#they always have their flaws but if they promise a women's cage match that's what we're getting

[asenkaengel]

The best segment of the night was, as always, Roman Reigns being the most emotionally abusive parent/sibling ever.

And the Usos finding a positive support system in Sami and that being the REAL reason Roman is upset. He just used this "betrayal" as an excuse to get rid of Sami's positive influence on his cousins.

Roman is SO good.

And Sami's gotten so good on promos.

[rcksmith]

Desire — Kaz Brekker

(Photo not mine)

Requests: “Hello there! I've been around this blog for a bit now and you are an amazing writer! I was wondering if you would be ok with doing something with 21 28 & 29 from the smut prompts and kaz brekker? If you are uncomfortable please just ignore this!”

“Kaz brekker Smut prompts 28 66?? Love you💖!!”

“I can request Kaz smut prompts 29?❤️”

Smut prompts:

21. “Look at you, I’ve only started using my fingers and you’re already shaking.”

28. “Such a needy little thing, aren’t you?”

29. “I didn’t know you were so sensitive.”

66. “You know I don’t like to be teased.”

Couple: Kaz Brekker/ Fem!Reader

Warnings: swearing, mention of shot, mention of desire, desire, mention of smut, explicit smut, NSFW.

Word count: 3k

A/N: All smut requests for Kaz must follow these rules.

I hope you like💕 English is not my first language, so I so sorry if have a mistake.

Requests are open. Love you ❤️

— — — —

There was something about you. Something impossible to decipher, with a glow hovering around you like a electrical energy. Wrapping your whole body in a cloak of magnetism. There was something about the way you spoke, walked, laugh. Something about what it was like to be you, in your beauty and mysteries like a sphinx.

Something that made Kaz Brekker completely furious.

You couldn't be more distorted from the image, in Kaz's mind, than what was to be a peaceful woman. Calm, controled, with steel emotions and wit in eyes. Someone who, like him, knew how to dance the waltz of negotiation, manipulation, who could blend in with the shadows and know the best time to listen more than speak.

You were not like Inej, you were not like Jesper. Hell, you were like nobody Kaz has known in all of his 28 years.

Nothing reminiscent of calm and control would be used to describe what it meant to be you.

Your soul are stormy, loud, obstinate, too stubborn and too talkative. You needed to speak loudly, laugh, move, expose your opinions to the seven winds and to whoever listened the most. You needed to question, inquire, doubt and test the limits of any situation. A direct order for you would be an affront to your free and independent spirit. A command that would curtail your freedom or tame your strong genius was almost like an invitation for you to do exactly the opposite of what they had ordered you to do.

So, for a man of trained reasoning, subtly balanced world, and who was used to his every command being followed vehemently and promptly in blind obedience, such a personality like you was like introducing a disturbing factor capable of shaking all his judgments. Sand in a watch, or stone in a shoe, would be no more a nuisance than a strong nature like your.

The extraordinary stubbornness and mania to counter his orders - when, in your words, they were unreasonable - had made you different from all the women Brekker had ever met. Kaz liked challenges and responsibilities, a good puzzle, but you were on a level far beyond that.

You were a danger to his peace of mind. And you knew that. All his aversion to your indomitable spirit only served as fuel for your own mission in to piss him off. Few men were like Kaz Brekker, you knew that, with a strength of character too powerful to be ignored. He was not just comfortable in his position of authority as he was obviously unable to act in any other way than as a leader. His stoic figure and always so contained in a wall of indifference made you want to ruffle his hair to see if you could remove any emotion. And being a girl who hasn't always liked leaders, Kaz Brekker was a huge temptation. Few moments had been better than those that you managed to piss him off beyond what he could handle.

However, all the reasons why the two of you were so exasperating for each other, did not explain why the air crackled in ambiguity when your eyes met. The hemisphere was adorned in a thought-provoking, poignant veil, like a warm honey flowing down its throat, and there was something else in the way blood flowed like flames of fire through veins of you two.

Jesper said that the sexual tension between you was so tangible that it could be cut by one of Inej's knives, but you refused to think of Kaz that way. At least until that moment.

Not pure images of what the infamous Brekker could do to you between four walls swept you like the strong Arabian wind. Making you be surprisingly breathless. Kaz was not a man whose private life was exposed, nor was he involved with many women, but you have heard two or three of them when they were drunk saying that Kaz Brekker in the room could be incendiary.

Everyone knew that his touch reserve didn't limit him to anything, but that his job was at the top of the priority list and that sexual encounters were almost never on that list.

"It was not my fault!” Jesper defended himself one night, slightly drunk, sitting at the club's round table next to the other crows “I didn't know he was married to another man! That damn pretty face seduced me!”

"Did he seduce you?" You asked, skeptical and playful.

"I swear to God! And it had been a long time since I had sex with anyone, and I went… ”

“But you did sex last week." Inej laughed, chocked.

"Exactly!" Jesper said, as if he were obvious.

You laughed with your beer glass in your hand, taking another sip.

“Is a week a long time to not sleep with anyone?" Matthias retorted, trying not to laugh.

“Are you going to tell me that is not?” Jesper and Nina spoke at the same time.

“If a man has time for sex more than once a week, he clearly doesn't have much to do. And I'm sure I gave Jesper a lot of tasks that would keep him busy.” Kaz narrowed his eyes at his friend, and Jesper hid his guilt behind the rim of his beer glass, looking to the side.

"So you are saying that you are a very busy man?" You teased, trying not to laugh at the scathing look Kaz sent you.

"I disagree. The values ​​of hard work and discipline cannot match the hot body of a woman in bed.” Matthias said, exchanging a brief conspiratorial look with Nina, who winked at him.

"There are more important things." Said Kaz.

"Like what?" You rested your chin on the back of the hand whose elbow was on the table, the playful look of a rebellious student.

"Progress." Kaz held your gaze.

He wasn't going to take your bait. But you didn't give up easy.

"Tell me, if God gave you a deal: all the hunger in the world would be extinguished in exchange for you never being able to have sex again, what would you choose?" your eyes had a teasing feline glow.

At that moment, Kaz felt a shiver up the back of his neck, like a warm breath of autumn. Something crawled, like a snake, across his rib cage and down to his groin, pumping blood like fire through his veins.

He held your gaze, but the feline glow in your eyes promised to contain the most ardent sins. Suddenly, Kaz's mind was flooded by the wave of obscene images of you, on his bed; moaning, squirming, shouting his name and being very obedient with every order he gave you.

He would make you such a good girl...

"I don't believe in God." He replied succinctly, the predator's eyes still in your eyes audacious feline's.

A big, satisfied smile spread across your face, and you said: "As I thought. Bad luck for hungry people.”

Realizing that he had fallen right into your cunning trap, Kaz got rid of your diabolical magnetism and cursed.

“I didn't say…” he stopped, impatient “It doesn't matter. I have more important things to do than waste time here.”

But the smile you hid behind the glass was noticeable to Kaz.

After that night, the crackling, gasping flame that circled the two of you intensified to alarming levels. Kaz could feel you holding your breath when he was too close, and you could see him squeezing his cane harder when you sweetened your voice for him.

However, regardless of Kaz's wanted to fold you at a table and put an end to your brat girl pose, enjoying the groans he was sure you would let out, the two of you still fought like dog and cat.

Just as it was now.

“What do you mean, I'm not going?!” You looked at Kaz, amazed, when he told you that you would not participate in the robbery that week “I know that security system like the back of my hand!”

It was true, what you had of stubbornness, you had of technological intelligence. There was no computer that you would not hack, a program that you would not hack, and a system that you would not unlock. Your genius with technology made up for all your lack of obedience.

But Kaz ignored. “I've already told you. It's a more dangerous mission than you're used to and we don't have time for the plans you come up with right away.” He needled you.

“Are you referring to Switzerland?” You were never anything short of direct and inquiring. It was logical that you would question every orden. “But I already told you that when the alarm went off your plan didn't work anymore! I was more useful inside to deactivate the alarm than waiting outside.”

And stubborn. Holy God, how stubborn you were!

"And it cost you to get shot."

"But it was just a shot!"

Kaz looked at you, puzzled. “Just?! And wasn't it enough ?! You put the whole team at risk!”

“But if I hadn't deactivated the alarm, we would all be arrested! And only I knew how to do that!”

"My fucking God, isn't there a speck of common sense in you?!"

But you answered boldly: "Not when you impose clueless plans on me."

Mortified would be an understatement to describe how he was now. What an unbearable creature! Kaz felt the anger spread from his neck to his face, igniting his breath and squinting his eyes in annoyance.

Why was it so difficult for you to follow a simple goddamn rule?!

“Besides, your initial plan was flawed and there was no reason for me to be out when it was necessary inside and...” And you kept talking!

If you had noticed Kaz's completely enraged state in front of you, you would have been scared, shut up and ran. But, truth be told, Kaz suspected that even if you knew how to read the murderous humor in his eyes, you wouldn't have left that office. Much less be afraid. You could argue with the demon. And you would probably beat him out of tiredness.

However, regardless of the desire to shake you up, to see if that put any good sense in you, in that second, watching you gesture with your hands, defending your point of view as if it were the england queen's crown, something swept Kaz's body from the top of his head with dark hair to the tips of his illustrated boots.

The sound of the world was drowned out by the flow of blood itself in his veins. His heart hammered hard in his chest and, in that instant, a sharp sting in his groin and the pit of his stomach set him on fire.

His gaze went down to your mouth, which kept moving. And when it came up to your eyes, your stubborn and defiant gaze sent Kaz's rationality into space. He dropped the cane abruptly, which toppled to the floor with a hollow crack, and advanced towards you in firm and determined steps.

Gluing his gloved hands to your face, Kaz silenced all your protests with a strong kiss. Hot, fiery, domineering. The kind of kiss that held years of camouflaged desire, years of irritability, years of an unnerving desire to make you shut up with all the perverse forms that existed.

You weren't afraid of him. But you should. You should if you knew everything he wanted to do with you.

However, as if you have been burning in the same desire for years, you responded to that kiss with the same urgency. The same hunger. Kaz slipped his hands into your hair, closing his fingers there and deepening the kiss with ferocity. He felt beside himself, like a hungry wild animal that had been denied food for years and that only now had its teeth set on its prey. You moaned against his lips, bringing your hands to his lean, strong biceps, squeezing your fingers there.

You both needed air, but neither seemed to give a damn about that. Misted of desire that burned like a fire in their bodies, Kaz pushed the two of you backwards, slamming your back against the wall and swinging a frame beside. You gasped, and the gesture made it possible for Kaz to invade your mouth with his tongue, hunting every piece of hot meat. You two fought the same battle in that kiss: invade, dominate, conquer.

They both wanted to take the waltz, but Kaz would never let you conduct the show.

He pulled your wrists up, pinning them with one hand against the wall, leaving you immobile while sinking his mouth further into yours. Kaz felt you try to get rid of his tight grip, but he was stronger than you. And much more when he have a objective.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." He murmured against your mouth, the tip of his tongue playing with your bottom lip. “You know I don’t like to be teased.”

Was impossible for you to control the loud moan that escaped. Your body trembling with desire, your legs wobbly, your wet core vibrating with his words. Kaz Brekker was a fallen angel. With a beauty and charm you've never been immune to.

How can you think you'd win the dominance game with him?

And, like the fallen angel he was, his smug and arrogant smile painted the corner of his lips when he saw what his lines did to you.

“I didn’t know you were so sensitive.” Kaz mocked “If I knew it was only necessary to do this for you to shut up...” he brought his lips closer, his voice hitting yours “I would have fucked you like the naughty brat you have been a long time.”

If his caustic and maddening kisses hadn't been enough to break you in half, that statement would have done all the work.

In that second, you hoisted your white flag, biting your lip in a needy moan and closing your eyes for a second by the overwhelming vibration of your core. God, you needed more. Whatever he gave you. Anything he wanted to give you. You just needed more.

"Are you going to be good?" He played with the dough you were in his hands, his devilish mouth going down your neck, leaving a trail of fire and debris wherever he went.

You agreed, desperately. “Yes, Sir."

That title seemed to do things with Kaz. Because in the next second, his mouth was back on your. More urgent, more needy, more dominating. You shifted your hips for more friction with his, and Kaz rewarded your obedience by pulling one of your thighs forward, making your skirt go up, aligning your thigh on his hips and giving access for his member to fit perfectly against your pulsating core.

You moaned louder this time. Fingers clenching, heart pumping frantically. Kaz pulled his lips away from you for a second, taking his hand off your thigh and bringing it to your mouth.

“Pull.” He ordered, referring to the glove.

You murmured a low, excited moan, bringing your mouth to the glove and clenching your teeth on the cloth at the top of his middle finger. Satisfied, Kaz pulled his hand back, watching the alabaster skin peel away from the leather fabric. As soon as he was free, he removed the glove from your mouth, replacing it with his own and stealing all your breath in that fiery kiss.

His free hand wandered over your thigh, touching you for the first time with a touch that promised to show you all the most delicious and secret sins in the world. His tongue wrapped around your again, and the moan you let out was even greater when his long fingers brushed against your wet, throbbing core.

"S-sir!" You sobbed, your hips rocking against his hand, desperate for more.

"Look at you." His fire voice beat against your lips, the tightness against your wrists getting stronger, more possessive "I’ ve only started using my fingers and you ’re already shaking"

Your body cried out in unbridled desire, sobs mingling with loud moans and heavy sighs as Kaz tormented you with his fingers. He touched you, slid, opened and sank, increasing the volume of your pleas.

“P-please" You begged, the body in need, the urge too urgent.

Kaz looked you in the eye, a dark, malicious gleam burning in his Egyptian blue irises. "Such a needy little thing, aren't you?" He teased you.

But you no longer cared about his teasing. With your lips swollen and red, your heart racing and the core pulsing in despair on his experienced fingers, you were already surrendered.

"Please. I n-need." You mumbled submissively, rummaging your hips in his hand.

"I bet if I wanted to fuck you against my desk, here and now, you would be very happy to do it, wouldn't you?"

He was foisting all of his dominance on you, bending you to your knees for him. And you knew that. You knew he was taking years of anger out on you. But you couldn't care less. You wanted him. Ardently. Desperately. And if it was a good girl Kaz wanted, damn it, you would be a good girl for him.

You readily agreed, your eyes shining in supplication.

“Good.” Kaz pulled you brutally off the wall, turning you over to the table and pushing your chest against the icy wood, pulling your hips at him. “Because that's exactly what is going to happen.”

Suddenly, desire and hunger roared like a wild beast. Kaz watched you, bent over his desk, obedient, surrendered, offering every inch of your body to him.

His breath was burning in his throat and it was no longer possible to order his thoughts, contain his euphoria. He would fuck you so hard that it would make that memory the only thought when you remembered him. When you dare to rebut his orders.

Kaz pulled you skirt up and your panties down, letting out a groan that sounded more like a growl as he saw your wet core. Pulsing and desperate for him. For anything he wanted to give you. It sparked a fervent desire that Brekker had never felt in his life, devastating any possibility of thinking about anything other than fucking you.

