling away—to calls of “look out, boys, nanny’s cross now!” and “easy, mend your bellows!”— Ana marched away and reached for Tony.

Tony stared at her over a hand that was protecting his wrecked face. “Teach me to do that!” He exclaimed.

“It seems,” she said and snatched him up by his suspenders, “I have a few other lessons to teach you first!”

December, 1871

Since he had sent the footman to fetch Dr. Pym, Jarvis had the choice to continue his duties in the main house or return to Tony, at the cottage. He decided that the young man needed more time to cool, so he attended to the communication he had earlier begun, to the Stark family lawyers, and checked the progress on the cellar delivery that was underway. As high-spirited as Howard and his Christmas guests tended to be, Jarvis had little doubt that the extra imports of brandy and spiced rum he’d ordered a month ago would be warranted.

When these two tasks were complete, he pulled his muffler tight and donned his gloves, coat, and hat. Dr. Pym should not be long, he thought. As he walked, the snow banks commanded all the auditory stimuli of the world. Every noise that he usually heard on his way to his home was muffled and replaced by the crunch beneath his feet. How very like my life now , he said to himself. The gentle sensations I knew in my everyday have waned, replaced by the intensity of emptiness.

The garden was a similar illustration; the swathes of blossoms, the lush ivy, the sky dotted with birds— they’d been washed out and left bare. Everything announces her absence , he thought, and then he unconsciously searched for signs of the garden again.

He was rounding the menagerie and the stone fence was in sight, a dark contrast to the white. The blue and cream paint of the cottage walls added a little color to the scene, but the garden was practically lunar. And within the garden, he knew, her gravestone was exposed, hard, bleak.

Jarvis strayed from his usual path so he could glimpse around the back of the cottage, to where her gravestone stood alone. Come spring it would be snugly secreted away among the spires of hollyhocks. He would see to that. She’d endured enough in this stark world.

Jarvis spied the gravestone and his steps slowed. Tony was beside it, on his knees, he guessed (for he looked very small), and slumped against it. Jarvis had meant to show him her resting place after he had time to calm. He would also give Tony the bundle that Ana had left for him. Jarvis walked to the stone fence, not calling out for him, as it seemed indelicate.

However as he neared, dread began to turn his stomach. Tony had not acknowledged his presence in any way, though he must have heard the loud footprints made by the iced snow. Jarvis saw that Tony’s shoulders were still and hoped that he was merely too distant to see them stirring with breath. He lengthened his strides. When he saw Tony’s hands, discarded on his lap, twitching, he ran.

The pallor of Tony’s face and and his blue lips sent a thunderclap of fear through Jarvis. Immediately, he was on his knees, hands on Tony’s face in an instinctual attempt to warm them. “Young Sir! Do you hear me?” Jarvis lightly slapped the young man’s cheeks. “Tony!” He called his name again and third time—

Not even a shudder passed through his face. Yet, deep inside him rolled an ugly retching sound. Bile rose into Tony’s mouth from his throat. Quickly, Jarvis tipped him forward so he would not choke on the sickness flooding his jaws. It spilled across the ground, causing steam to rise from its rose-gold stain on the snow in front of Ana’s stone.

Using a handkerchief, Jarvis swabbed Tony’s tongue and inside his cheeks, mindful not to obstruct his almost undetectable breathing. Then, Jarvis tore off his own coat and threw it over the youth, covering his head as well. Wrapping his arms around Tony’s shoulders and under his backside, Jarvis tried to lift him. He couldn’t feel Tony shivering and knew that he should.

“What in under Christ?” A gruff cry erupted behind him as Jarvis attempted to raise Tony. Dr. Pym rushed up, forsook his heavy, leather examination bag, and took hold of Tony’s legs. “Sure, but you might’ve waited inside, Mr. Jarvis!”

“I rather thought he was inside.” Jarvis muttered, too frightened for his signature wit. His heart was strained, tight like a clothesline.

“Is this the Stark wain?” Dr. Pym asked, not being able to see Tony’s face. The empty sherry bottle dropped from Tony’s lap as the men shuffled him toward the cottage. “Aye, right. I can see the resemblance now.” Pym deadpanned.

Jarvis cursed in his head, but couldn’t speak. Dr. Pym was able to retrieve his bag with one hand before they labored inside. Tony was not so heavy as awkward. Jarvis propped him on a knee and grappled with the door until it opened.

Pym directed him; “We’re going to lie him fernenst the hearth, there. Right. Trade me places.” Jarvis obeyed; Dr. Pym stationed himself by Tony’s chest and removed a stethoscope from his examination bag. He gestured towards the boy’s knees. “Remove any wet clothing while I have a listen to his pulse.”

After succinct examination, Jarvis clasped one of Tony’s boots and untied the laces enough he could wiggle it from his foot, then, he did the other. Memories flooded back to him as he held each of Tony’s stocking feet. Often he had removed his boots after some romp— especially during the trials for that godforsaken glider the young sir had constructed with his Ana.

Tony would run down an embankment, glider around his shoulders, and leap high, trying to make the other side of the stream. Ana stood watch; of course, she only encouraged him.  Afterward, he’d sop , sop , sop into the cottage, drenched, and Jarvis would peel the waterlogged leather shoes and cotton stockings from his feet while the cheeky thing babbled about modifications to the glider. Ana would be laughing.

Jarvis steeled himself and continued to attend to Tony. Thankfully, the socks were dry, though very cold. Jarvis reached up to Tony’s waist and unbuttoned the suspenders from his corduroy trousers. When they were tugged off, he felt the shins of Tony’s long-johns. The snow had soaked through where he’d been resting on his shins, but the cloth on his thighs was dry.

Jarvis ripped the fabric at the knee. Pym noticed his struggle and instructed: “Shears in my bag.” Jarvis, using the scissors, was soon able stripped away the wet fabric down to Tony’s ankles. The clothes on his upper body felt dry except his outer coat.

Dr. Pym was visibly disturbed by the weak stirring he could hear in his stethoscope. Throwing it from his ears, he commanded: “Help me shuck the lad’s coat. It’s covered in snow! The rest seems dry enough we won’t footer over it.”

Once they had Tony settled— lying in front of the fire, on a quilt from the chair nearby— Jarvis marveled at how slight he looked, how much like a broken reed tread into the ground. The illusion of bulk created by his winter clothes was shed along with them. Jarvis was nearly sick with compassion and dread at the sight. Dr. Pym snapped him back to attention. “Right! Now, fetch some blankets and be quick! Wool ones, preferably.”

Jarvis returned with an armful. He began to spread one over Tony, but Dr. Pym stopped him, looking up from the thermometer he held in Tony’s mouth. “How about your clothing? Dry?”

Surprised, Jarvis looked down at himself. He shrugged off his suit jacket, damp from snow, and patted his torso and trousers. “I believe mostly so.”

Dr. Pym checked the thermometer then hissed: “Jesus, saints, and all!” He rolled Tony so that he faced the fireplace. “I’m going to have you lie fernenst him and bundle up.”

Jarvis followed directions. With a hand keeping Tony rolled on his side, he lie down on the quilt next to him. Then he tucked an arm around the boy’s chest and held him close, so that he was flush with Tony's back. His other arm curled under to support Tony’s head. Dr. Pym covered them with two light blankets, tucking the wool under their legs, making a caterpillar’s shape, to keep out any drafts.

Jarvis willed his tense nerves to calm. He heard Dr. Pym mention heating a kettle for later use. “Allow me, Doctor!” He said, but didn’t move. How could he move, with Tony cradled beside him? Dr. Pym gave him a brief, irritated look that echoed his own thoughts.

