#it's like a footballer rammed straight into my back and stood on top of my crumpled body for good measure ; ; | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

tears0fsatan · 2 years

Note

For your event could you do "I can't stop thinking about you" and "I'm gonna make you scream my name" with bottom Beelzebub x male reader? Maybe a oneshot or a drabble?

𖥻 characters... beelzebub x m!reader

𖥻 genre... nsfw oneshot

𖥻 warnings... nsfw!! minors, ageless blogs and fem aligned will be blocked, amab!reader, soft dom top!reader, bottom!beelzebub, established relationship, mainly making out!, dirty talking, bit of begging?, implied size difference [ur bigger], a lot of praise hehe, d-dry h-h-humping..., mating press lol

𖥻 a.n... kinda in awe at how u two managed to request the same thing 😭😭 IT'S SO PERFECT???? n thank u for the support honeys!!! wouldn't be here if it weren't for u darlings ૮Ꮚ ´͈ ⁄ ⁄ '͈꒱Ა i mention beel playing fangol but im not american n i dont understand how american football works! so if its wrong idc my version's better.

🌐 % 3V3NT H3R3 @ __★

beads of sweat rolled down the avatar of gluttony's face, the students watching the tense game of fangol cheer him on, though he had long tuned them out.

he forced himself to focus on the game and the game alone, urged on by the brief glimpse of you from the edge of his peripheral vision. he blocked out all possible distractors, even his hunger subsided in order to keep his eyes trained on the oval ball.

he rammed into blurry, indiscernible 'walls' and jumped at the first opening he got to steal the ball. he clutched the growling ball tightly against his chest, regardless of how much it drooled and snarled in his arms. beelzebub ran to the opposite side of the field, knocking down those who dared cross his path with ease.

throughout the game, the demon would continuously score points for his team, which lead to their victory. by the end of the game, the opposing team simply collapsed on the field, out of exhaustion and realisation that the demon lord was far too out of their league. the demon lord stood in line with his team though his eyes were too busy scanning the crowd to find you.

once he found you, the biggest grin spread across his face. it was as though all the fatigue left his body, he jumped up and down excitedly, arms waving around despite his sore muscles screaming against it. beelzebub felt refreshed when you grinned back at him, relieved at the thumbs up you gave him.

he ignored his fellow teammates as they congratulated him on another win, their words going through one ear and out the other and beelined straight for the locker room. as he showered, the hunger he had put aside to put everything into the match came back at full force, which unfortunately slowed him down.

he nearly doubled down from the wave of pure gluttony that hit him at full force, he could feel himself lose control, he was on the brink of going into his demon form. still, he managed to hold on to his last thread of control and quickly rinsed off the sweat that coated his skin. he clumsily tied his towel around his waist and staggered to the lockers, desperate to get to the stash of food he kept for moments like this.

you had waited until all his teammates had exited the locker room before sneaking in. it didn't take you long to find the shirtless demon, water droplets rolling down his toned back. you quickly pulled out a bag full of his favourite pastries from your schoolbag, rushing over to deliver it to him.

"good job out there, sweetheart." despite knowing you yourself would get wet, your arms wrapped themselves around his waist and you buried your face into the juncture between his neck and shoulder. you made a show of rattling the bag filled with goodies and he wasted no time in tearing it apart and shoving his face full of food.

"mmm mmf." you chuckled at the muffled thanks, understanding what he was trying to convey and let him finish the bag of food before pulling out another one you kept hidden. beelzebub took the bag with less urgency than before, and turned around to face you.

he looked at you with what you could only describe as puppy dog eyes, gratitude overflowing from his gaze alone. you moved your arms that were resting loosely on his waist to both sides of his head, pressing him against the cool metal of the lockers.

"you looked so cool before, beel." you continued to praise him which earned you a wide smile with his cheeks filled with food that reminded you of a hamster.

he quickly emptied the bag without much difficulty and asked, "really?" you smiled and nodded your head enthusiastically, leaning down ever so slightly to press a chaste kiss on his crumb-covered lips.

it wasn't long before the sweet and sugary kiss turned into something a bit more feverish and heady. you felt something brush against your back before the demon's hands held onto your shoulders. his fingers dug into your muscles and you knew there would be bruises from how hard he was holding onto you.

you only pulled apart when you ran out of breath, beelzebub chased after your lips, looking up at you with hazy, half-lidded eyes that screamed 'want more!'. you wasted no time in showing his neck some love, licking at the water droplets that made their way down the thin column. beelzebub craned his neck upwards so you could have better access and you rewarded him by sucking on the skin, leaving a dark bruise on the otherwise unmarked skin.

the demon keened at your actions, his hips subconsciously grinding against yours. his pants were rushed yet quiet, his eyes squeezed shut and his bottom lip caught between his teeth. you had to pull away now before things got too heated.

"i can't stop thinking about you," you nosed his neck, "i was holding back since i wanted to go easy on you but then i saw you at the game," you paused, lifting your head from his shoulder, "fuck, you looked so good i nearly jumped down onto the field and took you there and then." the flush that stemmed from the tips of his ears slowly made their way down his neck, and you smiled against the now rosy skin.

you straightened yourself and gently cupped beelzebub's face. his face was turned away from you and that just wouldn't do. your thumbs lightly stroked his cheeks until his eyelids fluttered open.

"when you get back home... come to my room immediately." you leaned down to whisper in his ear, "i'm gonna make you scream my name, peach." you gave him one last peck before walking off, throwing him a wink on your way out.

beelzebub stood there for a moment before his knees buckled below him. his hands flew to his face to cover up his reddening face despite the fact that he was alone in the locker room. his pupils shook and his lips quivered, he had never felt that flustered before and he wasn't sure how to deal with it.

he rushed to clothe himself and leave with a newfound urgency, eager to get back home and have you take care of him.

beelzebub stood in front of your door nervously, shifting his weight from one leg to another. he had contemplated knocking on your door for a while now, but he couldn't find it in himself to go through with his thoughts. almost like you could sense him, the door in front of him suddenly opened.

you smiled, delighted at the demon's obedience. you quickly took a hold of his wrist and pulled him into your room, shutting the door roughly behind him before he could even greet you.

you pushed him against your door, taking pride in his shocked expression. you pressed your body against his, nuzzling your face into the juncture where his neck and collarbone met, letting him feel just how excited he made you. you heard a small, quiet gasp from above your head and felt his heart race.

he was frozen for a minute, unsure of where to put his hands and where to look. you encouraged him with a kiss on his clavicle before moving to lick the mark from earlier, which seemed to snap him out of his short lived reverie. his hands shakily held onto your shoulders, before hesitantly wrapping them around your neck.