Playing with your fingers in your slick, wet folds, you whimpered again, the core pulsing whenever he teased you inside, pressing his fingertips there but never entering.

"Do you want me to fuck you?" His voice came over the top of your shoulder, hoarse, animalistic, full of profane desires.

"Please." You were quick to beg “I do what you want! But just...please, please… ”

You already felt your eyes watering from over-stimulation, your heart burning so hard it was beating, your core aching from emptiness.

You sealed the end of the game between you. Kaz had won. In a triumphant checkmate.

And you didn't have to beg again. Barely seeing when he unbuttoned his pants, you just reasoned his hard, hot, pulsating member by opening your from the inside. Claiming everything that was yours as his in a strong, desperate, hungry lunge.

"S-sir!" You screamed, your nails scraping the wood from the table, the core pulsing overwhelmingly around his rigid member.

In a more badly lunge, Kaz sank completely into you, moaning loudly as he hit rock bottom. The gloved hand slid over your shoulder, propelled you to him while the bare hand tightened on your waist, hitting you at a steady, raw, animalistic rhythm.

The sounds were pornographic, dirty and loud, echoing off the walls. The air was hot like molten lava, pungent and muffled, driving you two lost breath. Their bodies clashed as if the world was going to end tomorrow, in aggressive, rough thrusts. These were thrusts that made half of his things on the table fall to the floor, mixing in a mess that would serve as a reminder later about the sinful activities you two did.

You screamed when Kaz took on more force, his fingers squeezing you so hard that they would leave you with marks on your shoulder and waist the next day.

"Fucking hell!" Kaz snarled between his teeth, feeling your flesh throb around him, squeezing he with such desperation that he knew you were close.

You sobbed, tears streaming down the corners of your eyes as you pushed your ass towards him, trying to bring him as deep as possible, as deep inside you as possible. But every time his pelvis smashed into your ass, a loud moan and the feeling of being completely full drowned you.

You begged, pleaded, for something you didn't know. But Kaz seemed to know. Taking both hands to your hips, your pace became even more unperturbed, pushing you to the limit until you cum in a scream in his name, your lungs on fire. Kaz came close behind, sinking as deep as possible and pouring all the hot liquid into you. Almost like a brand.

The air was filled with sex, lust and desire, filled only by the sound of their ragged breaths that struggled to stabilize.

You were still panting when Kaz's voice came after you: "Whatever I want, don't I?"

A deal with the devil.

[widowsofchaos]

Here With You

summary: The weight of drugs can break any relationships, but your love for him is greater.

pairing: Mike Weiss x black!reader

10. “Do you know how it feels to wish for death every day?”

12. “Because I couldn’t bear the idea of you choosing to stay with me out of pity or guilt.”

Beta by @avintagekiss24 A big thanks to my good sis! Thank for being such a great friend on taking the time to help edit!🤍

warnings: fluff and angst.

a/n: this is 1/2 of my submissions for @angrybirdcr ‘s 200 follower challenge! I choose to write for Chris Evan’s character Mike Weiss. Great underrated film! Thanks for hosting, babe! <3 thank you for being so understanding on my lateness on my submissions! <3 sorry again for being late!

do not repost my works!

This wasn’t new -- this feeling of dread --- awaiting for the shit-storm of pain, and the rainfall of tears. A slow, and yet tender feeling like a blossoming bruise. The inside of your cavity feels shattered by every inhale of a strained wheeze.

Cloudiness floats around your skull like a haze, but you move on auto-pilot --- your feet move by the surge of determination, and commitment; a bitter-sweet twinge weighs on your tongue to witness someone you love fall apart at the seams.

It’s 3 in the morning now, the moon beams high in the inky sky. The apartment is blanketed by darkness, cautiously all lights are off. Chaos ensues, your heart lurches at the muffled vomiting, and whimpers from the bedroom down the hall. Your fingers tighten around the bucket, clutching as the plastic digs into your palm.

Two chilled soaked rags hang limply over your forearm. Breathless as your footfalls dash against the carpeting, bolting through the room to see Mike slumped-over the edge of the bed, his legs tangled in wrinkled sheets.

Drenched sweat soaks through two thick pillows --- now a bit flat, and wet --- blankets strewn around by fits of rage or Mike crying that his skin is too boiling hot. A lone lit lamp illuminates the room into a dim dewy yellow flourish --- an excess of light hurts Mike’s eyes, and gives him a migraine.

The bulb emitting makes his entire body shine by the sheen of sweat, shivering, and groans of your name slips from his quivering pink lips.

Half of his body leaning over the mattress, his trembling fingers shakingly gripping the carpeted flooring, as if he was trying to crawl his way out of bed. “I’m here, Mikey. I’m here.” A broken sob escapes your lips, as you gently fall on your knees beside him. Tears break its watery shield, and collide down your cheeks to see Mike crumble.

Drool pooling from his mouth, and puke residue sits at the corner of his lips. His eyes pinching shut-tight, crying at the pain, you shushing him as you caress his cheek.

With all your strength, with gentle hands, you push Mike over on his back, guilt coiling in the pit of your belly at him moaning. Your hands sliding underneath his armpits, you maneuver him -- twisting his torso, and legs so his body can lay horizontally on the bed.

“I’m sorry, baby.” Mike croaks, his voice was hoarse, and raw. You bundle a bit of your nightie in your hand, to wipe his mouth --- it didn’t matter, you’ll wash it later. “It’s okay. No need to apologize.” You stroke your knuckles sweetly against his cheek, reassuring him by touch and voice that you want to be here; to remind him you’re here for the long haul.

You kiss the crease between his furrowing brows, then your lips featherly trail upward, and kiss his forehead, with no hesitation to sweat sticking to your mouth. “You’re still a bit warm, but the fever is going down.” You spoke breathlessly against his skin, your lips tickling his skin.

Gingerly laying the rag on his forehead, Mike sighs in relief, his lashes fluttering closed at the cooling sensation surging through his buzzing head.

It’s been four days of Mike going raw cold-turkey. Four days of pure hell for Mike, and four days of pure grief for yourself.

In the beginning of this trial, when the drugs began flushing out of his system Mike wasn’t himself --- it was as if he’s a frothing beast scouting for substance. Screaming matches spewing from his irritation, itching between these four walls; Mike resembling a caged animal.

Pure rage masking self-hatred; anger at the aches deep in his muscles, pity at that maybe he can’t do this.

To accomplish sobriety.

Vomiting with his head limp, and deep in the toilet, hours of crying, and pleas for that one last hit --- Mike screaming for God to end him, and that he doesn’t deserve you. Cradling him in your arms, rocking him like an infant, as he sputters incoherent cries; speaking in hushed tones in his ear that you love him --- all his flaws, and scars.

What provoked his final decision to get clean, and start a new slate for one’s health, life longevity, and to keep your love --- was a discovery he dreamt to have long ago but felt he wasn’t deserving to earn.

“I’m sorry --- a-about the ca--r-rpet.” Mike whispers in choppy puffs, whining low. Jesus, this man is in pain, and he’s worried about you being mad at the carpet? You shook your head slightly, gesturing to him that you weren’t mad.

“Don’t apologize for that, it’s nothing. I’ll clean it later.” You spoke in a calm hush, as you placed the bucket on the floor, next to his bedside.

Your hand delicately pad against the clammy biceps with one rag, testing his bodily temperature, taking the remaining rag off of your slightly cold-numbing skin.

You kiss the corner of his brow, as you rub down his chest with the crisp rag, his lips part as an airy breath laced with deep relief escapes; as the refreshing fabric graces his flesh. His chest hair swirled a bit under the comforting circular motions.

Admiring his body, your eyes trace over every ink stroke of his tattoos adorning him. Sheen of water linger as you soothe Mike, silently reciting the Buddhist quote on his chest. Through the rag, you trace the designs of his tattoos by the tips of your fingers --- soft as petals.

Your hand travels the rag downward his torso to dull the slight overheating. Mike hums lowly with his eyes laxly closed shut, his breathing now ceasing into an easy rhythm. Memories begin flooding Mike’s head, as his breathing relaxes steadily. Recollections of how Mike and yourself met years prior --- four years to be exact --- at the hospital you work at.

It was a dark cloudy day, the outside world drenched with heavy pouring rain; the atmosphere was thick with dread, and scented with antiseptic. Sniveling, and irritated with a forthcoming migraine, the flickering lightening tube hovering above him was like a menacing tick, making him twitch internally; as he laid in the hospital bed.

Balling the white blue-polka dotted hospital gown into his fists, the fabric bundling between his fingers. Mike was silent, as he scanned his environment motionlessly.

Accidental overdose is the verdict. Sunken eyes with lavender hues, as the mulling cadence of ringing phones, bustling chatter of nurses, and squeaking footfalls of passing doctors flood the hallways.

A click of the door opening, and in all your glory, your hair tied in a bun with a few curls straying, wearing a purple nurse uniform, a clipboard clutched in your palm, Nike sneakers for comfort --- being on your feet all day --- and a name tag boldly showcasing your printed name.

In your palm, are clear bags of his folded clothing, and shoes. Nicely you place the bags at the edge of the bed near Mike’s feet.

“Hello Mr. Weiss. How are you feeling right now?” A melodic timbre that soothed Mike, lulling his weary mind to a blissful state. The concern didn’t go unnoticed, how you worded your question in the namesake of professionalism, and humane authenticity.

‘Right now?’ Usually people would ask how he’s feeling as if he wasn’t struggling prior with the question, ‘How are you today?’ and his usual response would be, ‘Shitty.’ sealed with a somber shit-eating grin, but you asked how he’s feeling right now, so you can help him, not analyze him.

You didn’t sound fake, nor condescending. Usually a lot of medical staff didn’t have much regard for addicts, nor at least a speck of pity or sympathy. Mike’s tongue was heavy, struggling a little to speak up.

Gaping his mouth open and closed, like a mindless goldfish. You peeked over your clipboard, with a sweet arched brow, giggling lowly to yourself --- your brown hues sparkling in amusement. It was a tiring day, so to see this man stammering over his words was beyond cute, and the highlight of your day.

“Are you okay?” You asked with a small curling smile, hiding your snickering behind the clipboard, with only musing eyes squinting in giggles appearing.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m actually better now.” Mike perked up, coughing a bit as his voice was hoarse, bashful, and his pale cheeks dusting pink. Jesus, what’s wrong with me? Why in the fuck am I floundering? Get a grip, Mike! Mike never stuttered around women, always flirtatious. This was new for him.

“That’s good. How is your body feeling after the sedatives? Any discomfort right now?” Your soft voice interrupted his rampant thoughts.

“Just a bit groggy, but what else is new?” Mike humorlessly chuckles, as he shamelessly eyes your body. You notice him checking you out, but you elect to ignore him with a warm smile — but you couldn’t deny, you’re silently enjoying his wordless flirtation; despite your fatigued stature, this man still saw attraction to you.

“I promise it’ll pass. Just get some rest, and stay hydrated.” With a flick of your carmine painted nails, you smoothly perked the clipboard on your waist as you unlatched the metal clip, retrieving a few handbills.

“Here I have chosen a few pamphlets for rehab centers, and a few numbers for therapy agencies.”

“I don’t need those.” Mike pushed your out-stretched hand gently away.

You arched your brow at him, clicking your tongue at his ignorance, “And why don’t you need them?” You inquire kindly, a cautious tone; not wanting to release this man from the hospital’s care, just to snort and shoot up into an early grave.

“Listen, I can tell you’re sweet. Too sweet for someone like me to be concerned with. I’ve tried to get clean, and it never works. It’s just not for me.” Mike hastily sits up, slinging his legs over the bed, flinging the thin blanket off of him, “It’s not worth it.” He mutters under his breath.

You were entirely taken back, wincing at how low he talks of himself. Intently watching this man hastily open the bags to get his clothes, the edge of his jaw pinched pink --- like ripe warm peaches. Was it due to embarrassment?

You place the papers on the bed, as you walk more closely to him.

“You are worth it.” You place his cold hands into yours, cupping as if you’re cradling. Trying to get to his eye-level, make him see that you were serious.

He doesn’t dare to glance your way, “Doesn’t matter.” Mike insists, slowly seizing his hands from your grasp, “Why bother trying only to fail? And then disappoint everyone all over again?” His nose was flaring, not wanting to lash his tongue at you, just at the idea of his addictions being the topic of discussion irks him.

It’s not that he doesn’t want help … it’s that hopeless sinking feeling, that he’s just incurable. A burden. A problem, masking pain with sarcasm and substance to numb it all. A demon clawing at his shoulder, spitting self-hate in his ear.

You’re just not worth the trouble, Mike.

As he stood up from the bed, stretching out his shirt, he noticed from the corner of his eye that you were staring at him worriedly. On instinct, pulling the mask down to cover his anguish once more.

“Wanna help me get dressed, sweetheart?” A curling faux self-confident smirk that was forced, you sniff out like a bloodhound. You immediately caught on the familiar behavior, a usual route for patients to cope out with defense mechanisms. You saw this tactic day in and day out.

But more importantly, it’s one you use too well.

“It may not feel like it now, but it’s not impossible. You’re not the first patient I had who felt this way.” You spoke with conviction, ignoring the insistent words ushered by doctors from the past that were ringing at the back of your head, you can't help someone if they don’t want to get help.

It’s not a martyr shtick, nor a God complex --- but how Mike looked so distressed and sickly as he was pulled in the hospital on the stretcher pained you straight in the heart, parallel to many others before.

“You never know if you don’t try.” You perk your hands on your hips, with an insisting stance. It wasn’t pushy, but Mike could tell you weren’t going to back down.

How you stood firmly with the hands perched on your curvous hips that strained subtly against the cotton uniform --- it was hot, how you stood your ground to him, yet no insulting persistence. Your bubble cheeks scrunching up so cutely. Mike just couldn’t help but be turned on, maybe it's your caring nature mixing into it.

Mike breathed through his nose, his head hung low, his hands sinking into the mattress. A sign of defeat, not entirely submitting, but how your words were honeyed with sterling sweetness got him to halt, and process how his life led up to here.

He glimpses through his long pretty lashes, “Alright --” He cheekily scans your name-tag, pretending he didn’t already memorized it from the moment you walked in.“Y/n. I’ll go. You’re pretty convincing. Maybe you should have been a lawyer too.”

“Oh --- you’re a lawyer, huh?”

“An unlikable one to be exact.”

You suck your teeth teasingly, “I highly doubt that. You seem likeable to me.” You pucker your bee-stung lips with jovial tease, as you tug on the curtain surrounding his bed to offer privacy, his eyes zero on your soft lips that glisten with chapstick sheen, his arms mid-frozen holding onto his articles of clothing.

“Now get dressed, and we’ll get you out of here.” You chuckle, only the shadow of your stihollute appears. Mike chuckles to himself, a little shake of his head, he liked you from the very start.

You knew the circumstances of dating an addict, from day one you knew the weight of his demons Mike carried on his back. He laid all his cards on the table, and you leaped into this life with him head-first.