This was his assigned role: hold the boy, share his warmth. Yet, he’d much rather bustle about, complete small tasks, and be a caretaker in the way he’d always known before. To be that physical comfort: constant, patient, playful now, gentle now— that was Ana’s role.

Was it his from now on?

“I spied thon bandaged hand.” Dr. Pym interrupted his thoughts. “Was that why you called me to begin?”

Jarvis murmured, subconsciously quieted, as though Tony was a child, sleeping. “That’s right, Doctor. I had feared it was broken on the middle and smaller knuckles.”

“Granted, it’s well you called,” Pym said. He snaked his stethoscope beneath the blankets and listened again to Tony’s heartbeat. “Why do you suspect it’s broken?”

“The swelling is considerable. The young sir was anguished and struck the wall.”

This elicited a long sigh from Dr. Pym. “Takes after his father, does he?”

“No.” Jarvis clipped, jaw hard. Even the crackle of the fire seemed to disappear in the wake of the harsh syllable. He relaxed when he saw Pym’s quirked eyebrows. “Forgive me, Doctor.” He said. “I would not say so, though, no.”

Pym chuckled slightly. “There’s a hierarchy to your loyalty, is there?”

Jarvis blinked. He felt the beginnings of a shiver in Tony’s frame. He held his breath, praying momentarily. His hand began to rub Tony’s chilled arm, an attempt to coax more shivering. This was the second time in the same day that he had held him. Whatever delusions of separation had existed before, whether incepted by social decorum or the excuse that Ana was the crux of their cobbled family, they vanished. Jarvis knew his heart was sealed with Tony’s, expectation or duty be damned. He’d just demonstrated as much with the doctor.

“It seems silly to deny it.” He replied finally.

Dr. Pym prepared the thermometer once again. “Sure, but this lad sits at the tip top of the order, I see.” He parted Tony’s lips and settled the thermometer under his tongue.

Jarvis knew the question was rhetorical. Yet, for his own sake, because his mind was decided, he answered in his head. That’s right.

Perhaps not everything had left him. Ana had made them a family, but she could not be expected, whether with them or not, to keep them bound together. Jarvis still had a responsibility to Tony. Finally, he settled— even more, he tightened his hold. The significance of Tony’s weight against his chest made Jarvis wonder how he could have felt so empty before.

A whine escaped Tony’s throat after Dr. Pym had removed the thermometer. Unconsciously, Jarvis rested his head against the back of the boy’s. “Come back, Young Sir,” he whispered. Come back. Come home. I’m here .

January, 1903

Tony wasn’t ready.

He knew it.

In the dim lamplight, he stepped into the room despite this. He looked immediately toward Jarvis, in the bed. Jarvis was so worn away by age and illness— though he’d only been sick less than a week— that he was nearly only a spirit there. The smell of Vicks Pneumonia Salve bore a stronger presence. Jarvis barely caused a ripple in the sheets or a dip in the pillow.

Yet, his eyes kindled when they raised and found Tony, hovering shyly by the doorframe. His voice was choked, but Tony could still recognize him in it. “Forgive,” he gasped, “me if… I don’t… stand.”

“I’d forgive you faster if you didn’t speak.” Tony retorted, attempting to invoke his usual playfulness. He walked to the bedside. Letting his hand dance nervously on the edge, he said: “Why don’t you rest?”

The vials of morphine stood by on a nightstand, along with a syringe and capped needle. Tony tore his sight away from the cruel object. How ironic that he was to rely on it to deliver relief. Tony patted his sides then asked, “How are they treating you here, anyway? Comfortable? Are you thirsty or, or, or anything?”

Jarvis’s eyes were softened with what looked like sleep. Nevertheless, he smiled. His hand rolled toward Tony and Tony took it, grateful to have that anchor.

With an almost electric pain, Tony realized that Jarvis was trying to stay awake for him— at least until he could see that Tony had calmed. So, he swallowed and schooled his features to compose. It was not the only trick he knew, but it was the oldest, so he employed it now; Tony deflected: “You know, J, when I was a child,” he said, matching Jarvis’s raspy whisper. “I would look at you and think that... you could not possibly be any older .”

They both exhaled a ghostly laugh, like a relieved sigh. Jarvis coughed painfully while Tony gripped his hand, feeling as useless as he had feared he would be. But Jarvis recovered and quickly returned: “Having witnessed… your youth, Sir… I had a rather… similar… doubt.”

Tony laughed silently. With great effort, he fought the grief trying to steal his grin, corrupt it into something sorrowful, agonized. He hated how much energy it required for Jarvis to talk. Talking together was their great joy-- had been all Tony's adult life, ever since he’d graduated from the Polytechnic University, taken ownership of the Stark estate, and reunited with Jarvis.

Sinking onto the chair beside the bed, and keeping hold of the man’s hand, he said, “Sleep, J. I’m here if you need anything.”

May, 1870

Ana’s throat had ceased to be a throat. Instead, she was sure she now breathed through an inanimate structure. Perhaps an imaginary clay fist had tightened around her neck and been sintered there. Regardless, she could barely breathe and speaking was out of the question entirely.

Still hauling Tony by his suspenders, she steered them down 5th Avenue to the place she’d instructed the coachman to rendezvous with them. She hoped he was there; they were at least two hours earlier than planned. Once Ana had seen the carriage, with the driver snacking on fried oysters he bought nearby, she relaxed. She stole a glance at Tony, realizing he’d been quiet since she’d snatched him from the dirt.

Tony’s eyes were shadowed and wide as he tracked their swiftly moving feet. He knew he was in trouble; guilt and anticipation was written in every feature. The sight renewed Ana’s vexation. She had so much to say to him! The words crowded her mouth, but there they stayed. She feared that if she began she wouldn’t stop for a week. She couldn’t even guess what would make it out of her mouth first.

They reached the carriage and Ana released his suspenders. Tony stood looking at her expectantly. She was irked by the dour expression that was cementing on his face. So, she ignored him and pointed a shaky finger at the carriage. “In.” She nearly gurgled. Then she turned to address the driver.

Tony, however, wouldn’t be cast aside so easily. “It’s not my fault—“

Ana leveled him with a look. “I am not ready to talk to you. Get in the carriage.”

“I was pushed! I was pushed by the crowd!” Tony argued.

“All the way from the ice cream cart, were you?” Ana challenged. Her voice was sharpening as though his defiance were a whetstone. “I don’t want to hear any more.”

By this time, the driver had shuffled around the front of the carriage. He awkwardly held the wax paper bag in which his fried oysters had been served. His foot was apparently his main interest; he watched as it bored into the dirt.

“I just wanted to see them box!” Tony yelled. “Besides,” he added, desperately, “you were the one who was supposed to be watching me.” He knew long before he finished that sentence that it was a mistake, but his voice was moving faster than his brain.

Ana had to bite her lip very hard to remain quiet.

Tony tried not to act ashamed of his previous retort. He rubbed blood away from his mouth. It was drying and itched. Then, he ventured a glance at her. “I didn’t do anything wrong—“

Ana inhaled and stepped toward him. “Unless you care to have this conversation in public, Little Mister, I would have you get yourself into that carriage.” She turned and addressed the driver. “Find where the nearest doctor’s office is, Mr. Coulson.”

“It’s not going to be a conversation.” Tony sulked. The driver bustled away. “You’re just going to yell at me and I won’t get to say anything for myself.”