"do you know how crazy you make me?" you muttered half-heartedly into his skin, not really expecting him to hear you. though from the way his cock twitched against your own, it seemed he had picked it up. you continued to nibble along his collarbone while one of your hands moved to hold his waist, bringing it impossibly closer.

he rolled his hips, which made you detach yourself from his skin and the two of you groaned simultaneously. beelzebub immediately clamped his hand down on his mouth, eyes wide and welling up with tears while the flush on his face spread farther down his body.

you lifted one of his thighs and held it close to your hip, bucking your hips against his. the avatar of gluttony let out a sharp gasp while you let out a shuddered breath. you did it once more, panting into his neck as a shiver went down your spine.

above your head, you could hear beelzebub trying his hardest to suppress the noises that threatened to spill past his lips. the demon fed into your intoxicating temptations, grinding against your erection in response to your kisses.

his movements were urgent and desperate, he couldn't seem to get enough of you. you took notice of this, how he was trying to take control of the situation and flip the dynamic between the two of you. you hummed against his skin, using the hand that was holding onto his thigh to squeeze his ass.

he loudly gasped, dropping the hand that was muffling his voice out of shock and you took that opportunity to pull him towards your bed. you pushed him down onto the soft mattress, holding back your chuckle at the way his body bounced and the innocent surprised look he gave you.

you were quick in straddling him, using the fact that he was sat upright to take his shirt off. you kissed him before he got the chance to cover his face again, your hands caressing and massaging his upper body. you grinded down on his clothed cock, swallowing down his whines at the gesture.

you use the moment you ran out of breath to push him down, taking a couple of deep breaths to drink up his appearance. his orange hair, still slightly damp from his shower earlier, splayed across your pillows that gave him a halo effect, the flush that started from the tips of his ears and traveled down to his navel, his half-lidded eyes that appeared to be glazed over, everything about him was simply breathtaking.

you must've been staring him for too long, as the hand from earlier slowly made it's way back up to cover the lower half of his face and his eyes averted your greedy stare.

you pouted while your hands teased his chest, massaging the firm muscles he worked tirelessly to achieve. his eyes would occasionally glance back at you, only to look away when he saw your pout. he brought his other arm up as well, trying to shield himself away from your shameless non-verbal begging.

"c'mon baby, don't be like that. let me see your face, hm?" you gently tried coaxing him to move his arms away from his face, peppering kisses on his jaw. beelzebub keened and shook his head, the blush that peeked through seemingly growing darker at the praise.

"awh, won't you let me, peach?" you quietly mumbled into his ear, moving down to leave marks on his unmarked neck. he whined once more, back arching into your chest at the pet name. the demon was slow to move his arms away from his face, embarrassment slowly crumbling down at your gentle touches.

your hands inched closer to his erection and you had to restrain yourself from cooing at the wet spot on his shorts. you palmed him through the material of his shorts in a way you knew would get him squirming.

his hips bucked into your touch, his body more honest than his words. his cock ached to feel the warmth of your hand without his boxers and shorts getting in the way, yet he couldn't find it in himself to tell you verbally.

you sat upright to look at him properly once more, "can i take this off, honey? you have to tell me or i won't do it."

the demon glances at you before turning away, for a second you're worried that he won't say anything until you hear, "please," his hands hid his face once more, "please take them off, mc." he pleads, voice hoarse from suppressing his groans.

his begging left you flustered, you weren't expecting him to reply so eagerly. his cock twitches in your light grasp, which snaps you out of your dazed state. you bit your bottom lip with a new found thirst, raising your knee to sit by his side while you pulled off his shorts.

his cock sprung up after being released from the tight constraint, precum dribbling out of the tip at the sudden exposure to the cool air. you reached over to grab the lube you had conveniently placed by the bed earlier that night and turned back to the demon before you.

you could see him peeking from behind his hand when he felt you bending his knees, curious as to what your next move would be. you kissed his knee while squeezing lube onto your fingers, "just relax, sweetheart. i'll take good care of you."

a single digit slowly sinked into his tight hole and you made sure to mumble praises to help beelzebub loosen up. he's still tense, but you don't comment on it, instead focusing on pumping your finger in and out of him at a calm and steady pace to begin with, his panting picking up the more you worked him open.

you could hear the soft grunts that slipped past his lips and decided it was time to add another digit. you watched on with amusement at the way his body squirmed around at the feeling, drawing out whines and whimpers that he tried hard to stifle.

his thighs press together and you tut, using your free hand to pry his legs apart. even though he was hardly putting any strength into keeping his legs closed, it was hard to forcefully keep them apart.

"mmm, mc, m-more, nng!" his voice cracks, voice heavy with lust and need. you soothe him with a 'shh' while your free hand massages his thick thighs. despite his protests, you continue to finger him, only pulling your slick fingers out after grazing his sweet spot.

beelzebub gasps, eyes shooting open at the short lived pleasure that shot up his spine. you see his hole clench around nothing and you see him staring at you, waiting patiently for you.

you give yourself a few quick pumps before lining up to his hole. you use his knees as a leverage to push yourself in, your hands caressing his skin to help ease him.

"relax, peach, you're- fuck, too tense." you curse under your breath, your cock sinks in at an agonising speed, you have to dig your nails into your palm to stop yourself from just ramming into him. the both of your groan in unison when you finally bottom out, you let him relax and get used to your cock before you shift positions.

you bend his knees into his chest and grab a hold of both of his wrists with one hand while the other presses down on his thigh. as you set a brutal pace, you also grab a hold of both of his wrists and pin it to the space above his head. you can see that he's stunned but one sharp thrust and his eyes are squeezed shut and his hands jerk in your grasp.

a loud cry rips from his throat followed by a series of high pitched whimpers, his body contorts underneath you, like it's not sure if it wants to get away from you or if it craves more of your touch. you smile and lean down to peck his trembling lips, pressing your body impossibly closer to his.

his arms struggle in your hold, desperate to escape and cling onto you but you didn't ease up. instead, you use the hand that clenched his thigh to stroke his twitching cock. precum had pooled on his stomach from the lack of attention, and you can't help but let out a breathy chuckle at the sight of it.

"you leaked so much, sweetheart... are you feeling that good, hm?" you ask in amazement, swiping your tongue across your bottom lip when beelzebub just eagerly nods in response.

his head further into the pillows, his back arching so high off the bed that his knees press into your chest. his mouth is hung open and he's mumbling something, you can barely make out the words he mutters like a mantra.

"mc, mc, mc, more, mc..." your grin is proof enough of how proud you are with yourself. you look down at the demon who can hardly keep his eyes open, though it wasn't exactly as you promised, you had achieved your goal. the night was young, you had more than enough time to draw out his screams.

with your rough thrusts and the relentless teasing of his sensitive cock, it doesn't take long for the demon's orgasm to build up. you take note of the way his thighs and hands tense up, gritting your teeth when he clenches down hard on your cock.

beelzebub cums with a long groan, his nails leaving crescent shaped indents in his palms from how much he strained against your hold. you stay still while he catches his breath and you release the hold you have on his wrists to wipe away the tears that trickle down his face.

you lean down to kiss him, smirking against his lips when he lets out a confused whine when you roll your hips once more.

"oh i'm nowhere near done with you, honey. didn't i tell you? i'm gonna make you scream my name until the only thing on your mind is me, got it?"