But how could you not fall for him? His charm, his blunt wit, his intelligence, his kindness and that beautiful face? Only a fool would be blind not to be swooned off their feet for the one and only Mike Weiss. After the first -- rather intense --- first meeting, it was definitely not the last encounter for Mike and yourself.

After agreeing to go to a rehab program, Mike flirted with you immensely; along with requesting for you to accompany him on his first day. “For moral support.” he shrugged, a flirtatious smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

His first day was stoic, but with hushed side-commentary, and sly remarks. Muffling your laughter, you would poke his ribs, silently telling him to knock it off. It didn’t take long for an unusual friendship to develop. You really didn’t see it coming, and if Mike was to be honest, he didn’t either.

The realization of deep love was agnated to a love-drunk punch to the heart.

Days blurring into weeks into months with good morning and goodnight calls, late night conversations - those were the heart-shattering times. It was difficult for Mike to open up his layers, bottling his hurt inside to the point of shaking sobs at 3 am, clutching the phone.

Choppy incoherent words, spurts of feeling worthless. It began with you two having brunch which then led into dinner dates. Soon trust was earned, and you began hanging out at his house or your apartment.

A nurturing nurse and a sardonic lawyer becoming friends--his dry humor doesn’t rub you the wrong way, or how you don’t see it as obnoxious.

“Later when you take a shower, I’ll get you fresh sheets.” You murmur sweetly, as you finished massaging him. Mike slowly peels his eyes open, hooded and squinting. Your voice is silvery to his ears, it always appeases his darkest times --- like that hopeful light at the end of the tunnel.

Silently his eyes raked over your body, your hushed voice brought him back to reality. As he soaked in your appearance, Mike couldn’t stomach how tired you were, your eyes were droopy, your curls sloppily disrayed. As his eyes traveled from your exhausted face to your breasts that swelled over the past weeks to the ample bump protruding against your nightie.

Now entering into your second trimester.

Mike began silently crying, pinching his eyes shut as lone tears spilled down his cheeks. “Don’t cry, baby. We’re getting through this, I’m so proud of you.” You kiss his wet cheeks, not minding the salty tears that kiss his eyes. Nimble sweet kisses, and cooing. You knew how hard he was working to get sober.

“You don’t need this shit.” Mike croaked, not daring to open his eyes, and see the pity in yours.

“Stop that. I love you, I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying right here with you.” You caress his cheeks by the gentle graze of your knuckles, shushing him. Lulling him to calm down from a pending panic attack.

You soft humming quills him, with only a sniffle here and there. You kiss the tip of his nose. “I love you.” Mike mutters under his breath. You giggle under your breath, feeling a bit bashful --- how can he make you so shy even after three years together?

You snivel a bit, biting back a sheen of tears, “And I love you too.” You’ll never get tired of saying that.

It’s been a long road, filled with bumps and turbulence. Many women would have left a long time ago, abandoning Mike at his lowest, but you just couldn’t. You’re too addicted to Mike, from the taste of him, to his scent, to the feel of his skin. His sharp tongue, and his humanity.

There was a moment in this journey that almost halted this life together, where you both had to address every bleeding crevice. It was a toxic mixture of your denial, and Mike’s instinct to push anyone close to him away.

It’s not that you didn’t want to help Mike, or face reality --- you were afraid. Scared that Mike was hurting himself, and all the progress you both built together was deteriorating at the seams, but then his honeyed words of promises of getting better would wrap your head in a rose-tinted daze.

Mike wasn’t trying to convince you, but himself. Just to chip off on the drugs, to keep himself afloat --- that this time it’ll be okay. He can balance his sanity, and his urges of substance that makes him feel ‘whole’. But that was just a temporary moment of brief delusion.

It was about three months ago, your shift at work was a tiresome blur, bustling on auto-pilot. The soles of your feet were aching, the nape of your back was droning in a dull pinch, and your eyes were slightly burning. Your worn body was screaming, and yearning for the comfort of your soft bed, and just to cuddle in Mike’s arms.

But there was a sense of … queasiness yet gleeful.

For days on end, you were puking in the early hours of the morning, your head hanging in the toilet. Waves of nausea, and finally, the nail in the coffin, you realized that your period was five weeks late. A hunch was hovering over your head, like a burning bright bulb. Finally, biting the bullet, and putting on your big girl pants, during a lunch break, you took a blood-test, and sent a cup of your urine to the labs for testing.

Once the results came back to you a few days later, you were speechless for the remainder of the day.

You were deary with worry, unable to conjure the words to form the discovery of yours. As you parked the car in-front of the house, cutting the engine off with the flick of your wrist, snatching the keys. Living with Mike has become a better part of your life, coming home to a person who loves you, and who would hold you, holding them. Grounding yourself back to earth in warmth, blending into one, melting your worldly problems away.

Reminding that you’re not alone.

With a groan, you weaved out of the car, locking it, and trekked up the walkway to the porch. Arching your arm, as your open-palm was rubbing your tail-bone as you waltzed to the front-door, thanking God and his angels that you were able to leave work early.

Dunking your hand in your bag, fumbling for your house-keys, mumbling under your breath as you blearily tried to conduct the proper way to tell Mike the truth, ansty and yet giddy at the toes --- to tell him you’re pregnant.

You always wanted a family, but over the years, the desired fantasy was slowly being strangled with dwindling hope, never really connecting to any soul --- until now, with Mike. Yawning mindlessly, you inserted a key into the lock, twisting, and opening the door.

“Mike, I’m home. I have something to tell you—” A cheery tone falters into silence.

Your foggy haze of exhaustion was smacked off your face, as you almost nearly stumbled off your own feet. Prejuticle vomit bubbling at the back of your throat, as startled eyes all look into you, you felt like a trespasser in your own home.

Witnessing a mass of people seated in your living room, snorting lines off the now stained and scratched coffee glass table, startled as they drink heavily and sloppily gulps liquor, as fogs of nicotine floods the air — staring at you with wide eyes.

Rooted in the middle sector of the couch, eyes bulging with fear, hot under the collar, was Mike himself, sniffling back remnants of coke deep into his nostrils, bare-chested in his red suspenders, and dress pants.

“That’s just great.” You mutter under your breath, a cracked sigh of breath; your jaw clicking to the side, Mike knows that tic very well. Your arms fall limply to your waist, as a gesture of defeat.

You walk away, exhaustion setting and resting in your bones, as your feet guide you upstairs. Begrudgingly so, an unbearable itch at the back of your throat, dying to just scream on the top of your lungs.

Scream and cry.

You can faintly hear Mike alert his friends to pack up and go, scuffling of footfalls and inebriated murmuring begin to flow out of the house. A few chuckles and finally …. it was silent, with the slam of the front door the only indicator that it’s just you and Mike — finally alone.

Fidgety fingers nearly tear the fabric off of you, tugging it off your body button by button with an edge of boiling rage, and a sheen of tears burning at the brim of your eyes. All the joy slowly zaps slowly out of your pores, now a dreary sadness now weighs on your shoulders.

Have I not done enough? To help Mike? Maybe my help wasn’t enough? Maybe his pain is too deep-rooted in him, maybe he has to push himself first to make the first move for recovery? Has he been lying all this time? Maybe he’s never been sober during the entire duration of the relationship?

You suspected it, felt the energy was off for quite some time, and yet you decided to play the love-sick fool dance the dance of denial.

A watery huff of a sigh. A dulling pain begins to throb and engulf your skull, an impending migraine just beyond the horizon. Clenching your jaw, nearly on the brink of grinding your teeth. A somber treading up the stairs looms near the bedroom, as you strip.

Dreading on what’s to come next, Mike was slowly walking to the bedroom, fearing a fight breaking out, worried that you’re going to leave him once and for all. But isn’t that what you wanted? For her to realize that you’re not good enough? Mike belittles and berates himself, as he is ever so delaying his steps.

Counting his steps like the sheeps to lull him at night, as he tries to collect his thoughts, already his tongue heavy with ale, ready to slur an apology. Trepidation beams at his brow, fearing the worse to come, that you’ll finally leave him.

His open-palm collides silently against the bedroom door, right on cue when he’s ready to push, he hears sniffles. Internally wincing at your pain, but like a bandage, he’s gotta rip it off.

Grovel on his knees, if he has to, kiss your feet like a goddess worshipped at an alter — anything for you not to hate him. Bringing strangers - swirly acquaintances - into your shared home, breaking your trust.

A creak of the hinges alerts you. Quickly wiping away your teary cheeks, you stand at your night-stand in nothing but your panties, straightening your hunched over form as you were sobbing into your folded clothes.

With a firm shove of the drawer, you close it, gripping your nightie in one hand, and the other clenching into a fist that hovers over your heart. Trying to level your breathing, not wanting to scare off Mike, you know that he’s hurting too.

You can feel his stare burning holes in the back of your skull.

“Mike, I’m just going to take a shower and head off to bed.” You turn your body around, now facing his mopey face, wanting desperately to just kiss him, and hug him. “I suggest putting a bottle of water at the night-stand to keep hydrated throughout the night, and a bucket to be precautious.” You force a forlorn smile, as you place the nightie on the bed.

Uncertain feet tap against the flooring, you walk hesitatingly at first, towards Mike, placing your palm on his shoulder, your thumb rubbing against his skin. A kiss on his lips, ever so featherly soft. “I’m not mad. We’ll get through this.” You rub the tip of your nose against his sweetly.

Mike knows you’re not mad, it’s beyond that. Mad is just scratching the surface, his heart aches to see your eyes watery, and nearly splotchy pink at the rims. “I hate it when you do that.” Mike’s hoarse voice makes you flinch, as if it grated against your ears.

“Excuse me?” Your nose scrunches up, as your cheeks puff out. “Hate what exactly, Mike? Me supporting you bothers you?” You move away from him, sniffing back your tears, shaking a little at the hands, the back of your knees collide against the bed, softly thudding yourself against the mattress.

“No. You pretending you’re not mad. Pretending that everything is okay.” His nose flares, his chest heaving. Wanting to scream, for you to scream. Just let it all go. Too much is bottling like a ticking time bomb.

“But I’m not mad.” You hiss through your teeth.

“Yes the fuck you are! Admit it! Stop acting like a martyr for one moment, and just say it! Say how you really feel! Say I’m a junkie!”

“Stop it, Mike! You’re just a little …” You trail off, biting your tongue, before anything stupid or insensitive spills out. Forbidding any word to spew out, and hurt him. No matter how infuriated you are, you just couldn’t lash out at him.

“Like what? Fucked up? News flash, Y/n, I’m fucked up. Stop acting as if you can fix me! You act like I can just pick up my mistakes and move along.” Mike shouts, now pacing, practically burning a hole in the carpeting.

“Shut up! I was going to say high!” You hastily stand up to your feet, “And I’m so fucking sorry, that me loving you is a fucking problem. That I see you as you are, a fucking human being, not some addict. Because that’s not what defines you, but you want it to be. You can’t stand to see yourself as anything but.” You cry, your hands not knowing where to put them at, just shaking in mid-air.

“That’s fucking bullshit!” Mike barks in your face, tears ready to fall down his stubbled cheeks.

“No it’s not!” You stomp your foot, your toes curling into the carpet. “You refuse to let me in! Instead you seek comfort in strangers, come together to get high, and fuck it all!” Your hand weaves in the air, angrily gesturing; harshly slamming against your thigh.

“You don’t even fucking know me!” By now, his nose is connected to yours. He doesn’t know why he’s screaming at you, lashing you with his insecurities, but how you just won’t admit that this isn’t helping you either. You’re hurting too.

Jesus, his brain is muddled. Fried. He wants to cry, and beg your forgiveness for what he has said, fall to his knees and just hold you, but instead, here he is, shouting at you. He doesn’t feel like a man, he feels lower than dirt.

“Then let me get to know you! You only feed me scraps, thinking that can subdue me, I want you to open up to me!”

“Why? So you can get some self-satisfaction by helping a charity case?” Mike growled, it was a watery one. “I told you from day one, I’m not worth it!” Mike thrashes trinkets off the drawer with his hand, products and little figurines collide on the floor with a thud, “You don’t need this shit! You don’t need me!” Mike screams on the top of his lungs, now hunching over, falling on his knees, as you sink into yourself; covering your mouth from sobbing too loud.

Have you been coming off as pretentious? Pushing him to keep positive, kind affirmations every-day, reminding him to eat healthy, telling him he’s great no matter what, hovering over him to keep sober? Hovering too much? Pushing too hard?

But you couldn’t help it … you love him too much.

“But I need you.” It was a pitiful sob, his arched spine quivering, his shoulders tense, his fingers digging into the cotton fibers. Slowly, you kneel down, your fingers tentatively rub between his shoulder blades; Mike savoring the touch of your finger tips against his clammy skin.

Seconds felt like minutes, biting your lip as you kept rubbing and soothing him, it always helped him calm down. Finally he spoke up, and what he will say will break your heart, “Do you know how it feels to wish for death every day?” Mike choked on a sob, his head bobs a bit to sniffle.

Your breath hitches in your throat.

“Baby …” You cry, finally a heavy waterfall crashes down. Holding him, your chest against his sculpted back, “Please talk to me. I don’t want to lose you.” Wet little kisses on him, mumbling, “Please tell me.” Fresh tears water his back.

“I love you too much to pull you down. To my own hell. It’s not right. You’re too pure.” Mike picks his head up, your hands cup his cheeks. Your brows furrowing, shaking your head at him.

“I need you.” You whispered. “I will go to bat in Hell, for you. Sock Satan in the mouth if I have too.” You chuckle, and luckily, he chuckles too with that cute signature Weiss smirk.

“I’m sorry for what I said. I didn’t mean it. I just …” Mike hung his head, sighing. Hating that he lied for months, he was doing good, he was clean for a period of time. But he got hit with a big case, and the stress got too much.

Drugs were easier than asking for help.

“Then why did you keep pushing me away?” You tilted your head, to manage eye contact. You never wanted to push him too hard just to open up to you. Knowing that it only could make him crawl deep inside himself.

“Because I couldn’t bear the idea of you choosing to stay with me out of pity or guilt.” Mike rubs his cheek against yours, “I never had anyone love me, never held anything good.” Mike blubbered.

“I love you for you. Flaws and all. I’m here for the long haul.” Blinking back wet lashes, you lean in more against his face, with a gentle squeeze of his cheeks in the cusp of your hands.

“I love you too.” It was simply sweet. Shy, even. Mike nudges his face against yours, his lips trailing down your pulse point. Your ultimate weakness.

Mike hedges himself at the knees, as he engulfs your nude body in his arms; as you wrap your arms around his neck. You kiss the joint of his jaw, and with ease, Mike lifts you by his palms on your ass, standing upward with you in his grasp.

“Let me take care of you.” You whisper in his ear, “Come take a shower with me.” Caressing your face against his, Mike nodded silently. With quiet steps, and two hearts beating against one, Mike waltzes into the bathroom.