“On the contrary, Little Mister. I would be very interested to hear what you have to say for yourself and what you possibly could have been thinking!” She tried once more to usher him into the carriage before she lost complete control of her temper. “And, I am trying to collect myself so that I don’t yell at you. So, please— get in the carriage! “

She’d held out very well, but lost grip on the volume of her last phrase. Tony was quick to point it out. “You’re yelling!”

“Well, I damn well am now!” She snapped.

“You’re so awful sometimes!”

Scowling, Tony climbed into the carriage and slammed the door. Ana took a moment to remove the sullied lace gloves she wore. Resisting the urge to throw them on the ground, she tucked them into her belt, then pressed both of her palms against her eyes. Her hands were pleasantly cool against her flushed face. Unfortunately, this was not enough comfort to alleviate the turmoil inside her head.

“I‘ve located a Dr. Wu nearby, Mrs. Jarvis.” The driver’s voice sounded by her side.

Ana allowed her hands to slide down her face and fall to her sides. “Very good, Mr. Coulson. Take us there directly, please.”

Mr. Coulson, a kind man, if socially obtuse, asked: “Is the young sir OK?”

Ana sighed. She glanced into the window of the carriage; Tony had slid to the other side of the seat, as far away from her as he could get. His shoulders rose like a plated chestguard, shielding his face. She knew he was crying.

What am I going to do with him? She thought helplessly. He was not in a mindset to listen to reason; if she tried to explain the wrongfulness of his actions, he would argue. Obviously she was not above arguing right back, she thought wryly.

She could push— assert, debate, and impress her stance upon him. But, wouldn’t that feel just like standing in front of his father? Especially if she continued to allow herself to lose control. Tony was right— she’d be yelling at him and he wouldn’t hear the words for the volume.

Should she explain how afraid she had been? How terror had never seized her so mercilessly before that moment when she looked and he was gone? Ana sighed. No. Wouldn’t that feel too much like his mother’s tactic? Maria used her emotions to shame Tony. That’s not what Ana wanted to do; she only wished for him to think about his actions before he got himself hurt.

“He will be.” She answered Mr. Coulson.

“Are you OK, Mrs. Jarvis?” Mr. Coulson carefully asked.

She laughed. “Oh, Mr. Coulson…” If Tony could have seen her at that moment, he would have said she looked again like Jean d’Arc, or, Saint George, or even Arthur himself, impertinent and sure , despite all weariness. “Millions of women have done this for thousands of years! I can surely muddle through.”

Setting her jaw, lifting her chest, she alighted the running board and climbed into the carriage. Tony didn’t react when her weight disrupted the balance of the carriage and she hadn’t expected him to. He didn’t have an attic to retreat to, so he closed off his body as much as possible, looking lonely and dejected. Ana felt her empathy for him finally blooming.

She took a quiet breath and began. “I’m sorry that I shouted at you, Little Mister.” His shoulder shifted but he otherwise ignored her. “It must be very irritating to be treated as a child just after feeling so grown up— or, what you consider grown.”

A sniffle, resentful, but unrestrained. The carriage pitched forward. The motion, the very idea of progress, was welcomed by them both.

“You are a child, though, Tony.” Ana said and finally turned toward him. “A child precious to me, one whom I intend to love and protect. And even if you did not mean to join that match — with a man twice my size , I might add— you still chose to sneak away—“

“You wouldn’t have let me watch!” Tony interrupted. “You would— It doesn’t matter!”

“I promised you that you could explain yourself.” She said, quieting her voice. “I’m listening, if you want to go ahead.”

He huffed, and the end of the breath held a twinge of sound. “I just wanted to watch them box. That’s all.”

Ana considered her words carefully again; if she said that she would have taken him to see the match if he’d only asked, it might be too accusatory at this point. She continued. “There are safer places to watch boxing matches than the alleys of Manhattan, Little Mister. You realize what those men were doing was against law?” She waited for an acknowledgement.

Tony’s shoulders had loosen their defenses. He slumped backward and she could just glimpse his sullen face. Then he gave her a small nod.

“We may discuss attending one of the prizefights at the Huntington Sports Club once I feel certain that you will make safe decisions on an outing again.”

Tony slung a look at her.

“I’ve given you a chance to talk, Little Mister.” She reminded him. “I’ll have you fix your face, but talk, if you want to.”

“It won’t—I understand. I won’t do it again, so,” he said with a huff, “can’t we go soon?”

“As soon as you’ve shown me I can trust you on smaller excursions.” She said and he frowned.

“You can trust me.”

“Then show me.” She challenged. Shaking her head, she let herself display her fear at last. “In a city of this number... I found you this time, Tony, but what about next time? I cannot allow that to happen again.” She swallowed, feeling a stone of distress rolling in her throat, but resisting it. “I will never be able to abide you being hurt... or alone or afraid.”

Tony averted his gaze from her tears. He mumbled, “I’m alright, Mrs. Ana.”

Ana resisted the urge to force him to understand. Finally, she said evenly: “You cannot act as though there will not be consequences for your choices.” She reached over and tapped his chin, asking for his eyes. “For you or for anyone else.”

They seemed to share a sigh.

“So, what are my consequences?” He asked wearily.

Ana looked away, out her own window. “Besides having your block knocked off?” She scoffed then looked back, this time with a soft smile. “We’ve already established them.”

“Are we still visiting the zoo?”

She shook her head.

Tony sprung up at this. “Mrs. Ana!”

Ana shrugged. “It’ll be time to start home, Little Mister.” Her tone was almost apologetic, though any trace of that vanished with the next pronouncement. “Besides, you’ll need to talk Mr. Jarvis before too late in the evening and tell him that you disobeyed his rule against fighting again.”

A streak of lightning ran down from Tony’s brow to his jaw. Ana saw his wide eyes search her then drift away. At first, Ana took his unresponsiveness for flippancy. “You agreed to only punch the bag if he taught you to box.” She explained.

Shivering.

Ana stared at him in confusion. He’d become petrified, cold, within a moment. Was he afraid? Of Edwin? Why on earth...

With realization, she reached over and touched his shoulder. “You don’t need to worry, Tony. You’re only showing good faith by admitting your actions. Mr. Jarvis won’t even raise his voice. He’s much more restrained than I am.” She attempted to convince him with a smile.

Tony returned it reflexively, like twitch, like an autonomic response. However, it disappeared almost as if it were an illusion all along. He was listening to something else— something in his own head. Ana began to regret saying anything. The carriage pulled up to the street side, then, and she set aside the thought. “Come, let’s attend to that face of yours.”

December, 1871

Tony began to shiver.

When Jarvis felt the weak tremors, beginning in the youth’s arms, he nearly cried out joyfully to the doctor. However, he waited, hoping it was not only his imagination. The shivers became violent and spread all throughout Tony’s body within a couple minutes. “Dr. Pym! I believe his body is starting to regulate again, sir.”

Dr. Pym was at the fireplace before them. He had put on a kettle of water. “Aye, that is a comfort.” He said soberly; Jarvis tried to hold on to his hope, despite the doctor’s restrained reaction.

After retrieving the thermometer, Pym checked Tony’s temperature again. This time he had to hold the jaws, protecting the glass instrument from Tony’s convulsing teeth. Everything was quiet as Pym counted out a minute in his head. “Nearly 95 Fahrenheit now, or, 35 Celsius, if you like. Either way, too low.”

Dr. Pym stood and removed the kettle from the hearth hook. “Keep him bundled. I’m going to lay a hot water bottle by his feet now the risk of shock is lowered.” He moved out of Jarvis’s sight, and entered the kitchen.

Within a moment, Tony’s quivering was joined by a high whine. “J? J?”