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desiraypark · 4 years

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First of all, congrats on 200 sweetheart!! You deserve it so much! So, the request: Flip x Mae. Make up sex. That's it. These two are like fire and gasoline and I love them so much ❤️

Thank you so much!!! :) This was longer than it was supposed to be omg, lol. Content: Couple’s spat; smut is all the way at the end lmao (unprotected) and it’s more of a quickie, I hope this is okay! Okay, so this takes place within about a year (maybe two) of Flip x Mae officially being a couple. Where do they live? I don’t know. Or do I...

Mae was curled up in a tight ball, as far away from Flip as possible. She stirred and her eyes fluttered open at the feeling of fingers near her elbow and lips on her shoulder. She groaned and tried to scoot away, but her body was too heavy with sleep. “Good morning...” he said. Mae pulled the blanket up over her arm and Flip avoided being smacked in the face with the material. He chuckled and kissed Mae on the cheek. “I’m sorry, babe...” He rested his cheek against hers. “Mm-hmm...” she mumbled. “I am...” “How do I make it up to you?” he asked. ____________________ The Night Before Every tenant’s cooking smacked Flip in the face as he walked through the apartment building. But he knew Mae’s cooking. She definitely had them beat. He dragged his aching feet up the steps to apartment D, where he and his lady lived (“in sin” - according to Mae’s mother). He opened the door and let out a sigh of relief. “Hey, Honey,” Mae called from the kitchen. “You’re right on time.”

Flip sauntered into the kitchen and wrapped his arms around her waist. Then, he nuzzled his lips against her neck. She was pulling fried pieces of fish from a skillet.

“Long day?” she asked. “Yep,” he said. “I just wanna eat and go to bed.” “No football tonight?” Mae asked, shock in her voice. “Nope. I’m that tired, doll.” Flip gave her a peck on the cheek, walked out of the kitchen, and into their bathroom. As he stood over the toilet and relieved himself, he got a good look at their tiny bathroom--tiny in comparison to what he had in Colorado Springs and even what she had in Miami. On the right side of the sink was his shaving cream, razor, and deodorant. On the left, him and Mae’s toothbrush and toothpaste holder (with toothbrushes and toothpaste, obviously) and Mae’s Noxzema...and her Pond’s cold cream...and her Ultra Sheen conditioner...a little comb.

On top of the toilet (over the cutest crocheted toilet cover, he had to admit) sat her shampoo and conditioner, another comb, and a random makeup applicator. He couldn’t move any of the stuff either--for the bottom of the sink was damn near filled to the top with Fashion Fair cosmetics, more hair products, perfumes, and perhaps a five-year old. Who knew?

Flip sighed, shook himself dry, and washed his hands. Then, he went into the bedroom to change into some house clothes.

Mae was setting plates of food on their little table when Flip walked into the kitchen. She smiled at him as he walked over and pulled out her chair. He helped her slide in before sitting across from her. They took their first bites of dinner, and Flip finally spoke. “Babe, do you really need all that stuff you have in the bathroom. It’s getting a little cramped...” Mae raised an eyebrow. “I suppose I can get rid of a thing or two.” Flip grunted and parroted her. “A thing or two...” “Are you trying to call me messy, Flip?” she asked. “No...” he answered. “Just...our bathroom isn’t but so big. Half of that stuff you don’t even use.” Mae straightened her spine. “You don’t what I use and don’t use.” “Look, Babe, I’m not trying to start a fight,” Flip said. “It’s just when I come home and take a piss, I don’t wanna see Macy’s cosmetics counter all over the fuckin’ bathroom...” He didn’t raise his voice, but he might as well had. “Why are you cursin’ at me Phillip?” “It’s just a lot, Babe. Besides, you’re too pretty to puttin’ all that crap on--” “Unh-uh, don’t you go there with yOu’re tOo prEtty fOr mAkeUp mess, trying to soften me up,” Mae interrupted. Flip put his hands up, fork still in his right hand. “Baby, all I’m saying is you’re probably going a little overboard in the beauty sections. Sometimes I feel dirty when I walk in there, Babe.” Mae stopped eating and leaned back in her chair. “So, now I don’t clean the bathroom.” Flip rolled his eyes, dropped his fork and rubbed his temples. “Should I just drop it?” “You should.” Flip and Mae ate in silence. Mae hopped up from the table first to take her dishes to the sink. She filled the sink with soapy water, and Flip walked over with his dishes. They always washed and dried the dishes together, but Mae swiped up his silverware and snatched the plate out of his hand. “I’ve got it,” she said, dropping the utensils and plate in the water. Flip stood shocked for a few seconds, then he shook his head. He reached into the cupboard for the Pyrex. “I said, I’ve got it,” Mae repeated. “You’re gonna clean all this up by yourself?” Flip asked with a sarcastic tone. “It’s not like I did shit else today, with me being a shopaholic bitch who doesn’t keep her home,” she said. Flip shoved the Pyrex dishes back in the cupboard. “You know what. Fine with me. Good fuckin’ night.” “Good fuckin’ night to you, too,” Mae snapped back. ____________________ “How do I make it up to you?” he asked. Mae tilted her body further away from Flip, but he felt her cheeks moving. He sat up and looked down at the dent in her cheek--her chewing on the inside of her mouth, trying not to smile, he knew. He gave her face another kiss, but she turned over her stomach and buried her face in her arm. Flip ran his fingers down her back. “Mmm, giving me your ass to kiss huh?” he asked. He pulled back the blankets, climbed on top of Mae, and yanked up her nightgown. He leaned down to plant kisses on her panty-less ass. “Don’t you have a job you need to get to?” Mae asked, her voice muffled. “Gonna do this rim job first,” Flip said, spreading her cheeks. Mae squealed and squirmed under him. Flip laughed and climbed off her, letting her roll back on her back.

“You’re fucking crazy,” she said. Flip stared into her eyes, then leaned forward and kissed her. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry, too.” Mae flashed a mischievous grin and lifted her knees. “How sorry are you?”

Flip grinned and climbed between Mae’s legs. He held her knees open and without hesitation, sucked her clit into his mouth. He pulled away for a second. “I’m just gonna get you wet, and then I’m gonna give you some fuckin’ dick so I can get ready for work,” he said. Mae laughed. “Fine with me.” Flip licked and sucked Mae up, drinking every drop of juice that drizzled out of her--wetting every fold until she glistened in his view. His dick was hard in seconds. Soon, he sat up and lined up at her entrance. “Soft or rough?” he asked. “Mmm, rough. So you can get the fuck outta here,” she joked. Mid-giggle, Flip rammed into her and she yelped.

“That’s what you get, smart ass,” he said.