With his fore-arm holding you by the bum, his free hand unzipped himself, the click of his zipper made you quiver underneath your skin. His enchanting warmth shoved your secret in the back burner of your mind, but the journey of it twisting and morphing made you worried — slowly your concern of the possibility of losing the father of your unborn baby was temporarily replaced with touch starvation.

Like a balm to a gashing wound.

It was there but subtle, and quiet. Awaiting it’s time to arise at an unexpecting time, to snatch your heart and squeeze.

The shower was warm and inviting, it helped a little clear Mike’s stuffy sinuses. Your fingers twirling and massaging in Mike’s chest hair, as you both cling onto each other as a life-line. Mike kissed the middle of your brows, as his hands were unwavering from your body.

Silence --- the type that doesn’t need to be filled with unnecessary chatter --- comfortable --- speaking louder than words. His tears blending into the spraying water, and his small tremors were the signs that he was genuinely sorry; and with open arms, you forgive him.

Bathing each other has always been a favorite of yours, so intimate, the soapy sensation of wet skin, the intense eye contact — how perfectly his forehead connects with yours. How soft your touch is against his sex, coddling and cleaning him with care and precision.

Mike rubs the soapy sponge against the terrain of your shoulder blades, trailing down the arch of your spine leaving electric kisses down your spine. A breathy gasp at this welcoming intrusion of Mike seeping the sponge between your asscheeks.

Small lathery cadence intermixing with your wanton moans, as your fingernails scratch slightly against Mike’s back. Mike groaned, it felt so good — the smooth and slippery scratches made him hiss, it was a good pinch of pain.

Cheeky as ever, you slipped your hands to cup his his toned ass; Mike chuckled, mumurming under his breath, his pink lips against your soaked dome, “Greedy brat.” This wasn’t an escape from your issues, clearly both of you need to open the air to discuss your emotions --- a needed shower for two was a nice reprieve from the emotional turmoil.

To clear your heads.

After the shower, and moisturizing, helping Mike into bed, you were braiding your hair, but you were unusually silent. It was time to tell him … now or never. His finger curls against your bare back, fiddling with the thin silk straps against his tips.

You turn your face, your palm holding his fingers. “Tell me what’s on your mind.” Mike spoke quietly, as he laid his back against the headboard. His twirling fingers put you a little ease, but it’s not enough, you have to speak up.

“I have to tell you something …” You trail off, your tone puts him at unease. Your gaze is lowered, Mike shifts his hand away, and perks it underneath your chin.

Making you look at him, with a calm poker-face, Mike insists you, with the soft whisper of your name. Biting your lower lip, his thumb quickly tugging it down. “I’m — I’m pregnant.” Wide eyes gawk into Mike’s own widen orbs, wide as dinner plates.

His breathing got heavy, and soon choppy. You quickly put your hand over his heart, shushing him. “It’s going to be okay. Baby, it’s going to be okay.” A lone tear trails down your cheek, thinking of the worst, you believe Mike is going to bolt out of your life out of fear.

“Is that … ” Mike swallows, “Is that what you wanted to tell me earlier?” His chin wobbles, as you nod, unable to speak. His eyes lower to your flat tummy, hesitantly he cups your belly. His fingers caressing the silk clad skin, he began to cry. Just unraveling in your hold.

That night, you held him tight, and he clung to you tightly; his head laid on your stomach, his tears shedding against your nightie. Mike felt …. scared. Throughout the night, he would mumble that he wasn’t good dad material, but you always tell him, “You’re going to be great.”

That was four months ago, and throughout those four months, Mike was up and down, on and off of drugs, but finally … he stopped. He cried when he first heard your baby’s heartbeat, that’s when he began his rocky path back to sobriety.

Four months of self-hate, sometimes he would leave his journals open for you to read, he couldn’t properly express himself verbally, but in writing, he said it all. He was afraid of the rehab campus’, he preferred your expertise and comfort to nurse him back.

But he couldn’t do this to you, your pregnancy shouldn’t be a stressful one. He knows what he must do.

Mike opened his eyes once more, coming back to reality. Four months and he’s still here. “I’m ready.” His voice was small, yet confident. As if a surge of power consumed his body. His eyes shine with determination.

You were taken back, “Ready for what?” You ask nervously. You bite down on your bottom lip, a little habit you have yet to kick, you would bite your lip till it cracked and bleed.

“To go back to rehab. I gotta do this right.” You hold back a sob, kissing his forehead. “I want to do right for our baby.” Mike weakly smiles, you smile back. You can already envision your shared future, how Mike will protect and love your child. Happy and healthy, no longer fearing the shadow of death lingering near him.

“This baby is so lucky to have you as their daddy.” With the tips of your fingers, grazing his jaw, you lean down for a kiss. It’s a wispy yet passionate kiss. Sending electric waves down Mike’s spine.

“God, I love you.” Mike mumbles against your lips.

Mike Weiss, lawyer, ex-addict, a lover and a father. Oh, how lucky you are to have him, and how blessed he feels to have you.

[tkmedia]

Raw recap & reactions: The Hurt Business, New Day go to war

Big Poppa I love an overarching thread with multiple twists, turns, and a logical conclusion. Monday Night Raw set it off this week with a match pitting WWE Champion Big E vs Bobby Lashley. Lashley truly believes E can’t beat him, which explains all the rationalization he’s done since the All Mighty added “former WWE Champion” to his resume. Their opening match, which was ill in all the right ways, showcased a dominant Lashley and the reinstatement of the Hurt Business. Yes, ladies and gents, the Hurt Business is apparently back in business. Once Shelton Benjamin and Cedric Alexander made their presence known, Xavier Woods and Kofi Kington stepped in. A brawl ensued, a DQ was handed out, and it was the best kind of chaos. Adam Pearce, clearly not a fan of anything he saw, said the match would continue later tonight in a steel cage. No Hurt Business, no New Day. Just Lashley x E trapped in twisted steel. These two cats didn’t disappoint. Besides the brutality of the match, it was the clear desperation both men showed. Bobby Lashley needed to beat E to prove his point. Before the bell rang, got all of the upper hands on the champ. Lashley didn’t want to leave anything to chance and wanted every advantage he could muster. If that meant tossing E around the floor before the match officially started, then so be it. If that meant calling the Hurt Business down to do business, that’s cool too. E needed to beat the All Mighty to shut him and anyone else up who believes he’s not a legitimate champion. Despite the pre-match ass whooping, E lit Lashley up like a pinball machine once the bell rang. He used the cage to his advantage every now and then, but he wanted to overpower the man. It wasn’t just about proving he was the better man; E needed to prove he was the stronger man. In every good or great wrestling match, a character flaw is shown and exploited. Early in the match, we got ours from Lashley. Rather than continue to go for pin attempts, Lashley tried climbing out. Corey Graves, a man who should make it his business to be Flava Flav to Lashley’s Chuck D, said Bobby wants to win the title in dramatic fashion. Bobby’s ego didn’t allow him to just take the W when it was right there; he had to showboat and continue his pattern of habitual line stepping. E stopped him from getting out and tried to do a Big Ending from the top rope, but alas, it wasn’t meant to be. Not yet anyway. We even got a tease of a Hurt Business x New Day feud I’m dying to see. When Shelton and Cedric interfered to stop the champ from climbing out, Woods and Kofi represented as they should. Woods, in particular, looked like a man who needs a belt around his waist when he slammed the cage door on Bobby Lashley’s head, and superkicked Cedric back to Main Event. No diss to the man or Main Event, but yeah, you get the point. Once the four men were finally in the locker room, E and Lashley continued their war. That desperation I mentioned showed up again as both men had chances to walk out of the gate. When Lashley tried to walk out, E grabbed his arm as many times as possible. When E looked ready to saunter out, Lashley grabbed his ankle. They were literally holding on for dear life because the title, and beating each other, means that much to them. Neither man wanted to stay down and neither could stay down. E survived a spear and a spine buster, while Lashley survived multiple suplexes and a Big Ending. But when the challenger had the champion in a precarious position, his fatal flaw reared its ugly head again. Rather than walk out the gate or go for a pinfall, he once again decided to climb out of the ring, apparently learning nothing from earlier. E caught him again and this time, he nailed the Big Ending from the top rope. 1-2-3. While basking in the moment, a familiar tune blasted out of the arena speakers and Drew McIntyre, sword in hand, made his intentions known to the champ. We didn’t get a fight—and still no swordplay—but it’s clear Drew Mac wants a fight and E is ready to give it to him. I hope this isn’t the last tango the Hurt Business and New Day do, but this was a fantastic story and match. In just a few weeks, E and Bobby told a succinct story with a logical conclusion. Well done, boys. Priest x Sheamus Get Extreme I didn’t think they’d get me. After seeing Sheamus and Damian Priest go blow for blow over the United States Championship for several weeks, I got it. Priest is better than Sheamus right now. How many times can they tell the same story? Well, it’s a good thing I didn’t put money on that because the extreme rules stipulation was the proper escalation of a feud built on physicality. As usual with most matches like this in WWE these days, they start out wrestling until one guy realizes they can use kendo sticks, chairs, and whatever plunder they can find. Chekov’s table made an early appearance thanks to the champ, and he suffered a White Noise for his troubles. In fact, with Sheamus’ history as a brawler, one might think this was the perfect match for him to finally best the Infamous one and snatch back the gold. Right? Yeah, about that. We’ve seen Priest outsmart Sheamus in their previous matches. Even last night, he was just quicker to the draw than the Celtic Warrior. This week, Priest showed he’s the better man physically as well. He survived Sheamus’ best shots, and, in my favorite spot of the night, threw a chair at the man’s face to counter a Brogue Kick. Ultimately, Sheamus met his...reckoning...after going through a table in the corner of the ring, and then taking a Reckoning. This should be the last gasp in this feud. The draft is Friday, and these two have fought each other enough. Damian needs more challengers, and Sheamus might benefit from a change of scenery. Good ending to a story that went a long way in making Damian a legit tough cat and not someone you want to mess with. Extracurriculars Words from Goldberg’s Garage Goldberg doesn’t know what kind of a papa Bobby Lashley is. Clearly, Lashley isn’t the type to have a painting of his arm and his baby clinging to said arm on his wall. But that aside, Goldberg wants to fulfill a promise he made to his wife and his son to always protect the latter, at all costs. If he’s lucky, he’ll get to kill Lashley. This is a good story because its relatable and understandable. Lashley hurt Goldberg’s son, Goldberg wants his pound of flesh. And you know what? I hope he gets it. Goldberg’s never been the best promo but that worked because it felt real and I’m riding with the old man. Finally Phenomenal AJ Styles can pretty much do anything he wants in a wrestling ring with anyone he chooses to do it with. Styles and Riddle put on a dope television match that, at times, looked like someone was legitimately hurt. From a story standpoint, he needed this W. AJ’s racked up several Ls over several weeks, and looked anything but phenomenal. That changed this week and it was beautiful to watch. Charlotte Has no Time for This Either Charlotte Flair wasted an open challenge on Doudrop because, duh, Eva Marie isn’t finished with her former “friend” yet. Anyone who knows wrestling saw this coming from 25 miles away, so it’s not shocking. However, it is disappointing because there’s no end in sight to this thing between Doudrop and Eva plus it ruins her first title match. No one was served well here, so consider it a swing and a miss. And yet.. Raw moves fast. Remember when I said it looks like we’re still doing this thing with Eva and Doudrop? Like I just said it? Scratch that. Eva got on the mic and said she should be Raw’s champion of women. What’s more, she believes she can beat any woman in locker room. This brought out an angry Shayna Baszler, who did to Eva the same thing she did to Nia Jax last week. I guess WWE thought Shayna would get booed for this? Handsome Finish Angel Garza x Erik danced for a bit as a breather after the hot opening segment. It was a glorified squash as Garza got the W. Reggie Lives to Fight Another Day Silly me for thinking Richochet was getting a real chance to get some gold around his waist. Instead of a match filled with cats getting higher than a giraffe, we only got a taste of that until R-Truth, Drake Maverick, and friends interfered. Wherever this ride is going, I want off. That’s no Bear, That’s a BearCAT Tozawa, fresh off another 24-7 embarrassment, demanded a match with anyone. Out came the newly minted Keith “Bearcat” Lee. This is obviously a reboot for the former limitless one. And he looks good. He looks like someone I need to take seriously. But Bearcat? Really? I guess if you’re going to debut that nickname, Cincinnati is the right place. If only Lee wasn’t from Texas. Matching Capes Nikki A.S.H. wants matching capes for Super Brutality. Rhea Ripley isn’t convinced. Six Man Chaos Jeff Hardy, Mansoor, & Mustafa Ali vs. Jinder Mahal, Shanky, & Veer battled in the ongoing saga of Jeff Hardy wandering from position to position on Monday nights. This was a quick hitter that didn’t last long enough to get good or bad. Jinder and the boys got the W as the holding pattern before the draft continues. He’s the Commanding Officer Now Another squash/holding pattern match between Karrion Kross and Jaxson Ryker. They’re building Kross as a dominant super shredder, one who even poked fun at Ryker’s military service. It was a nice touch and added personality to a guy who needs as much as he can to overcome that look. Raw was good this week. The show moved at a good clip, was bookended by two dope matches that told one long story, and was mostly entertaining in the middle. While a lot of it was a holding pattern because things change Friday and next Monday, it was a good sendoff for Raw as we know it. Grade: A- That’s my grade and I’m sticking to it. Your turn. Read the full article

[theresnosafeharbor4myships]

Picture Perfect - Chapter 8 (also on 9L)  (Chapter 1) (Chapter 2) (Chapter 3)(Chapter 4) (Chapter 5&6) (Chapter 7)

Carol believed what he said; the desire in his eyes, the predatory stature of his body, and the heat in his tone all told her he meant business. But she knew too many downed drinks prevented him from stalking towards her and finding a solitary place to pleasure them both.

Without breaking his gaze, she set the flowers and the grapes on the table and took a small step back from him, her hand trailing along the table’s edge to guide her. “Come and get it,” she taunted.

He put the doll by the flowers, moving toward her slowly. Each step felt like walking through molasses, but he held on to the table, matching each of her backward steps with a forward one of his own.

“Still wanna play, huh?” he queried, amused with and wildly aroused by her seduction games.

He’d love her for so long, and watching her thrive made his heart bloom in his chest, causing a physical ache. She had hands like silk, smoldering bedroom eyes, searing kisses, and a lithe body made as his match, all which made loving her that much more erotic. But watching Carol flirt without reservation, with confidence and surety, owning her sexuality like an experienced vixen pursuing her prey made his head swim. She’d teased him before in the confines of their room, but this…brazen seductress retreating from him had stoked the fire to a raging inferno.

“Oh, yeah,” she breathed, still moving away from him.

He paused as she rounded the end of the table, watching her until she stood opposite him, the wide table, heavy with fruit, between them.

What was the saying…the closest distance between two points is a straight line?

To hell with it, he thought, then haphazardly shoved the food trays out of his way and hiked a knee up onto the table, praying it would hold.

“Daryl!”

Carol’s gasp reached his brain, and he saw her snatch a candelabra up from the end of the table near his head, flames licking close to his hair.