Jarvis realized Tony was calling for him and instantly drew him closer. “Yes, Young Sir. I’m here.”

“Where?” His voice came as though through a rotary.

Jarvis was taken aback. Could Tony not feel him? “I’m just here; I have my arm around you.” He took hold of Tony’s hand and pressed it. “See? Here I am.”

Tony began to struggle in an uncoordinated attempt to turn toward Jarvis, who removed his arm to allow Tony more freedom of movement. Finally, Tony was successful. Like a baby bird, he tucked his arms into his chest. His legs, too, he drew up until he was in the shape of a lime. Jarvis began to withdraw, a little unsurely, but Tony scooted into him, seeking his warmth and protection.

“J, I’m cold.” His chopped speech broke piteously as he settled on the crook of Jarvis’s arm.

Dr. Pym approached them. “Is the wain conscious?”

“Yes, Doctor.”

Tony mumbled, “It’s too cold. Will you start the fire?”

“The fire is going, young one.” Jarvis soothed. He looked up at Dr. Pym, looking for some confirmation that the boy’s disorientation was natural and would improve.

The doctor slid the hot water bottle, which was wrapped in a dry towel, by Tony’s curled feet. He made a noise as though considering his next steps, all the while casting a sharp eye on Tony. Finally, he spoke to Tony. “Hai, boy. I figure you’re of an age to follow directions?”

Tony’s eyes rolled from side to side, trying to locate the owner of the voice. He gave up and closed them again. Jarvis felt the ebb of self-consciousness returning now that Tony was awake. He slid subtly away. “Answer the doctor, Young Sir, if you’re able.”

Flatly, Tony answered, “No, I’m not.” The toneless delivery was upset by his persistent quaking— as though his voice traveled along a snapped bowstring.

Dr. Pym smiled ruefully and continued, despite the remark. “Aye, right. Well, I’ll be making you a cup of and I want you to drink it all . Got to raise your internal temperature.” He stood and strode toward the kitchen.

Tony nestled his head against Jarvis’s shoulder. “A cup of what? Who is that, J?”

“Dr. Pym, Young Sir, and you’d do well to show him more respect. He saved your life,” Jarvis said. He was disconcerted by the emotion that squished his voice into a croak at the end of this sentiment. Tony didn’t seem to notice. After clearing his throat, Jarvis attempted to remove his arm.

However, when Tony realized, he clove to Jarvis’s chest. “Don’t leave, J!” He sounded so young. “Please. I’ll be respectful, so…” Tony put his own trembling arm around Jarvis’s waist.

“ That’s not —“ Jarvis embraced him again with a sigh. That’s not why I was withdrawing . “I only want to be sure I am doing what I can…” He spoke to no one; Tony was too confused to know what he was saying.

Why was he so embarrassed suddenly? The muck of social decorum, of separation, of the rules of how he should relate to the son of his master— not rightfully his son, no matter what he did or how he loved him— clung to his mind. It made him feel ill somehow. Anxious. All the while, he hurt Tony by trying to satisfy these expectations.

A groan escaped from the shivering youth. “My stomach hurts, J. And my head.”

Jarvis nearly murmured comfort, but—

“I drank too much,” Tony slurred and Jarvis stiffened.

It began with a twitch of his upper lip. He remembered the empty sherry bottle. It was still out in the tundra-like waste that had rendered this boy nearly lifeless. With a snap, anger invigorated Jarvis unlike he’d ever felt before. Betrayal, anxiety, fear, grief— all driving the rage into his chest. “Yes, I can hardly disagree, Young Sir.” Jarvis said tightly.

Tony seemed to respond to the sudden tautness in Jarvis— both his body and voice. Jarvis saw timid, perplexed eyes peer up at him. “Are you angry with me?”

Not trusting his answer, Jarvis remained silent. Consciously he endeavored to loosen his muscles, relax his face. However, the blueness of Tony’s lips— that broken-dawn blue— flashed before his mind’s eyes. The still chest with not even a sigh of life… the skin that began to puff like leavened dough, rising in the bowl— rising, but not with life… The horror was gaining, catching up to Jarvis now.

He was furious with Tony because of it.

Tony slipped his arm away from Jarvis. He folded it beneath him again and slunk away with childish humility. He was quiet, too, awakened a little more from his fogginess. In the back of his mind, Jarvis was pained to see it, but his frightened ire was much louder than this murmured empathy.

“I’m sorry, sir.” Tony’s whisper came finally, through chattering teeth. He wasn’t looking at him anymore.

There was only one other time Jarvis remembered Tony referring to him with this honorific. Something locked into place within him. Later, Jarvis wouldn’t be able to deny that he was funneling two months worth of cold wrath and mourning into his reaction to Tony’s careless self-endangerment. “Yes. I imagine so.”

The tone flicked Tony again; he flinched but then he scowled defensively.

The pressure in his chest peaked; Jarvis sharply inhaled. “Listen to me,” he said. “I do not want to hear of you taking another sip of alcohol until you’ve learned some control .”

Tony’s breathing labored. The edges of his eyes began to twitch. He withdrew farther, until his head was no longer resting on Jarvis’s arm.

Unpinned, and unconsciously taking the cue from Tony, Jarvis half rose. “Not a sip . Is that understood?” He asked, looking down at Tony, who matched his confrontational glare. The pause sat between them like a bolder. “I need a verbal answer, young man.” He blinked and shook his head. “Young Sir,” he amended.

“Yes,” Tony hissed, “Jarvis.” Then, he turned away, gathering the blankets in his fists.

“Very good, then.” Jarvis said. He stood.

At the other extreme of the parlor, Dr. Pym stood, intrigued by their exchange. When Jarvis noticed him watching, he bowed his head, a little abashedly. It must have been an incredible spectacle, the family butler rebuking the master of the house in such a familiar manner.

Also, he realized he had vacated his assignment without the doctor’s instructions. However, Tony obviously didn’t want him there; and, Tony was awake now and more and more lucid by the second. He hoped the doctor would understand.

Dr. Pym shared a knowing look and did not comment. Instead, he approached the cocoon of blankets in front of the fire and commanded Tony to drain the mug of warm drink he’d made. Tony sat up, his frame still shuddering, but refused the drink. “I don’t want that.”

Jarvis sighed; why was he so difficult?

Fortunately, Dr. Pym was a formidable physician. He withered the youth with a frown. “Belay that! Sure but weren’t you just snatched from the jaws of death, two sheets to the wind, and frozen in your own boke? You’ve acted the hallion enough for one day, now drink your cocoa like a good boy.”

Even Jarvis was a little put off by the doctor’s scolding. Tony may have acted foolishly, but he was not a child incapable of rationality. From where he was, Jarvis could not observe Tony’s face, but was almost certain that if the boy’s frigid skin would allow it, it would be scarlet with indignation. Dr. Pym, unaffected, nettled Tony again, although in a quieter voice now: “I can’t be doing with this carnaptious attitude. Have you not caused Mr. Jarvis enough trouble as is?”

There was a sharp recoil in Tony’s shoulders at this. He bowed his head and it inclined briefly toward the kitchen, toward Jarvis. At last, Tony took the mug.

“Is there anything I should do, Doctor?” Jarvis asked, trying to keep his voice even. Now that he’d abandoned Tony to keep himself warm in the blankets, Jarvis felt useless. His empty hands felt stupid. They played their invisible piano, frantically.

Pym had his stethoscope to his ears. He shook his head but then changed his mind. “You might prepare another cup.”

Thankfully, Jarvis turned to flee the room. Before he crossed into the kitchen, he heard Tony mutter, “Praise be! This cocoa’s awful. Can you make it with cream, J?” Tony had not looked toward him, but he had not glanced long over his shoulder at the boy, either.