He stroked her velvety walls for less than a minute before he grabbed her legs, pushed them back, and rested his body over hers--slowing his pace, but slipping in deeper, and barely pulling out. “Ohhhh, fuckkkkk,” Mae groaned. “Mmmm,” Flip hummed. “Did you take your pill?” “Yes, I took my pill, Flip. Stop asking me that every time we fuck, just fuckin’ nut in me!” Flip grinned and picked up his pace. He interlocked his arms over Mae’s head and slammed his hips against her body. Her nails dug into his back, providing him with the sweet sting he needed to near his finish. He pressed into her one hard time, and filled her up with his seed, mumbling another expletive in her ear. Mae ran her fingers through his hair, letting him ride out his wave. “Alright, big boy. Get your heavy ass off me,” she finally said. Flip chuckled and sat up, but he didn’t pull out of her. He kept her legs up, kept fucking into her, and rubbed at her clit the pads of his fingers. Mae bit her lip and sat up on her elbows, jaw lax, taking in the sensations. “I’m not leaving ‘til you come,” he said. “Oh, Baby, it’s fuckin’ happening...” she mumbled, her pupils dilated and eyebrows raised. Then, her head flew back and she let out a cry straight from her gut. She came and squirted under Flip, and he kept rubbing and fucking, rubbing and fucking. When she neared the end, she started squirming away from him. “Stop, Flip!” she shouted with her face covered. He yanked himself out, leaned forward, pushed her hands away from her face and pressed them down at her sides. Then, he devoured her mouth and peppered her face with soft kisses. “I’ll miss you all day,” he said. “I’ll miss you, too,” she said back. “This was too short, I might have to finger myself when you leave.” “Nope,” Flip said, pushing her hands further into the mattress. “I missed Monday Night Football last night, I need you to make up for it.” “Me?” Mae asked. “Make a halftime show out of you playing with that pussy for me,” he said.

Mae chuckled. “I’ll see what I can do, Coach.” ____________________ Flip walked in and smelled the food from last night.

“Hey, Honey,” Mae said from the kitchen. “Hey, Babe.” He walked into the kitchen just in time to see her bent over and checking on something in the oven. He sauntered over with an opened palm.

“Don’t you do it,” she said, standing up and closing the oven again. Flip froze and laughed. “I’m just foolin’,” she said.

She walked past Flip, batted her false lashes, and looked over her shoulder. He bit his bottom lip, and his eyes traveled down to her ass. He gave it a nice little smack. They laughed and Flip pulled her in his arms and kissed her. Mae pulled away and ran her fingers through his hair. “Go on and get ready for dinner, Baby,” she said.

Flip gave her another peck on the lips and went into the bathroom. He noticed that the sink looked a little lighter--just her Noxzema and cold cream sat on her side. Nothing was on the back of the toilet. He peeked out of the bathroom, checking to see if she had a view of him, but she was must have been digging in the fridge, out of the way of his view.

He bent down and looked under the sink--probably a third of her cosmetics were gone. What was left (which was still a department counter’s worth, if you asked him), sat neatly in two little crates. Each crate had an index card taped to it that read “Mae”. On the other side were two more crates--both empty, but also had index cards taped to them. “Flip” written on both in marker.

#flip z smut #flip x mae

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maxineswritingcenter · 5 years

Text

Class Reunion -Sam x fem!Reader

Gotta give my boy Sammy some love.

Summary: Sam and Dean hit up a case in a town they lived in for Sam's senior year of high school. While on a supply run, Sam runs into reader who he dated that year. Reader invites him to the class reunion. Sam is hesitant but the case leads to the reunion. SPARKS FLY BITCHES

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It was the same old same old in the bunker. Nothing huge or apocalyptic was going on for the moment. But the cases seemed to be slim pickings. Sam was searching the world wide web for something, anything. Just as he was about to close the laptop and take a well deserved nap, a notification popped up. From the other side of the world map table, Dean looked up from his magazine and raised his eyebrows.

"I'm gonna assume that sound means a lead. Or something." He said and dropped the magazine on the table.

Sam narrowed his eyes as he read.

"What?" Dean asked as he came around to look over his brother's shoulder.

"So there have been reports of people being murdered in their homes. But there are no fingerprints, DNA or anything left at the scene. Just like the killer walked in and then vanished." Sam said as he scrolled through the news article.

"Sounds like it could be our type of case. Where's it at?" Dean asked.

Sam scrolled to the top of the screen, "Ojai, California." He chuckled at the name.

"Isn't that where you had your senior year and then dipped on me and dad?" Dean stood up straight. Sam rolled his eyes.

"I didn't dip. Dad told me if I left to not come back. So I didn't." He looked at his brother and shook his head.

"You know he didn't mean that." Dean tried to excuse him. But Dean wasn't even sure if he 100% believed that himself.

"Yeah. Whatever." He scrolled some more on the local news for the town then stopped, "No way." He shook his head.

"What is it?" Dean asked, the topic of their father temporarily forgotten.

"The reunion is this week. It's all over the town's local news. The murders are like a needle in a haystack." Sam said, trying to dig for more info on it.

"Well, pack your stuff Sammy, sounds like a case." Dean patted his brother on the back and made his way to his room.

Sam walked through the halls. It was his first day of senior year. Another new school. Another new town. He figured he should just keep to himself. Who knew how long they would be staying here. Hell, he came in halfway through the semester. Everyone already had their friend groups. Nothing really-

"Ah!" He ran smack into a smaller figure. The girl dropped every paper and they flew across the hall.

"I'm so sorry!" Sam said, scrambling to help her pick up the papers. He had a stack in his hand and reached to grab the last one when another hand touched his. He looked up and bonked heads with the stranger.

"Aw dammit." The girl said, rubbing her forehead, "I'm so sorry, I'm such a clutz." When they finally made eye contact, the mood changed.

"Hi." He said with a crooked smile.

"Hi..." The girl smiled. They both stood, he handed her his stack.

"I'm Sam. By the way." He said, holding onto the straps of his backpack.

"Sam." She repeated, "It's very nice to meet you. I'm (Y/N), student body president. Or at least that's the title. No one takes me seriously." She smiled, "You're new."

"How could you tell?" He chuckled.

"Small town. Everyone knows everyone." She shrugged, "And I think I would remember a smile like that."

"Hey!" Sam was brought out of his daydream by Dean smacking him on the shoulder.

"What?" He asked, blinking to clear his vision.

"You alright? You've been catatonic for like twenty minutes." Dean looked at him seriously, "You alright?" Sam always hated that look, like Dean was studying him.

"Yeah." He nodded, "Fine."

Dean shrugged, "Well we're here."

After a stop at the motel, Sam and Dean suited up in their FBI gear. They entered the sheriff's office with the badges at the ready. They approached a deputy and showed their badges.

"Agents Priestly and Forester, we're here about the homicides. Can we speak to the sheriff?" Dean said.

The deputy looked around nervously, clearing not accustomed to speaking with the FBI.

"Oh uh yeah, sure. This way." The deputy lead them back to the sheriff's office. The sheriff was a man around Sam's age, he was leaning on his desk, looking over a file.

The deputy knocked on the doorway, "Sheriff, FBI here about the murders." The deputy squeaked out the word. The sheriff looked up and closed the file, dismissing the deputy with the flick of this wrist.

"Come on in, fellas. I'm Sheriff Witicker." He looked from Dean to Sam as he shook their hands, and then stopped.