For a moment he felt airborne, like he’d jumped from a plane he didn’t know he was on. But then he leaned forward and his hands and knees made contact with the table and the world stopped spinning long enough for him to peer up at Carol’s startled but bemused face.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Shortcut to get to ya,” he managed to say before dropping his head for a moment to try to right the world.

“You know you don’t have to set yourself on fire to make me think you’re hot, right?”

“Wasn’t sure,” he quipped.

“Now that you are, you still comin’ for me?”

Damn, Carol did double entendres better than anyone he’d ever met. He wracked his brain for a witty comeback, but the organ didn’t seem to want to work.

“Maybe just...” He pushed more platters out of his way. “…give me a few minutes.” He dropped to his side and propped himself up with one arm, reaching for her free hand with the other. He looked at her, draped in shimmering royal blue, like a goddess come to life.

“World stops spinnin’ whena look at you,” he murmured.

She smiled, humoring his drunken stupor, but he couldn’t stop staring at her.

He’d seen her at her worst, bloody, covered in viscera, sweaty, unshowered for weeks and wearing clothes that didn’t fit. After the loss of children and homes, starving and sick, in heartache and self-hatred, cold, exhausted, and grouchy. And still he’d loved her so easily it confounded him, this woman who’d made him feel, for the first time in his life, like a man. Like a person. Who, despite his history, personality flaws, and the legacy of the Dixon name, had chosen him at the end of the world to share all of her final days with. Despite their lack of hygiene over the years, he’d always found her stunning: from her sparkling baby blues and the gentleness and strength of her hands to the way her mind strategized and how passionately she loved those she called family.

He only belonged to that family because of her, because she’d seen so much more in him than anyone ever had.

He owed her his life.

“Don’t just mean ‘cause I drank too much,” he confessed, his words slow. “I mean...all the time. I never lived so close ta so many people til everything happened. Didn’t know how. Didn’t even know who I was. World felt outta control Before, but…once it all happened, when Merle was gone an’…I was just spinnin’ my wheels, you made things make sense. Gave me a purpose. And friendship. Don’t know where I’d be withoutchoo.”

Drunk words are sober thoughts, she’d once read.

Her throat, thick with unshed tears, swelled, and she tried to swallow past the burgeoning emotion. So much time had passed, so many things had occurred, that they didn’t much talk of the Before any more, but the gratefulness, the tenderness of his tone caused a sweet ache in her chest.  

Who’d have thought Daryl Dixon, the motorcycle-riding, crossbow-wielding, rough and dirty, don’t-touch-me redneck could spout words to rival one of the rom-coms she used to watch as a silly girl, praying for someone who could love her?

Blinking away tears, she leaned toward him and gave him a chaste kiss, all at once feeling a little guilty at having made him come to a party he had to get drunk at to have fun.  

“Maybe sober. In bed.”

He snorted. “Passed out in the floor sounds more like me.”

“In the floor, huh?” She chuckled. “Then it’s good for both of us that I’m here.”

“Why you?”

“Because I’m not alone: in this world, at home, or at this party. I never knew what that was like til you.”

Though his eyes burned with fatigue, he stared at her, this woman who’d endured so much to stand before him tonight with fire in her hands and her eyes and her heart. “You’re stunning.”

“And you’re drunk.”

“But not blind. And not alone either. But as soon as I can get up, I’m takin’ you home so we can be alone together.”

“Yeah, I can see why you’d have a hard time getting it up right now,” she teased, treasuring the heavy moment that had passed between them in her heart, even as it drifted away.

“That’s what you think.”

“Ah-ah-ah,” she protested, holding the candelabra away from him and placing a hand against his chest as he started to get up to prove her wrong. “Stay put, Romeo. Give it a few minutes.”

“Been givin’ it a few minutes all night. You been tauntin’ and teasin’ and—”

“And you love it,” she countered confidently. “And you’re not going anywhere for a bit, so you might as well stay there and enjoy it.”

“Yes, your majesty,” he sassed.

She quirked an eyebrow, trying to hide a smile, then turned and leaned back against the table.

Only a handful of couples remained, and most of them seemed more drunk than Daryl. Someone—Carol couldn’t remember who, now—had suggested they hold on to their newly acquired stock of alcohol, but most everyone else had argued against it, knowing any day could be their last. Saving the best for later didn’t exist anymore since the best was whatever they had at moment and no one could promise them tomorrow.

Gratitude filled her at the joy she’d experienced this evening. Watching her friends smile and laugh, the women dressing up like in the good old days of Before, giving them a boost of confidence, watching Daryl let his inhibitions go and trust her to take care of him, seeing herself fancied up in a way she never had, letting the hungry vixen in her have free reign instead of caging her in shame and embarrassment. It felt dangerous and fun, and the fact that Daryl responded so easily—to her touches and teases, her double entendres and innuendos—she wondered why she’d never allowed this side of her out to play before.

That would have to change.

Daryl’s hand, hot against her even through her dress, trailed down her back and rested on the curve of her butt. “’Cha thinkin’bout?”

She peered at him over her shoulder, smiling. “Tonight. You, me, us.”

“Good, huh?” he leered at her, sliding his hand back and forth along her lower back. “But gonna get better.”

“We still gotta get you home.”

“You still gotta dance for me.”

She turned away from him, hiding a smile. Holding the candelabra up and focusing on the candle light, she wriggled her hips playfully, fire before her, the intensity of his gaze behind her. But without a partner, bopping to the music fell flat, and she stopped after a couple of seconds.

“That’s it?” he asked, incredulous.

“Did I promise more?”

“More or less.” He reached for something on the table behind her, then produced an unopened bottle of champagne. “Guess someone lost this. Pity.” He held it up to her. “Liquid courage?”

Her head didn’t feel like cotton anymore, but it still buzzed. “Think I’ve had enough.”

“Let’s see it then,” he encouraged with a nod.

“See what?” she asked innocently.

He mock-glared at her. “Your moves.”

“Been showing you my moves all night. Haven’t you been paying attention?”

Her faux exasperation tickled him, but he wanted dancing. “Oh, I been payin’ attention,” he confirmed. “Slidin’ your hands all over me where no one can see, under tables and durin’ pictures—”

“Which I want to see, by the way,” she interjected as though they talked of the weather.

“Kissin’ and teasin and pressin’ up against me all soft and hot. Playin’ innocent in front’a everyone and wildcat in my ear, whisperin’ and makin’ me so hot I’m ready to beg.”

Her cheeks flamed as he recounted the temptress she’d played tonight, his voice dropping lower and sending an aching need thrumming through her body.

“Seductive and sexy and makin’ me so bothered I’m gonna use my mouth to—”

“Shhhh,” she interrupted again, this time pressing a finger to his lips.

He noted the red tinge of her cheeks, her embarrassment evident, and his heart fell that he’d unintentionally caused her shame when he’d only meant to compliment her.

He flicked his tongue out against her finger, and her eyes snapped to his. He moved his head, enveloping the tip of her finger with his mouth and sucking lightly as she withdrew it.

“Sexy as hell. Don’t stop,” he entreated. “Never seen you like this, and I don’t want it to end.”

Even if it was the longest session of foreplay he’d ever indulged in.

Carol swallowed hard, determined to hold on to the confidence, the power she’d felt all night.

“I’ll just…” He looked down at the fruit surrounding him and picked up a peach. “…watch you ‘n keep my mouth shut.” He held the peach to his lips, nibbling at it slowly as he caressed her with his eyes.

Carol set the candelabra far away from him, grabbed the champagne bottle out of his hand, twisted the wire cage, and popped the lid off. Holding his gaze, she took a slow pull from the bottle, then another, and handed it back to him.

She stared at him for a moment, letting the sparkling drink wash through her, the music pulse in her veins, the beat take over her body. Then she closed her eyes, imagined he stood with her, and moved her body, undulated her hips, shimmied her shoulders, let her body flow with the sounds around her and the feelings he evoked in her and the daring notion that he lay just behind her, splayed out like so much tempting fruit, as she danced just for him.

[echovalley-rp]

VEDIKA MUKTI / 30 YEARS OLD / POLICE OFFICER AT ECHO VALLEY POLICE DEPARTMENT / EASTCLIFFE

FULL NAME:

Vedika “Veda” Priyanka Mukti

BIRTHDAY:

23 March, 1987

SPECIES:

Black Mataku

AREA OF RESIDENCE:

Lives alone in an apartment in Eastcliffe

BIOGRAPHY: (tw:  trigger, trigger)

Vedika was the middle of three wild daughters who from their very first steps were responsible for every grey hair on the heads of their parents and all their extended family. She and Anandi and Maina crashed through their childhood home in the mountains of Nepal like feral creatures, leaving destruction in their wake wherever they went. Their grandparents and aunties and uncles, of which there were many, used to tut and shake their heads, and their parents used to try and make them behave with stories of monsters coming in the night to gobble up bad children. But the girls seemed to already know their own power, and they weren’t afraid… Perhaps they should have been.

Sometime in their youth, the girls all awoke at the same time in the middle of the night, and without speaking made their way out into the mountainous wilderness together until they reached a dark and winding cave. Within, they met Banjhākri & Banjhākrini, a wedded pair of demons who were notorious for devouring mischievous children. But they wanted something else from the triplets that night… The girls were put through rigorous magical testing, for not only are the Banjhākri demons, but also powerful shamans of the highest order- gods in fearsome form. Night after night the girls returned to the cave silently in the dead of night, and each night their testing was inconclusive. It was hard to determine the value of the triplets- individually they each had their flaws- inhibition, indecisiveness, recklessness… but together… oh the three of them were possibly one of the most promising magical forces they had seen. Finally, the demon gods agreed to assess their powers in a few years, when they had more fully developed… They were warned that their final tests would be much more difficult…

Shortly thereafter, their parents chose (for their own good) to move them from their beloved village in the dense wilderness, to a girl’s academy in Scandinavia, which specialized in the teaching of young women with magical potential. The girls protested, as they knew the dangers of abandoning their training with the Banjhākri, but numerous plots to run away from home were foiled, and soon they had no choice but to leave. Each mile of distance maddened them, to the point that they were like uncaged animals at school. They each felt a driving need during their studies there to return to Nepal, to the cave of the demons. And as a result of their restlessness, they often misbehaved and in fact ruled over the other girls at the school with a sort of gang of delinquents. Chief among them was none other than Vedika herself, notorious for crafting a weapon out of anything, and a penchant for sneaking out after hours which was strictly forbidden. There wasn’t a single professor that could match her, magical though they were, and she often found herself in the Headmistress’s office for private and mandatory lessons in control and restraint. But in the end, the great Lady of the school only managed to put a pretty wrapper around Veda’s ambition. A cage that a tiger can walk freely in and out of is still a cage after all…

Regardless, Anandi, Vedika, and Maina all completed their training together with quite promising marks, and a delinquency report longer than their arms. The second they were free of the place, they all returned to their village, to the cave, where Banjhākri & Banjhākrini were impatiently waiting. Here…the sisters learned their lesson about recklessness… Of the two survivors, neither of them could explain exactly what went wrong with their final test, just that the youngest of them, Maina, was devoured in front of them. And when they emerged they forgot so much more, all of their tests, and even what they encountered inside the cave. But the horrors of that faithful night still come to them in terrible vision… and Vedika emerged with something worse…

The scar the incident left on her mind has never ceased in swelling and irritating her already unstable psyche. Strange dreams that once haunted her in her early childhood have returned with a vengeance, and after the incident she often found herself sleepwalking… waking up in a place with no memory of how she’d gotten there, or what had happened in her unconscious state. Desperately, after years of wandering aimlessly she returned to the only other place she felt any sense of belonging- the Academy. She owes the Headmistress her life for so graciously taking her in, and upon evaluating her power and control making her the Deputy Headmistress, a position that came with responsibilities and distractions. It was her duty to discipline the very girls she counted herself among in her own school days- she roamed the halls at night and sent misbehaving girls back to their rooms. She saw to their protection and well-being every night, and taught them each day the values of discipline and restraint… for none knew better than she the potential consequences of faltering.

For years, she grew close to these girls and guarded them, and for a while she felt better, even though she still occasionally woke up in odd places. She felt removed enough from the demon’s influence that the nightmares didn’t feel as real as they had before, and she convinced herself that the sleepwalking came from her irregular schedule and the odd hours she kept for the sake of her girls. But she would quickly find that there was still very much for her to be fearful of in the night.

One evening, she woke to find herself standing in a cold, wet field, facing the east and the bloody red sunrise… and when she turned back, the Academy she had grown to love so dearly was engulfed in flames. She got most of them out, but a student and two professors succumbed to the smoke and flames… and what student of course but her most beloved… The cause of the fire was never determined, but afterwards Veda could not remain there, the charred halls brought back too many painful memories, and her grip on reality faltered. To escape, she moved again to the other side of the world, to an island her family often spoke of as a haven for magical folk such as her; Echo Valley. The place was instantly calming… a powerful forest stood testament to the potent magical forces there, forces she knew she could learn from, for the desire in her to be the best shaman she could had not faded, even after her vital lesson about control. As soon as she moved there she felt right again, comfortable, and she fell back into some of her old ways. Still a wild child, she sought every opportunity to display her power, and eventually landed a job with the local police department; most notably due to her reference from the Headmistress lauding her as a considerable security force, and her ability and willingness to take down any manner of perpetrator with efficient competence. She found her home among the other “Mataku” as they were called here, and was determined to continue her pursuit of knowledge and influence, making a home for herself alone in Eastcliffe with a considerable collection of grimoires.

But the nightmares followed her even here, and she only had a few nights of uninterrupted sleep before she started waking again to find herself in odd places, like the edge of the forest, or in the middle of the city in her nightgown. She chalked it up to moving so far from home, and from the new traumas she experienced across the globe. She felt safe here, her midnight visions of demons were certainly only dreams… surely nothing could follow her so far away… And then came the wildfire, in the forest… Vedika disappeared on the night the fire began… and even her coworkers on the police force have begun to doubt if she will ever emerge again… Despite their determination to find her, many are beginning to lose hope…

But… what’s this? Magic users along the forest’s edge have grown restless and uneasy with a sudden surge of magical energy and emotions… What could such a presence be, and why has it suddenly come into being where nothing was felt before?

Extra Details:

 “Vedika” means ‘altar’, or ‘full of knowledge’. The eldest triplet is Anandi (which means ‘jovial’), and the youngest was Maina (which means ‘singing bird’). Their mother is named Nandita (meaning ‘cheerful’ or ‘happy’), and their father is Ravi (meaning ‘sun’). Their surname “Mukti” means ‘freedom from life and death’.

Vedika’s tattoos cover both her arms down to her hands, half of both legs, and her entire chest and back. She collected them in the years following Maina’s death, when she restlessly traveled around to different places both alone and in the company of her surviving sister, Anandi. Each piece has considerably meaning to her, but she has yet to speak of any of it to her acquaintances here. Those that ask about them often find themselves on the receiving end of a pointed glare, and as a result most that know her have learned to mind their own business. However, they only serve to further complicate the elaborate rumors about her past, and at this point she might be keeping their stories secret as a way to entertain herself.