“As you like, Young Sir.”

May, 1870

Tendrils of melody fell away from his fingers as Jarvis played the piano. The cottage was quiet except for his music. He had so few moments of solitude in his life that filling them was always an awkward exercise. He usually ended up at the piano, and more and more as he aged.

The evening was wearing on and he expected Ana back soon from her outing with the young sir. On the table, their dinner waited in covered dishes. He’d set three places, not knowing if he should expect Tony to join them or not. Maria was away, staying in the city with an acquaintance, and Howard was unlikely to dine with his son alone.

Tony often snuck away to the cottage in the evenings, though it vexed Maria. Still, tonight he was bound to be tired. They had quite an agenda planned, he knew. Either way, Jarvis prepared his place; it was just as easy to return unused dishes to the cupboard. Tony liked to see the table set to include him, even if he didn’t eat.

Jarvis shook his head, realizing his thoughts. How improper to eat before the son of the master of the house. Improper, but wonderful, and natural, and right. One could almost assume that they were just the Jarvis family, sitting at the table, in their own countryside cottage, hidden in the garden. And, if Howard hadn’t needed an heir...

No. No, he couldn’t allow that thought to finish.

Again, he focused on the piece he played, an aria transcribed for piano, Handel’s “Ombra mai fu.” Eyes closed, he allowed his hands to guide themselves; this was one of the pieces he knew without the sheet music before him. Meant to be played in shadowed quietude. Besides, there was peace in the shade of his closed eyelids.

A small hand touched his shoulder. “Mr. Jarvis.” The voice spun like a plate on a stick.

Jarvis had to twist on the piano bench to see Tony, who stood directly behind him, very likely trying to hide, despite everything. The bandage over the boy’s nose was conspicuous as a wine stain on white cloth. Jarvis was wrenched from the peace of his daydreaming. “My word! Young Sir, I rarely see you in such condition after your escapades outside civilization — how did you manage this at the Academy of Design?”

Tony ground his teeth silently.

“Are you alright?” Jarvis asked. He stood from the bench, meaning to offer his help, but Tony drew back.

“Edwin.” Ana spoke gently from the kitchen entryway. “He’s trying to talk to you about something.”

The incline of her head told him to sit back down, decrease his presence. He did so and saw the expression on Tony’s face: reddened, rough. “I’m listening, Young Sir,” he murmured, encouraging him.

Tony’s tongue snapped loudly and he broke into an agonized rant. “I disobeyed you. About fighting. Again. I saw some men boxing in the alley and wanted to watch, but I thought Mrs. Ana would say no, so I snuck away from her, only, the men began to harass me and I punched one on the chin and another one challenged me so I started fighting him, too.”

Tony paused to gasp. Jarvis, heart softened, glanced at Ana. However, she seemed to be abstaining from this conversation for the moment.

“And the brute broke my nose and tossed me to the ground and was stomping on me when Mrs. Ana finally found me. And I made her have to fight to protect me,” — here, tears spilled over— “even though she could have been very hurt. And I don’t need you to tell me that what I did was wrong! I know. I know, I understand, and I really do not need you to explain why I should be ashamed of myself. I already am! So, so, please just— I’m ready for my consequences, but don’t, don’t yell at me! I— I—“

Jarvis looked helplessly at Ana. He felt unequipped and yet assigned some pivotal role. It did not escape him that Tony was afraid. The boy was slowly unraveling, expecting a fight, expecting to be shamed, expecting punishment. To be frank, though, Jarvis could scarcely imagine anger. Above all else, instead, was the urge to gather up Tony and calm him.

Ana was staring at Tony, also concerned at the boy’s increasing distress. She slowly leaned closer, ready to intercede, but she held out for now. It seemed that she agreed with him that this was his test— that Tony was waiting on him for something specific. If she offered it, it wouldn’t have the same effect.

This had to do with Howard. And, because Jarvis was male— or, because he was something of an authorial figure to the boy, it was up to him to provide this— either confirmation — or redemption . But, how, exactly?

Then, Jarvis noticed something. Keeping his voice low as a lullaby, he said: “Never lock your knees, Young Sir, remember?”

Tony startled and regarded his knees. They were clenched tight as fists. He remembered briefly the time he’d done this while training with Jarvis in front of the punching bag. He’d awoken to a white light, back on the cellar floor, head on Jarvis’s knees.

Following the familiar exercise of breathing and stilling himself before training, Tony relaxed. Jarvis watched. Then, he said, “It seems that if you do not require me to explain anything, my attempt to do so would only be a frustration. I don’t believe any of us need that.”

When Tony looked back at Jarvis, finding the collected and patient face he knew so well, he whispered, “I just don’t want you to be angry with me.” More tears fell.

Jarvis swallowed. His heart cried out for the boy. This went beyond fear of punishment. Tony feared being rejected by Jarvis. Never before had this seemed too much a concern; certainly, Jarvis knew Tony craved Ana’s validation, but never considered Tony would be so heartbroken over him.

Ana cleared her throat quietly and retreated into the kitchen. This moment was reserved for him and the young sir. Jarvis sighed internally; he wished she would have stayed. Tony also seemed to notice her exit, though he wasn’t turned that way. He began to shift nervously again.

“While I don’t believe you can help what people feel, beyond minding your own actions,” Jarvis said carefully, “I do hope you know that I care greatly for you.”

“Yes, sir.”

The meek reply melted Jarvis even further. He thought for a moment, then, he added: “It seems your interest in boxing has grown very strong.” This earned a nod. Jarvis returned it. “Perhaps it would be appropriate to study it more as a sport than just exercise from now on.”

Tony’s head snapped up; slowly, his mouth fell open. “You mean you’ll teach me to spar? Like a real boxer?”

Jarvis grew stern. That overeager look on Tony’s face reminded him of the risks involved in this. Yet, wasn’t the impertinent youth already getting himself into trouble— and in illegal, back alley fights of all places? “Only as a sport.” Jarvis declared. “And only with me to begin with; when you’re of age, we will see about a membership at the sports club.”

Tony leapt at him. Arms were thrown tightly around his neck for just a brief moment. Then Tony retreated, scared, perhaps, to hold on too long. He began jabbering excitedly while Jarvis looked on in exasperated amusement.

Jarvis glanced to the kitchen and found his Ana there. Arms crossed and brow quirked, she nevertheless smiled at him. “Supper will be cold soon.” She remarked. “If your conversation is over, why don’t we all sit down together?”

January, 1903

Around eleven-forty that evening, after Jarvis had slept for a considerable time, his breathing became tortured. Tony had been running a cool cloth over his temples and neck for the past hour. It seemed that the fever would never break again. Jarvis began quaking.

“J?” Tony asked. He lowered the cloth back into the bowl and set both aside.

Breathy syllables bucked from Jarvis’s mouth. “Not... one… to complain…”

Tony was already preparing the syringe, securing the needle to the barrel. “I’ve got you, J. Hold on.” He inserted the needle into a vial of morphine and filled the barrel, as Dr. Pym had instructed. Holding his breath, Tony pushed back Jarvis’s right sleeve and looked at the veins at his inside elbow.

There were two minutes between the injection and the quieting of Jarvis’s shakes. Meanwhile, Tony was silent, alert. He offered Jarvis some water once relief had flooded Jarvis’s features. Tony lifted and held his head; his other hand raised the cup to Jarvis’s lips. Guilt had long settled on Tony, though he couldn’t articulate what he had done, or even what was in his power, to cause this suffering. Somehow, it just seemed like his fault.