"Do I know you?" The sheriff narrowed his eyes.

Sam swallowed then smiled, "No. I, uh, just have one of those faces."

The sheriff nodded, "You must. You remind of this nerd I went to school with." He chuckled. Dean hummed, smiled at Sam and when he got the bitch face in return, he looked back at the Sheriff.

"So what do you have so far?" Dean asked, "Any suspects?"

"Not a clue. It's like the perp just walked in, scrubbed the place clean and walked out. All without disturbing a thing. We think that maybe there's some connection from the victims and the killer." He handed Sam the file to look over crime scene photos. The victim was someone Sam recognized.

"First victim was the coach at the high school. Throat tore clean open and partially devoured." Sheriff said, "Now Devin was a hardass but not enough to get murdered. We played football together. Same for the next Vic, Liza worked at the local library."

"Any witnesses?" Dean asked as he looked at the file in Sam's hands.

"Not at all." The sheriff sighed, "You guys gotta understand. We haven't had a murder in Ojai since 2001. And with the reunion coming up. Well, we're kind of on edge here."

"We understand." Sam said, "We'll look into this the best we can." Sam handed him a card, "Call us if anything happens." The sheriff took the card and nodded. The two left the office and went into the parking lot.

"Did you know that guy?" Dean asked as he looked over the car at his brother.

"Yeah. Made my life hell. Him and the rest of the football team." Sam nodded.

"And what about the other girl, Liza?" Dean asked.

Sam shrugged, "Name rings a bell but I didn't know her personally. I think she mostly stuck to herself."

"Like you, nerd?" Dean raised his eyebrows.

Sam pursed his lips, "Not funny."

"It's kinda funny." Dean got into the car, "Seems like a vampire to me. Like that nest in Hibbing."

Sam nodded, "Yeah. Let's just hope these are random and there isn't a pattern."

"Well, first things first, food. I'm starving." Dean started the car and they drove to the local supermarket.

Sam looked through the aisles with a shopping basket in his arm. He rather get his own food than Dean's assortment of junk and beer. As he turned a corner, a shopping cart rammed him in the waist. He doubled over with an oof, dropping his basket.

"I am so sorry! I wasnt-...Wait." he recognized that voice, "Sam?" She asked.

Sam held his stomach and looked up. It was (Y/N) not looking a day older than they did in highschool. She was wearing long black pants and a knit sweater. Her hair was short, it framed her face well.

"(Y/N).." he smiled. She squealed and came around, hugging him tightly. Sam chuckled and hugged her back. He had to lean down due to his height.

"Oh my God, it's so great to see you!" She said as she pulled away and looked up into his eyes, "What are you doing here?"

Sam had to think of something, anything that would make sense.

"I uh."

"You came for the reunion, didn't you?" She pointed at him.

He chuckled and showed his hands, "Guilty."

"I knew you would!" She blushed, "I mean uh... Maybe I was hoping." She shook her head, "Whatever. Um. Look at me, talking your ear off. You're probably busy." She rambled.

"I'm not." Sam couldn't even think really. Seeing her again was like a breath of fresh air.

"You're not? Oh uh... Would you uh... Maybe wanna grab lunch so we could... Catch up?"

"I'd really like that." Sam grinned.

"Hey Sammy, you want some-" Sam closed his eyes and cringed when Dean approached.

"Woah." Dean smirked and licked his lips, "I'm sorry about my brother here. Was he bothering you, ma'am?"

(Y/N) raised an eyebrow at him, "Oh please. I remember you, Dean. Come on. That's just sad."

Dean raised his eyebrows, "Wait a minute. You're (Y/N)." Dean connected the dots. He laughed, "Man, I still don't understand how this guy caught the eye of a fox like you."

She looked at Sam and rolled her eyes, "Well, Sam. I'll see you later. Say 2:30 at the place we used to go? Same booth?"

"Yeah, sounds great." Sam grinned.

"Mom, can we go now? I still need to do homework for my law and society class." Everyone's attention was brought to a tall, brown haired, hazel eyed boy that came up behind (Y/N).

"Of course, honey." (Y/N) reached up and brushed some hair from the boys face.

Sam's mind seemed to go blank. This kid, (Y/N)'s kid... They had a striking resemblance. Dean blinked at the tall child and then at Sam.

"Sam, Dean." (Y/N) said, clearing her throat, "This is my son, Jared." Jared gave the two men a half smile and little wave.

"Come on." Sam whispered as he tugged on her hand. He pulled (Y/N) in the middle of the gym floor. The colored lights painting them in a soft purple glow. Prom was slowly coming to an end. But Sam wanted to make this special. He would be leaving soon and he wanted to give her the best night she could.

"People are staring." She said between her teeth. She had her hands on his shoulders, the flowers from her corsage tickled at his neck. She was wearing a beautiful blue gown with sleeves that came off the shoulder. Her hair was up and curled.

"Let them. You look beautiful." Sam breathed out the words.

"Sam..." (Y/N) blushed and smiled, looking up into his eyes.

Soon the dance came to an end but their night continued on the roof of the motel where Sam and his family were staying. He had laid out a blanket and pillows from the room. They sat there and looked up at the stars, pointing out different constellations.

Sam looked at her and suddenly kissed her cheek. It was an impulse and quieted her talk of mythology and lore about the stars. She stiffened and turned bright red.

"Sam..." She whispered, leaning in...

"Sammy." Dean waved a hand in front of his brother's face. Sam blinked, still trying to focus on what just happened.

"Did that kid-" Sam began.

"Look like your carbon copy? Yeah, he did." As the both walked down they aisle. Sam caught a glimpse of (Y/N) and Jared loading up their car with groceries. Jared looked up and made eye contact. Sam nodded, Jared did the same and then got into the car.

"Well." Dean said, "This makes this a little complicated." They made their way to the Impala with their bags.

"A little?" Sam scoffed, "Dean, that could be my kid."

Dean shook his head, "Nah nah nah, this isn't like Ben where we liked the same things. No this kid looks like someone took your DNA and cloned you." He shivered, "Two of you is the last thing I need."

Sam ignored him and instead was brought to his phone ringing.

"Agent Forester." He said as he answered.

"Hey, Agent, this is Sheriff Witicker. We found more victims." Sam's face went slack.

"Right now?" He asked. Vampires usually don't go out during the day like this. Not alone.

"Yeah. It's a blood bath in here." He said, "I'll send you the address."

"Thanks." Sam ended the call and looked up at Dean.

"You go the the restaurant, I'll check out the crime scene." Dean said and opened his door.

"What about-" Sam started.

"Dude, the vampire is the least of our issues right now. You need a paternity test." Dean got into the car. Sam stood there for a moment before he sighed and made his way into town. Thinking of all the questions he wanted to ask.

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

NEW SERIES

Also I'm creative with names, did you know that?

Read part 2 here!