Anandi is an airline stewardess that lives primarily out of London with her husband and their two children. Vedika still keeps in regular contact with her, but she hasn’t seen her sister or her niece and nephew in person for years.

Around her neck, Vedika always has a small glass vial which contains a pinch of black ash, and a small shard of bone. She doesn’t talk about it, and most of the time she doesn’t even acknowledge or seem to recognize its presence there, but the bone shard is Maina’s recovered from her cremation ceremony. She never takes it off, but she often touches it when thinking of her sister. It’s another one of those things she simply doesn’t talk about, and that people have learned not to ask about… not because she gets angry with them, but because any questions about it confuse her to such a degree that no one can get a straight answer out of her.

PERSONALITY:

Vedika has always been one of the most gossiped-about people wherever she goes, and her odd personality is the likely culprit in this. All at once, she can be brash and open- she will embrace strangers openly as her friends, and her vibrancy draws people of all kinds to her, a talent which suits both her line of work and her fiery demeanor. And at the same time, there is something cold and guarded about her, like a steel plate put into a wall. She can be very exacting and disciplinary when it comes to others putting themselves in harm’s way, that’s the nurturing school guard in her… And she has her secrets, in fact she’s likely told no one here about the earlier hardships of her life… But it’s obvious to anyone with a sense of these things that she has been touched by trauma and fear. She still acts out, even as a law enforcement officer, but they’re used to their reckless cops here and so she blends in more than she probably should. She’s gone back to being a bit reckless, although she’ll still reprimand others for the same, and she can be quick to anger or to act. She notoriously does not wait for backup when she should… She’s just very confident in her abilities and the level of control she’s managed thus far. Veda knows she can get herself out of nearly any dangerous situation she might encounter, and there is very little on this island that frightens her more than the storm of emotional confusion inside her own head. No one will hear her talk about the nightmares, or the sleepwalking, in fact she doesn’t talk much about herself at all. That, added to the fact that she is utterly covered in intricate tattoos have led some to believe that she’s in Echo Valley to escape a notorious East Asian crime syndicate, and she laughs along with these stories and others that people have come up with about her. She’s more than content to be mysterious, for she has often found that fear and respect go hand in hand.

FACE CLAIM: DICHEN LACHMAN ✗ MUN: Mae, EST, 26, She/Her

[flauntpage]

Tactical Guide to Machida vs. Anders

During the early days of PRIDE FC’s Bushido brand they themed events around the two sides of the card. You had Japan vs. Brazil, Japan vs. Gracies, Chute Boxe vs. Brazilian Top Team and the like. If you look at the poster for this weekend’s UFC Fight Night in Belem, Brazil, you could be forgiven for thinking that the UFC had adopted the theme of “Team Established Names vs Team Who?”

The stand out odd match on this card is Valentina Shevchenko vs. Priscila Cachoeira. Cachoeira looks out of place partly because she is the only person on the poster without a glossy official UFC head shot, but perhaps the MMA fan will look at this poster and concede that they don't know much about the women’s weightclasses outside of the UFC and that maybe Cachoeira is good enough to debut against Shevchenko. In one sense they would be right—Tapology ranks her as the No. 30 flyweight in the world. FightMatrix has her all the way up at number nine! But then her only viewable fights are grainy recordings from regional events on Youtube… and they aren’t impressive. Pushing forward with her chin up in the air, Cachoeira takes as many punches as she throws and looks exhausted from the third minute onwards. Putting her in with a fighter like Shevchenko—a counter puncher to the point of paralysis if her opponent doesn’t lead—seems like a blatant tune up.

Hands down, head stationary until it is pulled straight back at the sight of a jab, swinging from the knees, eating counters and already breathing hard a minute into round 1? Probably a good match up for a well conditioned counter striker like Shevchenko.

But on the other extreme of that equation is the main event between Lyoto Machida and Eryk Anders. The double edged sword of name value is that when you get old, the UFC will use you to headline events in your home country but for the most part they won’t pitch you softballs. This leads to an awkward silence and a rapid evacuation of the stadium the moment that Mauricio Rua or Vitor Belfort gets starched in the main event. Belem is the Brazilian Lyoto Machida’s hometown and as such he is the star of the show, but Eryk Anders—despite being largely unknown amongst the less hardcore viewership—is a tough test for the old dragon.

Machida’s trials are well known by now. He was an undersized marvel at 205 lbs., relying on his minimalist counter striking game and frustrating opponents into overcommitting and stepping onto his reverse punches. He moved down to middleweight and became more active on offense— scoring a couple of sensational knockouts with his sharpshooting kicking game at range. Machida gave us one of the most compelling middleweight title fights in history in his barnburner with Chris Weidman, but was ultimately unable to win his second UFC belt. Suffering devastating losses to Luke Rockhold and Yoel Romero, Machida was forced out for two years after alerting USADA to his use of a dietary supplement which it turned out was on their ban list. Upon his return to the UFC in October of 2017, Machida was matched against Derek Brunson. The most cautious striker in the UFC was quickly knocked out by the most reckless striker in the UFC and everyone was left hoping that Machida would retire.

Eryk Anders is a peculiarity in MMA. A promising college football player making the switch to fighting, he spent a whole lot of time and effort fighting just for the sake of fighting after he gave up the hand-egg. He has only ten professional fights to his name, but Anders took over twenty amateur fights before he even began drawing a professional paycheck. That is a deceptively large amount of in ring experience for an up-and-comer.

After the briefest of stints in Bellator—he knocked out his only opponent in twenty-three seconds—Anders moved on to LFA. On June 23, 2017 he won their middleweight title and less than thirty days later he was in the UFC. Still sore from a twenty-five minute fight, Anders looked a little softer around the edges. Anders fought on the counter—attempting to time Rafael Natal with counter left straights.

Herding Natal into the cage, Anders feinted his way in on the quickly tiring veteran before knocking him stiff with a couple of left straights.

Five months later, Anders returned to the UFC to take on Markus Perez. Between his ponytail and his desire to throw jump spinning kicks any time Anders got close enough, Perez seemed to be fighting out of a different era. Clean shaven and considerably trimmer, Anders looked better than ever as he cut the cage on Perez and applied constant pressure. Perez spun often, missed, and wound up against the cage. In the first round it was enough for Anders to force clinches and make Perez work. By the second round Perez was more static and each time he stood still by the fence, Anders would crack him with a couple of punches and tie up again.

In the third round Perez was desperate and kept shooting takedowns which Anders sprawled on effortlessly, using the quarter nelson and lining up hard elbows and knees off it.

The quarter nelson in action.

Hypothetical Gameplans

While Eryk Anders has shown himself to be wild at times—he tends to run for that extra swing when he has his man off balance or just escaping off the fence—he doesn’t normally burst into a sprint and run straight for his man off the bat as Derek Brunson does. In fact, watching Anders fight he does seem very much like Derek Brunson if Derek Brunson had a fight IQ and some regard for his own safety. On one hand, drawing the charge for the counter gyaku-zuki will probably be tougher. On the other hand, at least he isn’t going to sprint forward and catch Machida cold.

For Machida, this writer recommends exactly the same thing he did for the Brunson fight. Switch stances to orthodox and keep the open guard dynamic. Closed guard (southpaw vs southpaw) exchanges do not favor Machida because he drops his lead hand to his hip like a traditional karateka every time he punches. He’s rarely the bigger hitter and he can’t take a shot like he used to, so against fellow southpaws he can eat left hands and get himself hurt. It’s far, far too late for him to learn how to box and it will continue to cost him, but by changing stances to remain in open guard he can hide most of those flaws.

Throw straight, drop hand, eat counter.

Machida’s willingness to change stances also helps him against good ring cutters, and against Weidman he showed excellent awareness of his ring position, changing direction multiple times and faking escapes along the fence in an attempt to get Weidman overcommitted in one direction. We discussed this at length in Ringcraft: The Fall of Ronda Rousey.

It will be interesting to see if Machida can use direction changes to stay off the fence against Anders. Anders has done well pressuring opponents to the fence and teeing off on them when they stop moving—good misdirection and ring awareness can make that a lot trickier. Anders is also a little one-handed in his herding—looking for the left hand constantly and often allowing the opponent to circle away from it freely as he throws it.

Lovely follow up though.

An especially important point for Machida to keep in mind is Anders’s defensive position with that rear hand. Watching his fights with Natal and Perez you will notice that it is awkwardly close to his chin and body. When opponents have thrown body kicks into that open side he has looked especially uncomfortable and over-reacted. If Machida fights orthodox he will be kicking with his less dextrous leg but he should be able to snipe with his round kicks and knees between Anders’s advances.

Luckily Perez was not a particularly smart fighter.

The way that Anders squirms and crunches his body over in reaction to any body kick he takes, and the fact that he holds his left fist almost flush against his chin throughout the fight, means that there is also a great chance of a classic Machida high kick if he can stay off the fence and set the trap with a couple of body kicks.

For Anders, his usual pressure might be a good look, provided he doesn’t get out of his stance or start throwing wild. Low kicks have always been a great tactic against Machida and The Dragon doesn’t often lash out off the fence so Anders can probably take his time. Keeping Machida near the fence so that he must keep moving laterally will also shorten his stance and keep his feet moving—taking away those telegraph free kicks.

Chris Weidman did a great job of making Machida burn energy by staying on him along the fence and simply letting him try to dance his way out. Weidman’s feints also did more in that fight—in moving Machida to the fence and making him second guess his usual counter opportunities—and Anders has also shown that he understands the value of feinting his way in slowly along the fence. That was how he laid out Natal and clipped off nice combinations on Perez.

Much of Machida’s takedown defense has been done with his feet, but by bringing the fight towards the fence and ducking in for Machida’s hips, Anders could force Machida to fight off the takedown with his hips and hands. Anders did a great job against Perez of working up and down, coming up with strikes off of takedown attempts when he met resistance. Reaching for a single and coming up with strikes along the fence could be a tremendous way to hurt Machida as both his hands and feet would be out of his usual striking position.

As Lyoto Machida is the writer’s favorite fighter, it is getting a little hard to watch him get in the cage with young, well equipped fighters and get beaten up. But with what Anders has been able to show so far ,a victory over Machida would do wonders to get eyes on him and could lead to his arrival as a much-needed young(ish) contender in the aging middleweight top ten. And of course, there is always the chance that Machida can do something magical...

Jack wrote the hit biography Notorious: The Life and Fights of Conor McGregor and scouts prospects at The Fight Primer.

Tactical Guide to Machida vs. Anders published first on https://footballhighlightseurope.tumblr.com/

[amtushinfosolutionspage]

Tactical Guide to Machida vs. Anders

During the early days of PRIDE FC’s Bushido brand they themed events around the two sides of the card. You had Japan vs. Brazil, Japan vs. Gracies, Chute Boxe vs. Brazilian Top Team and the like. If you look at the poster for this weekend’s UFC Fight Night in Belem, Brazil, you could be forgiven for thinking that the UFC had adopted the theme of “Team Established Names vs Team Who?”

The stand out odd match on this card is Valentina Shevchenko vs. Priscila Cachoeira. Cachoeira looks out of place partly because she is the only person on the poster without a glossy official UFC head shot, but perhaps the MMA fan will look at this poster and concede that they don’t know much about the women’s weightclasses outside of the UFC and that maybe Cachoeira is good enough to debut against Shevchenko. In one sense they would be right—Tapology ranks her as the No. 30 flyweight in the world. FightMatrix has her all the way up at number nine! But then her only viewable fights are grainy recordings from regional events on Youtube… and they aren’t impressive. Pushing forward with her chin up in the air, Cachoeira takes as many punches as she throws and looks exhausted from the third minute onwards. Putting her in with a fighter like Shevchenko—a counter puncher to the point of paralysis if her opponent doesn’t lead—seems like a blatant tune up.

Hands down, head stationary until it is pulled straight back at the sight of a jab, swinging from the knees, eating counters and already breathing hard a minute into round 1? Probably a good match up for a well conditioned counter striker like Shevchenko.

But on the other extreme of that equation is the main event between Lyoto Machida and Eryk Anders. The double edged sword of name value is that when you get old, the UFC will use you to headline events in your home country but for the most part they won’t pitch you softballs. This leads to an awkward silence and a rapid evacuation of the stadium the moment that Mauricio Rua or Vitor Belfort gets starched in the main event. Belem is the Brazilian Lyoto Machida’s hometown and as such he is the star of the show, but Eryk Anders—despite being largely unknown amongst the less hardcore viewership—is a tough test for the old dragon.

Machida’s trials are well known by now. He was an undersized marvel at 205 lbs., relying on his minimalist counter striking game and frustrating opponents into overcommitting and stepping onto his reverse punches. He moved down to middleweight and became more active on offense— scoring a couple of sensational knockouts with his sharpshooting kicking game at range. Machida gave us one of the most compelling middleweight title fights in history in his barnburner with Chris Weidman, but was ultimately unable to win his second UFC belt. Suffering devastating losses to Luke Rockhold and Yoel Romero, Machida was forced out for two years after alerting USADA to his use of a dietary supplement which it turned out was on their ban list. Upon his return to the UFC in October of 2017, Machida was matched against Derek Brunson. The most cautious striker in the UFC was quickly knocked out by the most reckless striker in the UFC and everyone was left hoping that Machida would retire.

Eryk Anders is a peculiarity in MMA. A promising college football player making the switch to fighting, he spent a whole lot of time and effort fighting just for the sake of fighting after he gave up the hand-egg. He has only ten professional fights to his name, but Anders took over twenty amateur fights before he even began drawing a professional paycheck. That is a deceptively large amount of in ring experience for an up-and-comer.

After the briefest of stints in Bellator—he knocked out his only opponent in twenty-three seconds—Anders moved on to LFA. On June 23, 2017 he won their middleweight title and less than thirty days later he was in the UFC. Still sore from a twenty-five minute fight, Anders looked a little softer around the edges. Anders fought on the counter—attempting to time Rafael Natal with counter left straights.

Herding Natal into the cage, Anders feinted his way in on the quickly tiring veteran before knocking him stiff with a couple of left straights.

Five months later, Anders returned to the UFC to take on Markus Perez. Between his ponytail and his desire to throw jump spinning kicks any time Anders got close enough, Perez seemed to be fighting out of a different era. Clean shaven and considerably trimmer, Anders looked better than ever as he cut the cage on Perez and applied constant pressure. Perez spun often, missed, and wound up against the cage. In the first round it was enough for Anders to force clinches and make Perez work. By the second round Perez was more static and each time he stood still by the fence, Anders would crack him with a couple of punches and tie up again.

In the third round Perez was desperate and kept shooting takedowns which Anders sprawled on effortlessly, using the quarter nelson and lining up hard elbows and knees off it.

The quarter nelson in action.