As though Jarvis was attuned to his anxiety, he said, “Thank you… flowers.”

Surprised, Tony looked around the room at the potted delphiniums, the tall spires of foxglove and larkspur. “Oh.” Inside, in this dim light, they did not resemble Ana’s garden any more than a funeral parlor. “Yes, well. Pepper helped. She began growing these plants back a month or so. If it wasn't for her…” He sniffed.

Jarvis smiled.

Tony swallowed then he smirked and met Jarvis’s gaze. “Do you remember when I introduced Pepper to you for the first time, as my fiancée? She still talks about that.”

Jarvis gave a throaty sound of acknowledgment. He was slowing down. Tony, to compensate, began to speed up, to increase in presence. Trying to keep the feeling of them, together, going, like the coal furnace of a steam locomotive.

“Do you remember when, uh,” Tony said and chuckled, “Rhodey called you to Boston, behind my back, to see me in the prizefights? Or, that time you told me I had to take over Stark Industries or else — that’s basically what you said, let’s face it.”

Croaking, Jarvis couldn’t resist commenting. “Recall it… differently… but…”

“I don’t want you to leave, J.”

“Not..” Jarvis gathered his strength. He could feel it, all raked up in his stinging chest. He pushed it through the mechanism of his throat. The resulting sound was as close to his voice as he would ever manage again. “...leaving you, Tony… No more... than any father … eventually... leaves his... son.”

Jarvis collapsed back. The effort had wrecked him. Tony, ever more guilty, bit his lip in apology. He ran a hand over the back of Jarvis’s. A sardonic grin quirked on his face.

Shaking his head, Tony laughed at himself. He said in a mock accusation: “It’s not fair... Rhodey’s waiting right outside. He’ll laugh if he sees my face like this.”

Jarvis smirked reassuringly. He spoke, just a rasping whisper again, “Tell him… I … cried, too.”

Time wore on and Tony applied a fresh layer of Vick’s Pneumonia Salve to Jarvis’s collar. He tried to hide his amusement that Jarvis couldn’t make too much a fuss about it. Then, his amusement failed, and he was filled with sympathy. However, Jarvis remained as graceful as ever, even in his convalescence.

“Tell me…” he sighed after a while. “About the young sir.”

Tony blinked. Finally he had to ask, “I’m sorry?”

“Young Peter.”

“Oh, he’s good... He’s working to produce a particular glaze, something he calls a ‘peach bloom.’” Tony recapped the salve. A stray smile crossed his face. “He was actually attempting it back when I first met him. You remember those door handles on the second level? Those were a failed attempt at the peach bloom glaze; though they were beautiful enough in and of themselves.”

At Jarvis’s nod, Tony continued. “He’s a silly thing, but there’s no apparent end to his talent or intelligence.” Tony pulled a wry expression. “Afraid he’s not too happy with me at the moment.” He paused and Jarvis lifted his eyebrows in encouragement. “How did you get me to listen to reason when I was young?”

Jarvis’s body wanted to laugh; he grinned genuinely, but erupted into coughing. Tony muttered, laying a hand on his shoulder, “Sorry, J.” But, Jarvis waved him off and settled after a moment. His eyelids closed, revealing the distressed violet pooling there. Tony thought he may be falling asleep again.

However, Jarvis spoke again, in single sigh, before drifting into slumber. “Proud of you.”

December, 1871

Tony flipped the wool blanket from his feet. He sighed before standing upright, unsteady, but only fleetingly. Jarvis had not returned from the kitchen for a long, long time. Dr. Pym was gone; he had stayed until Tony’s temperature was at a stable 97.5 Fahrenheit. Then, with some brief, gruff, instructions, he left Tony in Jarvis’s care.

Yet, Jarvis was avoiding him; Tony knew. He hadn’t strung two sentences together for Tony since the doctor left. So, Tony assumed, was the depth of Jarvis's disappointment in him. After treating Tony so kindly, so tenderly... Tony had ruined it. Bitterly, he pushed himself to walk across the parlor. His shins, exposed, shone in the firelight.

He reached the doorway to the kitchen and peeked inside. Jarvis stood at the kitchen table, gripping its edge, eyes shut. He seemed like a monk in the throes of prayer. But Tony’s breath caught when he saw — tears ran and ran and ran silently down Jarvis’s face.

Breaking from the sight, Tony stood with his back against the wall. What had he done? He shouldn’t be here; he should leave. Dr. Pym’s accusation sounded in his ears. You’ve caused Mr. Jarvis enough trouble.

Tony hugged himself then pushed away from the wall. Lopping around the parlor, he searched for his coat, hat, and gloves. He didn’t remember the last time he had them; he remembered having at least his coat while at Ana’s... There was a sound from the kitchen and Tony cursed inwardly. He hastened his search.

Realizing that Jarvis probably put his things away, Tony groaned. Usually, Jarvis hung his things in the guest bedroom. He had to force himself to turn the door handle. He braced himself for what he might see. I'll just grab my things quickly, he thought.

The air met him, smelling of honey and lavender and mothballs. Everything looked as it had when he was here last summer. Like a sacred ritual, Tony took in every detail. The washstand, the field guides on the nightstand iron bed frame, the floral-patterned quilt... He paused, however, and stared at the bed. A bundle, wrapped in brown paper, sat on the foot of the bed, waiting for him. A tag attached to the coarse string read: “for My Little Mister.”

When Jarvis searched for Tony, not ten minutes later, the bundle of brown paper remained there, in the boy's bedroom. But, Tony’s winter clothes, which had been hung in the wardrobe, were gone.

A little note on the nightstand said: “Sorry for the trouble. —T.S.”

[flauntpage]

Tidjan Keita Is an Intriguing Project Who's More Raw Than Bruno Caboclo

This article originally appeared on VICE Sports Canada.

Three years and change after being selected with the No. 20 overall pick in the draft, Bruno Caboclo remains as much of a "what if" as he did on draft night. What if that length portends real defensive potential? What if a nice looking shooting stroke starts to fall regularly? What if the development plan for a hyper-raw teenager, one with little professional basketball experience, was better served under the eye of an NBA team rather than a college program or international outfit?

Even as Caboclo enters his fourth season, the "what ifs" remain. What if the Raptors had done things differently? What if they had been able to develop him in the G-League initially, without burning time off of his rookie-scale deal because they didn't have their own affiliate yet? And, of course, what if it all falls into place as Caboclo inches closer to contributing, his defense nearly NBA-ready and his body looking more the part of a power forward every day?

That there are still questions can be frustrating for the impatient, to be sure. It's easy to second-guess things as Caboclo approaches his 22nd birthday, though there's still plenty of time for things to click (like his defense last season suggests they might). Even the Raptors seem to wonder if the path taken was the right one.

"I want to almost blame myself for bringing him too soon to our team," president Masai Ujiri said Tuesday. "But we wanted to see his development, and it's the price we paid. It's the price I paid. I said I wanted to see his development. It's almost like he's gone through college on our team."

Caboclo did not participate in Las Vegas Summer League this year. Still, the Raptors' roster contained a pair of interesting Caboclo-adjacent what ifs: What if there were a player even more raw than Caboclo at draft time, and what if the Raptors could do things differently with him this time around?

Enter Tidjan Keita, the almost entirely unknown 20-year-old who saw eight minutes of action with the Vegas Raptors.

To call Keita an unknown is perhaps an understatement. After entering the 2017 draft, no service other than DraftExpress had him ranked in the top-100 prospects. Even DraftExpress' player page had next to no information on him, and their internal database was just as bare. One independent scout told VICE Sports he had been told not to bother digging too deeply, because there was nothing to find beyond a couple of YouTube workout videos, anyway.