Taglist (shoot me an ask if you want to be added!):

@happy-little-winchester

@hobby27

@beanie-beebo

@vicmc624

@ria132love

@lilulo-12

@teenwaywardasgardian

@somebodyto-love

#supernatural fic #supernatural creatures #supernatural reader insert #supernatural imagine #supernatural #sam winchester #sam winchester imagine #sam winchester x reader

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raging-violets · 5 years

Text

We Were Merely Freshmen - Chapter 8 Sneak Peek

“So, did your homecoming dress come in yet?” Gabby asked.

“Yes.” Cheryl’s voice was clipped, punctuated with the sharp way she flipped to the next page in her magazine. “But my dear mother got a hold of it before I did and decided it wasn’t something I deserved to have.”

Gabby lifted an eyebrow.

“It appears my math grade isn’t as high as she’d like it to be. Like my mother cares about my math grades. She hardly cares about me as it is.”

Gabby continued to watch Cheryl, who sighed a cleaning breath, bringing a hand up to run through her hair. Her eyes zeroed in on the dark bruise that sat on the underside of Cheryl’s arm, easily hidden by the sleeve of the long, thin robe she wore over her suit. “To go with my aesthetic,” she explained when Gabby questioned her about it if they were going tanning.

It was a mark that could’ve easily been mistaken for brushing up against the dresser in Gabby’s room when Cheryl was doing last minute work on the Vixens’ routine. But Gabby knew what it truly was. As much as Cheryl tried to cover it, it was difficult to cover the markings of fingers hard pressed into the skin.

Lowering her gaze, Gabby looked down at her own arm, gently rubbing her fingertips against her wrist. It seemed like a lifetime ago, but she could still feel the curl of her mother’s fingers around her wrist, dragging her to stand—back straight—in the corner of her room whenever she misbehaved.

“I expect more of you, Gabriella.” A distant Julia Rush said. In her mind’s eye, Gabby could see a younger version of herself, head tilted down, pigtails bobbing as she quietly cried, following her mother’s footsteps to the corner of the room. “Hey.” Julia knelt down, grasping Gabby’s wrists, forcing her daughter to look at her. “No more tears. You’re a soldier, remember?”

Gabby nodded.

“What was that?”

“’I’m a soldier,” Gabby replied.

“And?”

“And I’m strong.”

“Alright.” Julia stood and directly Gabby into the corner. “You can come out when time out’s over. Don’t you dare move until then. I want you think about what you did, Gabriella.”

“Okay, mommy.”

The same grasp on her arm, reminding her to be on her best behavior, to be her best self when her mother’s fellow officers were around. And Gabby would stand between her mother and father, smiling her precocious smile as wide as she could, knowing she’d be rewarded in some way once the boring meeting was over.

What she’d give just to have her mother to even stand next to her again. To look at her with pride the same way she would when she did something right. And that was taken away from her.

“Are you sleeping over tonight?” Gabby asked instead, brushing aside the memory that flooded her mind, and, once again, ignited her rage towards a certain Blossom twin.

“I don’t know, are the help still going to be here tonight?” Cheryl’s question was punctuated by a loud drill filling the air, making birds that perched on nearby branches of the trees surrounding the pool take flight. Cheryl flinched, bringing her magazine up to cover her head in case there was any loads dropped onto her.

“Not if they work fast enough,” Gabby replied. She rolled up her magazine and swatted Cheryl on the leg, making her squeal and bring it away. “And it’s your fault we need them here in the first place.” Cheryl widened her eyes as far as she could. “Don’t play innocent with me.”

And the girls collapsed into giggles, remembering the last party that Gabby had thrown. A rager that was typical for a Friday night in Riverdale. And typical for someone who’s father worked late with his clients nearly every weekend, taking them out to dinner to ‘smooze and booze’ them as Stephen explained. It went the same as usual, drinks abound, hooking up in almost every room, and a football player becoming a little too excited with the reenactment of a game—or maybe a premonition of what was to come with the Southside High game—and rammed a shoulder through a wall…and the railing of the stairs…and something happened to the basement toilet she wasn’t quite sure of.

Enough so that the damage was extensive, expensive, and her father had nearly blown his top. But Stephen had never really been a disciplinarian and although he looked at his daughter with exasperation, he hadn’t said much about it. Just called up a construction crew, slapped down a check, and disappeared to work.

“They should be done,” Gabby said. “They’ve been working on it for days now.”

“God, how do you sleep with all that noise?”

“I don’t.”

“Well, I didn’t want to say anything about the bags under your eyes, But you said it, not me.”

Tag list: @siriussblackx @isaaclahys @neverbess @hennigshelleys

#ocappreciation #toalltheocsivelovedbefore #allaboutocs #fyeahocsofcolor #fyeahriverdaleocs #oc: gabriella rush #cheryl blossom #brotp: black cherry #sneak peek #fic: we were merely freshmen #chapter 8 #yes #i'm finally getting back to this #send me asks #please #while my inspiration is high

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chroniclackofselfpreservation · 3 years

Text

Creatures of the Night

Chapter 36 - like the theorem of a trap

Back to the Beginning < Previous chapter / Next chapter >

AO3

Masterlist

(TW: unintentional misgendering (corrected once made known), (I think that's it, but let me know if you want anything else listed))

(The title of the chapter comes from “Caryatids" by Ted Hughes)

The back of the jail cart jostled as it thundered down the cobbled streets, the only light streaming in from the high barred window on the padlocked door. The coachman’s cries to clear the street pealed through the afternoon air. Horses didn’t pull the carriage. It moved, seemingly, of its own volition—or that of the coachman’s. Probably magic. Logan would have interrogated anyone within earshot until he found out the how and why of it all.

Roman smiled at the thought.

He sat upright, manacled wrists hanging heavy between his knees. A chain connected them to the floor, just short enough to keep him from resting his hands in his lap. The thick iron shackles, connected to each other by an equally heavy chain, had lines of alchemy ringing them, likely some kind of magic-suppressing spell or unbreakable charm. Testing that theory, Roman figured, would sooner result in a crossbow bolt between his shoulder blades than actual answers. Regardless of the alchemy, the simple fact that they were iron was sending a strange, tingling numbness through Roman’s arms. He vaguely recalled Virgil telling them that they cuffed prisoners with iron in the Witchlands to cancel out any attempt at magic. That fight with Ursula had only been a few days ago—though it seemed like years—and even someone as powerful as her wasn’t immune to its effects.

Virgil, in a frantic attempt to keep from being separated, had curled up across Roman’s shoulders, hissing at anyone who got too close. His tail thumped restlessly against Roman’s chest. He tipped his head, knocking it gently against Virgil’s. The familiar didn’t purr—he wasn’t quite calm enough for that—but he leaned into the touch in acknowledgment.

Amaryllis hovered in the corner with her arms folded. She was currently glaring at the wall so venomously Roman was surprised she hadn’t melted a hole in it, having been told by nearly every guard within earshot of her to “keep quiet, wisp!” since they’d arrived. Roman wanted to console her in some way, but wasn’t sure exactly what to say. Sorry you’re a ghost and everyone seems to hate you for it?