Hypothetical Gameplans

While Eryk Anders has shown himself to be wild at times—he tends to run for that extra swing when he has his man off balance or just escaping off the fence—he doesn’t normally burst into a sprint and run straight for his man off the bat as Derek Brunson does. In fact, watching Anders fight he does seem very much like Derek Brunson if Derek Brunson had a fight IQ and some regard for his own safety. On one hand, drawing the charge for the counter gyaku-zuki will probably be tougher. On the other hand, at least he isn’t going to sprint forward and catch Machida cold.

For Machida, this writer recommends exactly the same thing he did for the Brunson fight. Switch stances to orthodox and keep the open guard dynamic. Closed guard (southpaw vs southpaw) exchanges do not favor Machida because he drops his lead hand to his hip like a traditional karateka every time he punches. He’s rarely the bigger hitter and he can’t take a shot like he used to, so against fellow southpaws he can eat left hands and get himself hurt. It’s far, far too late for him to learn how to box and it will continue to cost him, but by changing stances to remain in open guard he can hide most of those flaws.

Throw straight, drop hand, eat counter.

Machida’s willingness to change stances also helps him against good ring cutters, and against Weidman he showed excellent awareness of his ring position, changing direction multiple times and faking escapes along the fence in an attempt to get Weidman overcommitted in one direction. We discussed this at length in Ringcraft: The Fall of Ronda Rousey.

It will be interesting to see if Machida can use direction changes to stay off the fence against Anders. Anders has done well pressuring opponents to the fence and teeing off on them when they stop moving—good misdirection and ring awareness can make that a lot trickier. Anders is also a little one-handed in his herding—looking for the left hand constantly and often allowing the opponent to circle away from it freely as he throws it.

Lovely follow up though.

An especially important point for Machida to keep in mind is Anders’s defensive position with that rear hand. Watching his fights with Natal and Perez you will notice that it is awkwardly close to his chin and body. When opponents have thrown body kicks into that open side he has looked especially uncomfortable and over-reacted. If Machida fights orthodox he will be kicking with his less dextrous leg but he should be able to snipe with his round kicks and knees between Anders’s advances.

Luckily Perez was not a particularly smart fighter.

The way that Anders squirms and crunches his body over in reaction to any body kick he takes, and the fact that he holds his left fist almost flush against his chin throughout the fight, means that there is also a great chance of a classic Machida high kick if he can stay off the fence and set the trap with a couple of body kicks.

For Anders, his usual pressure might be a good look, provided he doesn’t get out of his stance or start throwing wild. Low kicks have always been a great tactic against Machida and The Dragon doesn’t often lash out off the fence so Anders can probably take his time. Keeping Machida near the fence so that he must keep moving laterally will also shorten his stance and keep his feet moving—taking away those telegraph free kicks.

Chris Weidman did a great job of making Machida burn energy by staying on him along the fence and simply letting him try to dance his way out. Weidman’s feints also did more in that fight—in moving Machida to the fence and making him second guess his usual counter opportunities—and Anders has also shown that he understands the value of feinting his way in slowly along the fence. That was how he laid out Natal and clipped off nice combinations on Perez.

Much of Machida’s takedown defense has been done with his feet, but by bringing the fight towards the fence and ducking in for Machida’s hips, Anders could force Machida to fight off the takedown with his hips and hands. Anders did a great job against Perez of working up and down, coming up with strikes off of takedown attempts when he met resistance. Reaching for a single and coming up with strikes along the fence could be a tremendous way to hurt Machida as both his hands and feet would be out of his usual striking position.

As Lyoto Machida is the writer’s favorite fighter, it is getting a little hard to watch him get in the cage with young, well equipped fighters and get beaten up. But with what Anders has been able to show so far ,a victory over Machida would do wonders to get eyes on him and could lead to his arrival as a much-needed young(ish) contender in the aging middleweight top ten. And of course, there is always the chance that Machida can do something magical…

Jack wrote the hit biography Notorious: The Life and Fights of Conor McGregor and scouts prospects at The Fight Primer.

Tactical Guide to Machida vs. Anders syndicated from https://australiahoverboards.wordpress.com

[rhomanticsdotcom]

The Beauty Myth Essay

I was introduced to the pervasive, nagging feeling that I was not “pretty” and had to be “fixed” in the sixth grade. On a camping trip of all places, one of my peers made an off-hand comment about how I would look “really pretty with eyeliner.” I was surprised but intrigued because I had never really considered makeup to be a good thing, remembering how I disliked my mother wearing makeup when I was a child, and recalling a previous bad experience I had with a friend and an eyelash curler that looked eerily similar to a medieval torture device. Makeup was complicated, a waste of time, tasted weird, and felt icky on my face.

Yet, I still found myself buying my first piece of makeup. It was not until two years later, in the eighth grade: I chose a liquid felt-tip eyeliner, from Covergirl. Although I was not aware at the time, my decision to take her comment in stride solidified my agreement to buy into the patriarchal system she was selling to me-- I must have felt inadequate since I did not look some certain way, and so I needed to fix myself. Before I had this mentality, I knew that some people were prettier than others, but I had never felt that I was lesser, or that I needed to apologize for it through my actions. Once that bubble was broken, and I saw the first thing that was “wrong,” my eyes, all the other features that did not measure up became painfully apparent. The more I paid attention to popular culture, the deeper I fell into this hole of insecurity and not being enough.

Beauty as a whole was this agonizingly fragile realm into which most of my anxiety was readily funneled. So, I tried to take control in whatever ways I could. I would get my eyebrows waxed since they were thick and connected in the middle. I remember at one point I wanted to shave my “sideburns” because I thought they were so noticeable. I did not view myself as skinny or fat. I occupied this middle ground of inadequacy, yet never resorted to dieting and very luckily never developed an eating disorder. I did start mimicking the fashion of my peers, and can remember myself feeling acute anxiety about my clothes. I would get agitated if I thought my clothes did not match, and really self-conscious if my top or skirt were awkward lengths in relation to my jacket. I remember those times in high school and feel frustrated with all of the wasted energy I spent worrying about the nuances of my appearance, when in reality, no one was paying attention.

Coming to Wesleyan felt like liberation. I am not sure if time and maturity were the remedies to my suffering that occurred in high school, but I had a number of epiphanies that had a large impact on my relationship with my self-image. I realized the things I wanted to change about myself were truly immutable-- being taller, more willowy, rather than short and small. I was also enmeshed in a much more diverse community, and thus felt more normal and less like an “other” since I was finally among other Asians. In the past I had typically compared my physical appearance to those of my white peers, something I now see to be so erroneous it is almost laughable, being Chinese and all. Nevertheless, surrounded by white people in daily life and mass media, and incognizant of the source of my feelings of inadequacy, how was I to know the error in my ways, never mind the solutions to my problems?

At Wesleyan, I compare myself to others much less. Some days I will dress painfully preppy, but most days I will be wearing sweatpants. I still love makeup and fashion, but I do not prioritize them above other time-consuming activities in my life. Sleep, classes, food, all types of other commitments-- they come first. When I do indulge and choose to wear makeup or a specific outfit, it is not to impress anyone else except myself. I do not wear makeup to cover up my flaws, but to convey a certain demeanor or look-- and it is not always “pretty.” Surprisingly, that is how I have felt since late high school, just a couple of years after I bought my first piece of makeup out of insecurity. I can remember many other girls who wore heavy concealer or foundation because they were self-conscious about their skin, whereas I would just apply eyeshadow, nothing else, (a large faux pas!) because it was the most fun part of makeup for me.

Makeup, along with other appearance-related industries, may have started as profiting off of women’s insecurities perpetuated by the beauty myth, and no doubt still continue to, but times have changed. The problematic part to me is when people make snap judgments about those who are obsessed or completely disinterested in makeup, fashion, etc. If you wear makeup, you are fake. If you do not wear makeup, you are clueless and naive. If you wear sweatpants, you are gross and lazy. If you wear a dress and heels, you are overcompensating. Whether you choose to partake or not, you can not win. The beauty myth forces you into a cage so that the people in power maintain their control by perpetuating feelings of worthlessness.

Thus, by discovering the intentions behind the choices made in relation to one’s appearance, only then can the ill effects of the beauty myth can be accurately diagnosed. Otherwise, I see these things like clothes, makeup, accessories, as neutral. I love wearing intense makeup that the men in my life think is “too much” or “intense.” Wearing a green highlighter or a deep grey lipstick does not inherently convey that I have been brainwashed by the patriarchy or am complicit with its actions. I am happy to say that my mindset surrounding makeup now is a lot different than it was when I first purchased eyeliner.

That is not to say that the problem does not still exist. The patriarchy is ubiquitous, and the beauty myth is still in full force. There is hope, however, because women are starting to reclaim their image. Women are broadcasting their cellulite, posting pictures of their bloated stomachs, calling out when they have been photoshopped with or without their consent, making satirical video tutorials on how to apply makeup to impress a man. They are certainly being punished as well as praised for taking these actions, but what I see is the promise in the very existence of these occurrences. Women are not allowing themselves be so confined anymore. Hopefully others will realize that by partaking in a movement that demystifies the beauty myth and promotes the experience of the common, “flawed,” women, solidarity and power against the patriarchy can be achieved.

[nathalieofearth]

Chapter 3: The Start of Self Destruction.

During the early days, I remember getting to know him. I first met him one fateful day at TGI Fridays. Yeah, not incredibly romantic, but of all the times, I was dating Odin for a little while now and this was one of the first times we hung out with our mutual friends as a couple. I had not met Sir Lancelot yet but when I finally sat down at a large table, he happened to sit next to me that night. We were introduced and conversed the whole evening, laughing and having a great night with what seemed like just the two of us. Now, it may have been that Odin was too excited to have friends to talk to about his video games but in this brief evening, it seemed that the world revolved around us, and I knew that this would be the beginning of something new.

Over the next few times we hung out, I got to know Sir Lancelot better. It seemed that he was in and out of relationships quite often, but he certainly was a charmer. One evening while out at a bar, Sir Lancelot kept me company the whole night while Odin was off getting drunk. He didn’t seem to notice that Sir Lancelot never left my side that night. However, he must have noticed the sadness my eyes gave away. I could feel his intense gaze look into my soul like it was piercing the walls and chains I had built and saw my naked, true self. I noticed that in this one moment, the whole world silenced for a minute, and it became another deeply intimate moment in a crowd of belligerents and strangers.

It’s strange, isn’t it? During these months, I felt so sure and secure in my relationship with Odin that it didn’t occur to me that I might have gained feelings for Sir Lancelot. I kept thinking that I was dreaming that Sir Lancelot would really care about my happiness. I was happy, wasn’t I? Odin was taking care of me, providing me with a place to live, placing food on the table and making sure I was doing everything I could to get a job. However, during these trying months, I was unemployed and was still awaiting my fate to go back to school. So basically, I had nothing to do in my little prison. I was bored and didn’t have much money to go out. In these times, it felt like Sir Lancelot was a breath of fresh air, a reprieve of my loneliness, and even more so, someone willing to listen to my stories. It began innocently enough, until that one fateful night I decided to act on my inhibitions. The fire inside me was building and I needed a release, a way to let my passions come crashing through, unbridled and fierce. I was willing to risk everything on this chance that Sir Lancelot might feel the same way. But instead of that moment being as satisfying as it should have been, I felt even more scarce, yearning for water in a boundless desert.

The kiss didn’t leave my lips for days. I would rub gently against it and close my eyes, wondering if that would be the last day I would ever get to kiss those lips again. When I went to sleep at night, I would be standing in front of that hotel door, looking up at his intense gaze and still not trying to look at his shirtless torso. I was becoming desperate for his touch again, or anything to get closer to him.

I am left with a sense of wanting I haven’t felt for a long time. How do I handle it? What can I do, especially me being in a relationship with Odin at this point for almost 8 months? I feel that maybe it’s an infatuation, a simple crush, that maybe what I really yearn for is attention. Or maybe, just maybe, it could be a soul-crushing feeling that I wasn’t happy in my situation. It’s been almost 8 months since my last job too, so things weren’t really looking up at this point. Could this really be fair to any one of these guys? I find myself unsure and trying to find a starting point of when I started feeling this way. It began at some point in the previous year, when I was still between my feelings for Odin and Quetzalcoatl. But only now, after this incident, I feel that this only serves to torture me, to continue to question my loyalty to Odin and of course, my sanity. This lustful, yearning wanting of a man I cannot have, who almost certainly does not want a relationship with me, and me, in an unhappy situation and with a man who does not appreciate what he has. Yet, the irony is that I don’t seem to being happier when I’m single; I like being in relationship, being loved and wanted. Or could it be as simple as that I just don’t know what I want: the struggle of any woman trying to find her place in the world.

Also, it could be that I don’t like being committed in a relationship. After all, I’ve been in and out of relationships since I started dating and I’ve never had a serious relationship like the one I currently have with Odin. Maybe this crush could be what I need to take the edge off my life, something that could have the potential to make me happy, however brief. Could the start of this be the end of me, the end of everything I know about myself? It sure seems like a dark path to take, betraying the love and trust of a man who does love me, albeit in his own way. This also has the potential to change me for the better, regardless of how self-destructive it could be.

From what I’ve seen, Sir Lancelot does like the attention, and there could be an attraction to me. What does he see when his intense eyes fall on me? That will always be on my mind. I mean, after all, Sir Lancelot is an old friend of Odin, and his loyalty could be to him and not towards me. There’s always been hints or comments made to me in the past where I’ve questioned his intentions towards me. He could have just made these general comments about what he likes in women, but oddly enough, he would always mention them when I was around. It could just be a mere coincidence, or me just taking things out of context, like I always do. But I would always “poke the bear,” so to speak, as I would usually reply with a provocative response or make flirtatious comments towards him. One particular time he flat out told me how sexy it was for a woman to be dominant, like a femme fatale. This brought about the idea of mine of to research everything I knew about femme fatales, yet I already knew that the way my confidence oozed out of me made me at least somewhat attractive to him.

In many ways, even after knowing him for a while and dating other men, I never have lost my attraction towards him. I’ve always felt that I was never really a woman he would be with because I had seen him with different girls and the key word here is girls. I was a woman in my own right and he chose little girls that were immature, full of insecurities and a demure appearance. In essence, these girls were nothing like me. Granted, I’m biased and I could quite possibly fit the description, but the fire burning within my soul, this long revered self-confidence and the embodiment of perseverance cannot match with girls still trying to grow into their own being, when I had long since conquered who I was and was proud to show everyone my being.

I grew anxious at the thought that he might somehow want to be with me. I built him up inside my head to be this perfect knight, when the reality was; he was full of flaws and insecurities himself. I could see them, see the core of his soul, barred naked whenever we would talk and to me, as time passed, he was nothing like I pictured him to be. At this point, my devotion as a faithful and loving girlfriend was the only thing I could hold on to, but I felt like a bird caged, longing to be free from Odin’s dependence. I saw all the choices I had in front of me like a hand of cards and Odin held the Ace. However, I promised myself that if Sir Lancelot would grant me some form of happiness, I would relinquish my Queen to him. In other words, I would let him hold my heart to safeguard. I would love him in my own way, just as he would love me, if he were to have me.