The scarcity of information is due to Keita's relative infancy as a basketball player. It was only in 2014 that he even started playing in his home of Paris, France, and after a year there, he transferred to Thetford Academy in Quebec (the same prep school Chris Boucher, now a Golden State Warrior, played at). Thetford's coaches, Igor Rwigema and Ibrahim Appiah, saw only one practice and one game while recruiting Keita, deciding that glimpse was enough to gamble on. Keita's statistics from Thetford aren't readily available, as his two years at the prep school came on a strong team focused more on bringing along his development than anything else.

In the time since, he's been living and training in Toronto with fellow Raptors summer leaguer Troy Caupain (an interesting prospect in his own right, a former three-sport track athlete with great size for the point guard position). The two have bonded quickly despite the language barrier—Keita is still learning English—spending the bulk of their time together and even attending workouts around the country together, hitting the road with their shared agent, Gary Durrant. Caupain and Keita are on drastically different points on the development curve, but they've forged a quick bond in an attempt to help make each other better.

"I never really had a brother, I'm an only child. As soon as I met him, I knew it was gonna be tough, me being English and him being French," Caupain says. "I was more in a teaching standpoint when I first got around him. I know that he is shy. You gotta get around him, get to know him more. And as I got to know him, once we got to Toronto, it was like it clicked."

Caupain understandably had more interest entering the draft as a four-year point guard who's still just 21. But at 6'10" with a 7-foot-3 wingspan, Keita's measurements alone are enough to intrigue, and so five different teams brought him in for a pre-draft workout, too. That included the Raptors, who called Keita in on short notice as an injury replacement.

His performance in that setting was enough to warrant a longer look, and the Raptors moved to bring him in for Vegas.

Keita jacking shots at Las Vegas Summer League. Photo by Blake Murphy

"You know, for him, he's an amazing story," says Raptors assistant Jama Mahlalela, who usually runs the pre-draft workouts. "He's someone who was a replacement player for one of our draft workouts. We didn't even have him tagged at that level and someone got injured or whatever it was, and he sort of shows up, and he just played with a tenacity and a ferocity that sparks your interest. His size, his length, is really impressive.

"He's super raw, but as he learns the game, there's an excitement of what he could potentially do. Because you see his ability to jump, to block shots, his length, that's special. Finding those special things is a coach's dream. And then working with it over time to develop it into a basketball player is the next step."

Catching the attention of the Raptors was step one. While he didn't get to show a ton in limited minutes, his length is obvious, and he glides effortlessly in the air. In practices and shootarounds, he shows consistent range out to the corners, has a nice one-step-in short-corner push shot, and Caupain says behind closed doors, he's coming along as a pick-and-pop threat above the break. Keita played primarily at the five even though he prefers playing the stretch-four role, but his size dictates he'll probably be a center in the modern NBA, and banging with bodies like Jalen Reynolds and Kennedy Meeks was a quick lesson in how far his body will have to come. Coaches (and one-man orientation committee Lucas Nogueira) were impressed with how Keita picked things up over the course of the two weeks, and he spent the bulk of the time with a smile on his face, embracing the challenge.

"I think it's just fun for him," Mahlalela said. "We had a practice and DeMar [DeRozan] practiced with us and played a little bit. And Tidjan got matched up with DeMar for a second. To me, that's magical, that's incredible. That's an experience that he's gonna walk away with, and that's really good."

In Keita's first action in Vegas, Caupain fed him for a dunk, a fitting nod to their relationship. He missed his only other field-goal attempt in the tournament, a three, and picked up a pair of fouls.

"I learned a lot of the game," Keita said in Vegas. "It feels good. First dunk in the NBA."

There's still a long ways to go for Keita, which is why the situation is so interesting. The comparison between he and Caboclo is perhaps unfair given that they are somewhat dissimilar players stylistically at this point, but it's an easy one to draw given the attributes that make them attractive prospects, some of the roadblocks they face at the same point, and because Caboclo is sort of the benchmark for rawness in a prospect.

"He's a guy, he's been playing basketball for three years. Like, literally. He makes Bruno look like he was far along in the process when we got Bruno," Raptors assistant general manager Dan Tolzman says. "That's not in a negative way, it's just that it's gonna take work. It's, who knows where it goes from here? He's shown enough flashes that it's kind of like, wow, for a guy who's playing for three years to get to this point in NBA summer league, it's pretty impressive."

Where Keita goes from here is an intriguing question. Normally a player this inexperienced coming out of prep school would be headed to college or an international pro team, either playing small minutes or landing in a lower division. Keita's camp wants him in North America, though, where he can continue picking up the language and learning the NBA system, and they're hopeful he can land in a situation where a team wants to continue to track his progress from up close. (There was second-round interest in Keita as a draft-and-stash pick, but Durrant was forthright that they didn't want Keita overseas.)

Where the Raptors kept Caboclo on the NBA roster for lack of a G-League affiliate at the time, Keita would seem to be a fit for development at that level, off the NBA books (the a risk of another team plucking him on a two-way contract would be minimal given his distance from the NBA at this stage). If the Raptors are interested after that extended look, they could invite him to Raptors camp and make him a G-League Affiliate Player, select him in the G-League draft, or hope he goes undrafted and add him as a local tryout player.

There are options, and it sounds as if the Raptors are at least intrigued by Quebec's latest mysterious basketball export.

"He has all the athletic tools, he's long, he's athletic. He's young, he just needs to continue to work fundamentally, learning the game, because he has all the skills," head coach Dwane Casey says. "I don't know that he's ready to be an NBA player right today, but he has all the physical skills. That jumping ability, running the floor. Most young players have to learn how to play without the ball, play with four other guys on the court, spacing, defensive rotations. All of those things will come, and he has all the tools, the size, the length to play at a high level."

Given that it's taken Caboclo three seasons to get to the precipice of potential NBA minutes, the timeline for Keita will probably be a longer one. They're not the same player, but the message will be similar: Keita will need to add plenty of size, to learn the game, the language, how to translate skills and tools into actual production, to, above all else, get minutes. If that's with Raptors 905, he'll be free from the pressures of an NBA contract, of "two years away from being two years away," and, eventually, of comparisons to Caboclo.

He's his own prospect, a unique blend of length and touch and eagerness, and as the NBA puts more and more of an emphasis on long-term player development, he might be the next big "what if."

Tidjan Keita Is an Intriguing Project Who's More Raw Than Bruno Caboclo published first on http://ift.tt/2pLTmlv

[flauntpage]

Tidjan Keita Is an Intriguing Project Who's More Raw Than Bruno Caboclo

This article originally appeared on VICE Sports Canada.

Three years and change after being selected with the No. 20 overall pick in the draft, Bruno Caboclo remains as much of a "what if" as he did on draft night. What if that length portends real defensive potential? What if a nice looking shooting stroke starts to fall regularly? What if the development plan for a hyper-raw teenager, one with little professional basketball experience, was better served under the eye of an NBA team rather than a college program or international outfit?

Even as Caboclo enters his fourth season, the "what ifs" remain. What if the Raptors had done things differently? What if they had been able to develop him in the G-League initially, without burning time off of his rookie-scale deal because they didn't have their own affiliate yet? And, of course, what if it all falls into place as Caboclo inches closer to contributing, his defense nearly NBA-ready and his body looking more the part of a power forward every day?