Two guards sat on either side of the door, loaded crossbows resting cross their laps, eyeing first Rathmore and then Roman. They obviously recognized the man, and Roman guessed they must be slightly offended that they weren’t considered enough security for a frankly docile young witch.

Steros had wanted to come as well, but there wasn’t much room, and Rathmore had insisted she get inspected by a doctor before following them to the Djel Triba. Whatever, or whoever, that was.

Rathmore sat across from Roman, studying him intensely. Particularly the mark on his hand. Roman studied him right back—in the friendliest, most nonthreatening way possible. He didn’t want these people as enemies and certainly didn’t blame them for being a little cautious around him after what happened with Steros.

Rathmore was dressed in a fine, twilight-blue, long-sleeved tunic covered in gold brocade with a stiff collar and wide, bell-shaped cuffs. His boots were of a soft, black leather with a gold clasp at either ankle. His rich magenta cloak sat folded on the bench next to him. The man’s eyes were a deep brown, and crow’s feet splayed at the corners. Early fifties, if Roman had to guess. All in all, Rathmore seemed a man for whom a smile came easier than a frown.

“How old are you?” he asked, meeting Roman’s eye.

“Twenty-one.”

“So young,” the witch muttered. “Too young, in my opinion, to be bearing the mantle of savior.”

Roman’s stomach clenched. “You quoted something back at the gate. What was it?”

“A prophecy. Three hundred years old, too.” His eyes crinkled as he smiled. “What luck to be around to see you fulfill it.”

Roman wanted to ask more of the witch, but the jail cart slowed to a hasty stop and the two guards stood. One had perked up at the mention of the prophecy, glancing at Roman with more curiosity than before. They all waited while the door was unlocked from the outside. A bit overkill, but Roman didn’t comment on it.

Rathmore leaned forward and unlocked Roman’s manacles from the chain on the floor. “Apologies,” he muttered as the door swung open and their two guards hopped out, “but the Djel Triba are wary of you, so the restrains will have to remain.”

“I understand,” Roman said with a smile.

Blinking in the noon-day sunlight, Roman found himself at the foot of a massive domed building sat securely inside an intricate, columned wall. He was sure Logan would have gone nuts for the architecture, but Roman couldn’t have pinpointed a relative style from their world if he tried. There were a lot of towers, domes, and arches. Intimidating and almost looming, but not in a particularly bad way. Impressive was the word he was looking for.

I wonder what happened to the old castle, Virgil said, more to himself. Besides, Roman wasn’t entirely sure how to respond without speaking aloud. Amaryllis’s eyes went wide, but she remained quiet, floating along behind him.

Rathmore started up the wide, shallow steps, and Roman followed, the two guards flanking him on either side. He was too preoccupied with the grandeur around him to care. The steps themselves were some kind of polished stone, similar to the bright white of the outer wall, and were deep enough it took him several paces before having to step up again.

There was a lot of gold. An inordinate amount, really. The dome itself shone like a polished gold ball bearing. Gold relief sculptures adorned columns and arches, depicting stories and legends Roman didn’t recognize. The seven-pointed star on the back of his hand, however, was everywhere. First on Steros’s uniform, and now littered throughout the architecture.

Reaching the top of the stairs, they made their way through the massive open gates, squatter than those at the entrance to the city, but no less intimidating for it. A long courtyard spread between them and the building itself, a mosaic of white and gold bigger than a football field. Depicted was a figure appearing almost as much as the star. A tall woman with ram horns curling behind her ears and up under her jaw. Her eyes were always open and always blank. No iris, no pupil, nothing.

“Who’s that?” he asked Rathmore as they passed over her face.

“Hm? Oh, that’s Kaia, patron of magic,” the witch replied over his shoulder. “She’s the mother of all magical creatures and gave the first witches their cores. Your bloodline is said to be directly descended from her. In fact—”

One of the guards cleared their throat, and Rathmore flushed a bit.

“Right. Sorry. We’ve got places to be.”

Before Roman could ask anything more, they continued on into the shadow of the edifice, and through the doors. The interior of the building was just as grand, though the mosaics of stars and horned goddesses instead adorned the ceilings. Natural light filtered in through tall, narrow windows, setting the tiles twinkling.

The main corridor culminated in two intricately wrought metal doors. Two guards in leather armor, the seven-pointed star embossed on their shoulder guards, stood on either side of the door wielding a heavy metal staff.

“Have they assembled?” Rathmore asked, hands clasped behind his back.

“Yes, sir.”

“Right.” He gave a nod, and the men pushed the door open.

Roman consciously had to keep his mouth from falling open as the two guards guided him into the courtroom. They walked onto a circular floor, that same star inlaid in the tile like a massive, seven-pointed compass. A panel of seven people sat before him on a raised dais, each on an identical throne. They all had unadorned silver circlets on their brows, but that was all they had regarding uniform. The woman in the middle, on a slightly taller throne, sat with her ankle across her knee, slumped over a bit and looking for all the world like she’d rather be napping. One elbow rested on the arm of the throne, hand supporting her head. Her hair was a thick, straight brown against the silver band at her brow and warm amber skin. She was dressed from neck to ankles in shimmering black armor that looked an awful lot like scales. Her feet, however, were bare.

To her right were three more women. The first looking leeched of all color—white hair, silvery eyes that were just a little too big to be human, and a complexion without the normal blush of red blood beneath the skin. When she opened her mouth to mutter to the woman next to her, Roman noticed she had a mouth full of sharp fangs. The one she spoke to looked normal, by all accounts. Nut-brown hair shaved close to the head in what resembled a buzz cut, hair-thin copper chains hung in a kind of netted veil over her entire head, charms and gems dangling from where the ends just cleared her jawline.

Last on the right was a significantly older woman with gray-streaked, coiled white hair like a cloud gathered atop her head, the sides slicked upwards. Even sitting, Roman could tell she was the tallest one here. She watched Rathmore with an expression Roman couldn’t decipher.

To the armored woman’s left sat another woman and two men. The woman was fair-skinned and covered in freckles. She wore leather armor, black like Steros’s, with that same star emblazoned across the chest. Her smile widened at Roman’s arrival, taking on a distinctly lupine quality to it. She leaned forward, studying him eagerly.

The next in line was a wiry man with a midnight complexion and a bare, shaved head. He wore a simple red doublet and pants, something akin to a clipboard resting on his knee. Beside him reclined a sturdy man with thick arms, salt-and-pepper hair falling down his back, and a beard that was braided and still nearly as long. He had silvery-blue eyes that betrayed a quick mind. Fiddling with his beard, he looked Roman over.

I don’t like this, Virgil said, his tail wrapping feather-light around Roman’s throat.

“It’ll be okay,” he said under his breath as the guards led him to the middle of the floor. “Just stay calm.”

Several of the individuals sitting above him eyed Amaryllis warily, though only a few whispered to their neighbors about it.

“Esteemed judges of the Djel Triba,” Rathmore began, fanning his cape out in a flourish. The tall, older woman on the end rolled her eyes. “My apologies for the unexpected summons, but I would like to present for your consideration, the Last Heir of prophecy.”