Around this time as well I faced other problems, mostly because I haunted by my past decisions of dating in the same circle of friends. Link, Odin, Sir Lancelot and Quetzalcoatl were all mutual friends and I could walk into any room they were in and know what they looked like naked. It brought both a sense of amusement and embarrassment every time we hung out together. But as a female knowing each one of them has had a little piece of my heart, it brought about a sadness that made me wonder, which one of them was the one that had the real piece to shape and heal my heart. I began feeling guilty that I had lingering thoughts about other men but at the same time, it brought me a sense of serenity knowing that I had made these past decisions and the wonder of possibilities ahead, which one of these men could bring me the longing of peace within my soul. No matter how you looked at it from the outside, I looked like the woman who played with men heart’s like toys, and just like Hester Prynne, I carried the adulterous “A” in a metaphorical sense across my chest. This heavy burden only brought me a deep, crushing loneliness in my soul that no man could bring me from.

The lingering thoughts of Sir Lancelot ran across my mind for weeks after that first kiss. I felt like I was on a euphoric cloud that no one could take me from. I carried that brief, intimate moment from the minute I woke up to the minute I went to sleep with my dreams. I would rub my lips every time I thought about it. I became obsessed with a kiss that serves only as a gentle reminder of the passion that I truly longed for in my heart. The thing I should have been more concerned with was a fiery passion that one should be careful with in order to avoid getting burned.

I finally got my chance to see Sir Lancelot again when a mutual friend of ours, Link, invited me to his house to hang out after picking him up from work. It is late June and there’s a storm coming, bad enough to make anyone stay at home. I thought it would just be a casual hangout, but as soon as I arrived, Sir Lancelot came over. I tried to act naturally, but inside, I was bursting with excitement. The pulse of my heart grew faster as the distance between us faded. My face lit up with energy and it spread around the room like a plague. Link, Sir Lancelot and I soon became enemies as we played on the video game console. We took turns, switching out controllers when the player lost. Eventually, Link became tired from working all day and decided to take a nap. Sir Lancelot and I had a moment alone and I couldn’t find any words to say to him. You could feel the tension in the room and cut it with a knife. But with his natural charm, he had me talking about everything and catching up with each other and by the time we had to say our goodbyes, I found it difficult to leave. Yet, I could not bear leaving things as they were, much less walk away from him without somehow getting near those lips again. Time became irrelevant and I was determined to get his kiss again. I lingered for as long as I could, Sir Lancelot giving no indication that he wanted me to stay or leave. So I finally mustered defeat, said goodbye and walked away…a heart-drenched goodbye that hurt in every physical and mental way. As I drive away, the more I dreaded in thinking that kiss was a solitary one and decided to give up my pursuit of Sir Lancelot.

On my drive home, not even five minutes after I had left, I decide to call him and let Sir Lancelot know how I really feel about him. Everything that had been boiling inside me was let out. He revealed his mutual feelings, much to my surprise and we agreed to meet up at fast-food restaurant, which was the half way between our two houses. He speaks hurriedly and out of breath, as if time is of the essence. From the manner that he spoke to me, it gave me a slight chance to hope that there could be something to his feelings towards me. When I arrived, he was already waiting. He rolls down the window and asks me to go in his car. I jump in the passenger seat and we try light conversation, like what voice actors we liked and my tattoos, to try to maintain some sense of sanity between us, since insanity seemed like the only thing to call this meet-up. He lingers now, asking me if I could stay a little longer. I curiously ask why and wait for his explanation. He said he wanted to kiss me, and for a moment, I thought I was dreaming. Would he really just say that to me after all this time, after fantasizing of this moment for so long? But my body responded for me, gesturing with my hands what he was waiting for to make his move.

But for a full minute, I realized I wasn’t imagining things. I’m sitting next to him, and before I could say anything else, he lets go of his self-control and lets his mouth do the talking. He kissed me, hard, as if he couldn’t hold back any longer. I didn’t mind it and let go of all my inhibitions. I kissed him back, holding him warmly and close to me as if I were to never let go. He’s holding me by my back and pushing me towards him. He goes for my neck and moves up and down my body, as if exploring every inch of it with his mouth. The intensity of the kiss is only heightened as my body yearns for some form of release from this madness and I breathe out a little yelp and try to focus on the moment. My mind was soaring but the underlying guilt of it all wrenched through me, eating away at my happiness. This brief moment becomes clear to me as he satisfies me with his comfort and his embrace. It’s become a feeling of oneness and desire of not being alone. He kisses me with hunger, as if he needs me and my body reciprocates by letting it do the talking. I become overwhelmed with emotions that I came close to getting an orgasm, so I push him away from me so I can grab a breath of fresh air.

The windows have become foggy from the exhaling of our breaths, but I grab him and push him towards me again so I didn’t have to go back to the reality that faced me. My legs become numb at this point, and all I could feel is the center of my being increasing with every pulse, as if his kissing would release everything I was holding back. We become intertwined within each other and I just wanted to scream because I wanted more. I scratch his back, give him kisses between his face and ears, and he squeezes me even more tightly as if he had become the corset wrapping my body. His moans give off a sense of pleasure and my body becomes even more lustful to the point where my body just breaks down and softly my voice comes back to me and tells him to please stop.

He pulls away from me immediately. We stop and I close my eyes and put my hands behind my neck. I’m trying to take in everything about this moment. I sit there, awkwardly, unsure of how to respond. He speaks however, and it breaks the tension of the atmosphere. He tells me how soft my skin is, which is something I wasn’t expecting, that makes me blush and make me look even more flushed. My gaze couldn’t even meet his; almost as if I was too embarrassed to respond or maybe he would notice the way I was really feeling at this moment. I start looking outward thinking about the kiss we just shared.

It was just as intense as the first kiss went, and in all the ways that connected us even closer. It was this intimate moment that lasted forever, but when I checked the clock for a moment to breathe, only 30 minutes had passed. We share even more intimate secrets, but somehow it felt like they were more stories to help give us more reasons to bond.

I once again give in and he continues to kiss me, not as passionately, but as simple gestures, keeping me close to him. He briefly hesitates and tells me I’m perfect, and it’s as if new life has reawakened me. He softly checks my skin to make sure there was no mark left on it and I’m not sure if he could see just how flushed I really looked. I ran out of time and could no longer stay. I begin to get anxious at leaving his side. He smiles gently and tells me he’ll sleep soundly tonight and make plans to meet again soon. There’s a need to reassure ourselves again that it will be kept secret and discreet. I kiss him one brief and final time; giving him the assurance that what happens between us will stay between us. I bid him good night and goodbye. And the silence that followed from that point until I arrived home became one of the scariest things of my life. I sat there, evaluating all my choices ahead of me and only one thing became certain: whatever happens next in my life, good, bad, beautiful, horrifying, anything, I want him to be a part of it. But the question is, what happens next?

[flauntpage]

Tactical Guide to Machida vs. Anders

During the early days of PRIDE FC’s Bushido brand they themed events around the two sides of the card. You had Japan vs. Brazil, Japan vs. Gracies, Chute Boxe vs. Brazilian Top Team and the like. If you look at the poster for this weekend’s UFC Fight Night in Belem, Brazil, you could be forgiven for thinking that the UFC had adopted the theme of “Team Established Names vs Team Who?”

The stand out odd match on this card is Valentina Shevchenko vs. Priscila Cachoeira. Cachoeira looks out of place partly because she is the only person on the poster without a glossy official UFC head shot, but perhaps the MMA fan will look at this poster and concede that they don't know much about the women’s weightclasses outside of the UFC and that maybe Cachoeira is good enough to debut against Shevchenko. In one sense they would be right—Tapology ranks her as the No. 30 flyweight in the world. FightMatrix has her all the way up at number nine! But then her only viewable fights are grainy recordings from regional events on Youtube… and they aren’t impressive. Pushing forward with her chin up in the air, Cachoeira takes as many punches as she throws and looks exhausted from the third minute onwards. Putting her in with a fighter like Shevchenko—a counter puncher to the point of paralysis if her opponent doesn’t lead—seems like a blatant tune up.

Hands down, head stationary until it is pulled straight back at the sight of a jab, swinging from the knees, eating counters and already breathing hard a minute into round 1? Probably a good match up for a well conditioned counter striker like Shevchenko.

But on the other extreme of that equation is the main event between Lyoto Machida and Eryk Anders. The double edged sword of name value is that when you get old, the UFC will use you to headline events in your home country but for the most part they won’t pitch you softballs. This leads to an awkward silence and a rapid evacuation of the stadium the moment that Mauricio Rua or Vitor Belfort gets starched in the main event. Belem is the Brazilian Lyoto Machida’s hometown and as such he is the star of the show, but Eryk Anders—despite being largely unknown amongst the less hardcore viewership—is a tough test for the old dragon.

Machida’s trials are well known by now. He was an undersized marvel at 205 lbs., relying on his minimalist counter striking game and frustrating opponents into overcommitting and stepping onto his reverse punches. He moved down to middleweight and became more active on offense— scoring a couple of sensational knockouts with his sharpshooting kicking game at range. Machida gave us one of the most compelling middleweight title fights in history in his barnburner with Chris Weidman, but was ultimately unable to win his second UFC belt. Suffering devastating losses to Luke Rockhold and Yoel Romero, Machida was forced out for two years after alerting USADA to his use of a dietary supplement which it turned out was on their ban list. Upon his return to the UFC in October of 2017, Machida was matched against Derek Brunson. The most cautious striker in the UFC was quickly knocked out by the most reckless striker in the UFC and everyone was left hoping that Machida would retire.

Eryk Anders is a peculiarity in MMA. A promising college football player making the switch to fighting, he spent a whole lot of time and effort fighting just for the sake of fighting after he gave up the hand-egg. He has only ten professional fights to his name, but Anders took over twenty amateur fights before he even began drawing a professional paycheck. That is a deceptively large amount of in ring experience for an up-and-comer.

After the briefest of stints in Bellator—he knocked out his only opponent in twenty-three seconds—Anders moved on to LFA. On June 23, 2017 he won their middleweight title and less than thirty days later he was in the UFC. Still sore from a twenty-five minute fight, Anders looked a little softer around the edges. Anders fought on the counter—attempting to time Rafael Natal with counter left straights.

Herding Natal into the cage, Anders feinted his way in on the quickly tiring veteran before knocking him stiff with a couple of left straights.

Five months later, Anders returned to the UFC to take on Markus Perez. Between his ponytail and his desire to throw jump spinning kicks any time Anders got close enough, Perez seemed to be fighting out of a different era. Clean shaven and considerably trimmer, Anders looked better than ever as he cut the cage on Perez and applied constant pressure. Perez spun often, missed, and wound up against the cage. In the first round it was enough for Anders to force clinches and make Perez work. By the second round Perez was more static and each time he stood still by the fence, Anders would crack him with a couple of punches and tie up again.

In the third round Perez was desperate and kept shooting takedowns which Anders sprawled on effortlessly, using the quarter nelson and lining up hard elbows and knees off it.

The quarter nelson in action.

Hypothetical Gameplans

While Eryk Anders has shown himself to be wild at times—he tends to run for that extra swing when he has his man off balance or just escaping off the fence—he doesn’t normally burst into a sprint and run straight for his man off the bat as Derek Brunson does. In fact, watching Anders fight he does seem very much like Derek Brunson if Derek Brunson had a fight IQ and some regard for his own safety. On one hand, drawing the charge for the counter gyaku-zuki will probably be tougher. On the other hand, at least he isn’t going to sprint forward and catch Machida cold.

For Machida, this writer recommends exactly the same thing he did for the Brunson fight. Switch stances to orthodox and keep the open guard dynamic. Closed guard (southpaw vs southpaw) exchanges do not favor Machida because he drops his lead hand to his hip like a traditional karateka every time he punches. He’s rarely the bigger hitter and he can’t take a shot like he used to, so against fellow southpaws he can eat left hands and get himself hurt. It’s far, far too late for him to learn how to box and it will continue to cost him, but by changing stances to remain in open guard he can hide most of those flaws.

Throw straight, drop hand, eat counter.

Machida’s willingness to change stances also helps him against good ring cutters, and against Weidman he showed excellent awareness of his ring position, changing direction multiple times and faking escapes along the fence in an attempt to get Weidman overcommitted in one direction. We discussed this at length in Ringcraft: The Fall of Ronda Rousey.

It will be interesting to see if Machida can use direction changes to stay off the fence against Anders. Anders has done well pressuring opponents to the fence and teeing off on them when they stop moving—good misdirection and ring awareness can make that a lot trickier. Anders is also a little one-handed in his herding—looking for the left hand constantly and often allowing the opponent to circle away from it freely as he throws it.

Lovely follow up though.

An especially important point for Machida to keep in mind is Anders’s defensive position with that rear hand. Watching his fights with Natal and Perez you will notice that it is awkwardly close to his chin and body. When opponents have thrown body kicks into that open side he has looked especially uncomfortable and over-reacted. If Machida fights orthodox he will be kicking with his less dextrous leg but he should be able to snipe with his round kicks and knees between Anders’s advances.

Luckily Perez was not a particularly smart fighter.

The way that Anders squirms and crunches his body over in reaction to any body kick he takes, and the fact that he holds his left fist almost flush against his chin throughout the fight, means that there is also a great chance of a classic Machida high kick if he can stay off the fence and set the trap with a couple of body kicks.

For Anders, his usual pressure might be a good look, provided he doesn’t get out of his stance or start throwing wild. Low kicks have always been a great tactic against Machida and The Dragon doesn’t often lash out off the fence so Anders can probably take his time. Keeping Machida near the fence so that he must keep moving laterally will also shorten his stance and keep his feet moving—taking away those telegraph free kicks.

Chris Weidman did a great job of making Machida burn energy by staying on him along the fence and simply letting him try to dance his way out. Weidman’s feints also did more in that fight—in moving Machida to the fence and making him second guess his usual counter opportunities—and Anders has also shown that he understands the value of feinting his way in slowly along the fence. That was how he laid out Natal and clipped off nice combinations on Perez.

Much of Machida’s takedown defense has been done with his feet, but by bringing the fight towards the fence and ducking in for Machida’s hips, Anders could force Machida to fight off the takedown with his hips and hands. Anders did a great job against Perez of working up and down, coming up with strikes off of takedown attempts when he met resistance. Reaching for a single and coming up with strikes along the fence could be a tremendous way to hurt Machida as both his hands and feet would be out of his usual striking position.

As Lyoto Machida is the writer’s favorite fighter, it is getting a little hard to watch him get in the cage with young, well equipped fighters and get beaten up. But with what Anders has been able to show so far ,a victory over Machida would do wonders to get eyes on him and could lead to his arrival as a much-needed young(ish) contender in the aging middleweight top ten. And of course, there is always the chance that Machida can do something magical...

Jack wrote the hit biography Notorious: The Life and Fights of Conor McGregor and scouts prospects at The Fight Primer.

Tactical Guide to Machida vs. Anders published first on https://footballhighlightseurope.tumblr.com/