That there are still questions can be frustrating for the impatient, to be sure. It's easy to second-guess things as Caboclo approaches his 22nd birthday, though there's still plenty of time for things to click (like his defense last season suggests they might). Even the Raptors seem to wonder if the path taken was the right one.

"I want to almost blame myself for bringing him too soon to our team," president Masai Ujiri said Tuesday. "But we wanted to see his development, and it's the price we paid. It's the price I paid. I said I wanted to see his development. It's almost like he's gone through college on our team."

Caboclo did not participate in Las Vegas Summer League this year. Still, the Raptors' roster contained a pair of interesting Caboclo-adjacent what ifs: What if there were a player even more raw than Caboclo at draft time, and what if the Raptors could do things differently with him this time around?

Enter Tidjan Keita, the almost entirely unknown 20-year-old who saw eight minutes of action with the Vegas Raptors.

To call Keita an unknown is perhaps an understatement. After entering the 2017 draft, no service other than DraftExpress had him ranked in the top-100 prospects. Even DraftExpress' player page had next to no information on him, and their internal database was just as bare. One independent scout told VICE Sports he had been told not to bother digging too deeply, because there was nothing to find beyond a couple of YouTube workout videos, anyway.

The scarcity of information is due to Keita's relative infancy as a basketball player. It was only in 2014 that he even started playing in his home of Paris, France, and after a year there, he transferred to Thetford Academy in Quebec (the same prep school Chris Boucher, now a Golden State Warrior, played at). Thetford's coaches, Igor Rwigema and Ibrahim Appiah, saw only one practice and one game while recruiting Keita, deciding that glimpse was enough to gamble on. Keita's statistics from Thetford aren't readily available, as his two years at the prep school came on a strong team focused more on bringing along his development than anything else.

In the time since, he's been living and training in Toronto with fellow Raptors summer leaguer Troy Caupain (an interesting prospect in his own right, a former three-sport track athlete with great size for the point guard position). The two have bonded quickly despite the language barrier—Keita is still learning English—spending the bulk of their time together and even attending workouts around the country together, hitting the road with their shared agent, Gary Durrant. Caupain and Keita are on drastically different points on the development curve, but they've forged a quick bond in an attempt to help make each other better.

"I never really had a brother, I'm an only child. As soon as I met him, I knew it was gonna be tough, me being English and him being French," Caupain says. "I was more in a teaching standpoint when I first got around him. I know that he is shy. You gotta get around him, get to know him more. And as I got to know him, once we got to Toronto, it was like it clicked."

Caupain understandably had more interest entering the draft as a four-year point guard who's still just 21. But at 6'10" with a 7-foot-3 wingspan, Keita's measurements alone are enough to intrigue, and so five different teams brought him in for a pre-draft workout, too. That included the Raptors, who called Keita in on short notice as an injury replacement.

His performance in that setting was enough to warrant a longer look, and the Raptors moved to bring him in for Vegas.

Keita jacking shots at Las Vegas Summer League. Photo by Blake Murphy

"You know, for him, he's an amazing story," says Raptors assistant Jama Mahlalela, who usually runs the pre-draft workouts. "He's someone who was a replacement player for one of our draft workouts. We didn't even have him tagged at that level and someone got injured or whatever it was, and he sort of shows up, and he just played with a tenacity and a ferocity that sparks your interest. His size, his length, is really impressive.

"He's super raw, but as he learns the game, there's an excitement of what he could potentially do. Because you see his ability to jump, to block shots, his length, that's special. Finding those special things is a coach's dream. And then working with it over time to develop it into a basketball player is the next step."

Catching the attention of the Raptors was step one. While he didn't get to show a ton in limited minutes, his length is obvious, and he glides effortlessly in the air. In practices and shootarounds, he shows consistent range out to the corners, has a nice one-step-in short-corner push shot, and Caupain says behind closed doors, he's coming along as a pick-and-pop threat above the break. Keita played primarily at the five even though he prefers playing the stretch-four role, but his size dictates he'll probably be a center in the modern NBA, and banging with bodies like Jalen Reynolds and Kennedy Meeks was a quick lesson in how far his body will have to come. Coaches (and one-man orientation committee Lucas Nogueira) were impressed with how Keita picked things up over the course of the two weeks, and he spent the bulk of the time with a smile on his face, embracing the challenge.

"I think it's just fun for him," Mahlalela said. "We had a practice and DeMar [DeRozan] practiced with us and played a little bit. And Tidjan got matched up with DeMar for a second. To me, that's magical, that's incredible. That's an experience that he's gonna walk away with, and that's really good."

In Keita's first action in Vegas, Caupain fed him for a dunk, a fitting nod to their relationship. He missed his only other field-goal attempt in the tournament, a three, and picked up a pair of fouls.

"I learned a lot of the game," Keita said in Vegas. "It feels good. First dunk in the NBA."

There's still a long ways to go for Keita, which is why the situation is so interesting. The comparison between he and Caboclo is perhaps unfair given that they are somewhat dissimilar players stylistically at this point, but it's an easy one to draw given the attributes that make them attractive prospects, some of the roadblocks they face at the same point, and because Caboclo is sort of the benchmark for rawness in a prospect.

"He's a guy, he's been playing basketball for three years. Like, literally. He makes Bruno look like he was far along in the process when we got Bruno," Raptors assistant general manager Dan Tolzman says. "That's not in a negative way, it's just that it's gonna take work. It's, who knows where it goes from here? He's shown enough flashes that it's kind of like, wow, for a guy who's playing for three years to get to this point in NBA summer league, it's pretty impressive."

Where Keita goes from here is an intriguing question. Normally a player this inexperienced coming out of prep school would be headed to college or an international pro team, either playing small minutes or landing in a lower division. Keita's camp wants him in North America, though, where he can continue picking up the language and learning the NBA system, and they're hopeful he can land in a situation where a team wants to continue to track his progress from up close. (There was second-round interest in Keita as a draft-and-stash pick, but Durrant was forthright that they didn't want Keita overseas.)

Where the Raptors kept Caboclo on the NBA roster for lack of a G-League affiliate at the time, Keita would seem to be a fit for development at that level, off the NBA books (the a risk of another team plucking him on a two-way contract would be minimal given his distance from the NBA at this stage). If the Raptors are interested after that extended look, they could invite him to Raptors camp and make him a G-League Affiliate Player, select him in the G-League draft, or hope he goes undrafted and add him as a local tryout player.

There are options, and it sounds as if the Raptors are at least intrigued by Quebec's latest mysterious basketball export.

"He has all the athletic tools, he's long, he's athletic. He's young, he just needs to continue to work fundamentally, learning the game, because he has all the skills," head coach Dwane Casey says. "I don't know that he's ready to be an NBA player right today, but he has all the physical skills. That jumping ability, running the floor. Most young players have to learn how to play without the ball, play with four other guys on the court, spacing, defensive rotations. All of those things will come, and he has all the tools, the size, the length to play at a high level."

Given that it's taken Caboclo three seasons to get to the precipice of potential NBA minutes, the timeline for Keita will probably be a longer one. They're not the same player, but the message will be similar: Keita will need to add plenty of size, to learn the game, the language, how to translate skills and tools into actual production, to, above all else, get minutes. If that's with Raptors 905, he'll be free from the pressures of an NBA contract, of "two years away from being two years away," and, eventually, of comparisons to Caboclo.

He's his own prospect, a unique blend of length and touch and eagerness, and as the NBA puts more and more of an emphasis on long-term player development, he might be the next big "what if."

Tidjan Keita Is an Intriguing Project Who's More Raw Than Bruno Caboclo published first on http://ift.tt/2pLTmlv