All but the woman in the middle and the one with the freckles startled, eyes darting between their cohorts and Roman. He fought down a flush at all the pointed attention.

“According to whom?” the one with the netted veil demanded. “There have been many claiming such a title.”

Rathmore straightened. “He confessed under the influence of Captain Steros’s blade, Judge Nuri.”

At this, the armored woman in the center perked up a bit. “And where is the captain, now? I would have thought she’d insist on attending.”

“She is on her way, Chief Judge,” Rathmore said, though he sounded more hesitant now. “I advised her to receive the approval of a medic before coming.”

The freckled woman nearly shot to her feet. “What?”

The Chief Judge laid a hand on her wrist. “Easy, Kestrel,” she muttered. “Rathmore, go find Steros and accompany her to this hearing. Leave the Heir to us.”

“… Right,” Rathmore said, giving a stiff bow and turning to leave. He met Roman’s eyes with what could have been regret or pity. The door clicked shut behind him, and Roman stood before the panel feeling more than a little vulnerable. He was sure any one of these witches could lay him out without so much as blinking.

“So,” the Chief Judge said, sitting forward and resting her elbows on her knees, “you’re him, then?”

“I—um, yes?” he said, trying for levity. “My name’s Roman. This is Virgil, and that’s Amaryllis. Nice to meet you all.” Blood drained from his face when the all-white woman next to the Chief Judge bore her fangs in a grin, gripping the arms of her throne.

“Oh, he is certainly not from our land,” she said, her voice like glass against stone. “He offers himself up so easily.”

Roman lifted a finger, remembering what had happened with the pixies yesterday. “Actually, a demon’s got my full name,” he said, and the Chief Judge cocked an eyebrow. “So, you’ll have to take it up with him. Sorry.”

The white woman leaned back in her chair, still grinning. “I like him.”

“All right, then, Roman,” the Chief Judge said. “It would be rude of me not to introduce the rest of my company. Judge Alecto,” she indicated the white, fanged woman at her side who was still grinning at him, “Judge Nuri,” the judge with the veil of netting over her face, “Judge Dinwyl,” the older, white-haired woman on the end, “Judge Kestrel,” the freckled one, “Judge Alaric,” the wiry one with the clipboard, “and finally, Judge Oberon,” the Chief Judge finished, gesturing to the bearded man at the other end who gave a warmer smile than Roman would have expected.

“And you?”

“Chief Judge will do for now,” she said with a grin. They were all fairly young for holding such prominent positions, Roman noticed. Aside from Dinwyl and Oberon, the rest looked just over thirty.

Dinwyl cleared her throat. “Would you care to explain why Captain Steros requires medical attention?”

Roman faltered. “It was an accident. She grabbed me and—and I didn’t mean to—”

Kestrel bristled, her curiosity from before replaced with barely contained rage. “If she is grievously injured in any way,” she snarled, “prophecy or not, I’ll skin you, boy.”

A low, warning noise emanated from Virgil’s throat, his hackles rising. Roman felt the talisman grow warm where Virgil’s neck brushed his cheek.

Behind him the doors, mercifully, swung open and dispersed some of the tension. Steros strode in with Rathmore on her heels.

“I can assure you all, I’m fine,” she said, coming to a stop at Roman’s side. He noticed her dark, long-sleeved undershirt was torn around each bicep, the bottom tip of both shoulder guards shorn off. Proof of the damage he’d done and repaired.

“Steros,” the Chief Judge greeted warmly. “You weren’t far, it seems.”

“I never am, ma’am.”

Kestrel gaped. “Your face.”

Roman glanced over as Steros brushed her fingers to the smooth skin of her upper lip where the twisted scar had once been. She almost looked sad. Blinking the expression away, the captain straightened, clasped her hands behind her back, and recounted the entire incident with startling clarity—especially given the shock she’d likely been in.

Faces around the room hardened when she described the dismemberment. Roman shrunk under Kestrel’s furious gaze. The judges’ expressions, however, gave way to mixtures of relief and utter bafflement as Steros finished the report. Even the Chief Judge looked impressed, though less visibly so.

“He healed you that quickly?” Nuri muttered, deep in thought. “Even the best medics leave scars, yet he healed one decades old.”

Rathmore lifted a finger, leaning out from behind Steros. “He did it with witchtongue, too.”

Nuri blanched. “He what?”

“And he resisted the captain’s blade.”

Alaric looked up, his hand still scribbling frantically on his clipboard despite the shift in his attention. “Surely he couldn’t have lied. It’s impossible.”

“No,” Steros said, “but he managed to give indirect answers.”

“Impressive,” said Oberon.

“Dangerous, more like,” Nuri countered, folding her arms across her chest. “You’re forgetting the prophecy foretells his rise to power. Are we willing to just hand over the government to a child?”

Alecto’s eyes darted toward Nuri. “You presume to contradict fate?”

“No,” Nuri said through gritted teeth. “I am simply proposing that we don’t roll over and hope the universe sorts everything out. He’s obviously very powerful, but has no control whatsoever—given what he did to the captain. That’s dangerous on its own. Should he have such immense political power, as well? The Witchlands would fall into chaos.”

Dinwyl leaned forward. “Why give him the government at all? The prophecy never states what kind of power he’ll rise to.”

Roman couldn’t help but laugh, partly from nervousness, but also from the utter hilarity of the judges actually considering him a candidate for… what? The head of the government? He hadn’t so much as finished his freshman year of college. The chains connecting his manacles jingled as his shoulders shook.

The Chief Judge looked at him quizzically. “Something funny?”

“Sorry,” Roman snorted, composing himself. “I’m not here to take over the government or anything. I’m nowhere near qualified. I don’t know the first thing about being a politician.”

“He can be taught,” Oberon offered.

Roman hesitated, trying to figure out how to turn down the offer without offending the judge. “I appreciate your faith in me,” he said, “but I have no interest in leading, either. I’ve come to learn how to control my powers.” Roman jerked his head back at Amaryllis. “She’s going to teach me.”

Alaric perked up, his hand still writing at a furious pace. The other judges leaned back in their thrones, as if deferring to him. “It takes mage-level magic to summon a ghost,” he said. “What spell did you use?”

“Oh, I didn’t summon her,” Roman said. “Virgil did.”

Alaric’s hand sped up. “Your familiar performed the spell? How odd. Any particular reason?”

Roman chuckled. “I know, like, two words in witchtongue, and that’s it. Virgil’s the magic-expert.” Virgil squirmed atop Roman’s shoulders, and though he didn’t say anything, Roman could feel the spike of nervousness shooting through him. He turned his head a bit and murmured, “I can translate for them if you don’t—”

I can make them hear me if I wanted them to, he explained, casting a furtive glance at Amaryllis. He took a steadying breath, his fur tickling Roman’s neck, and said, It was spirit magic. A simple contract.

The words sounded the same to Roman, but all the judges reacted to his voice.

Nuri��s eyes narrowed. “Magical creatures have no need of spoken spells or enchantments. It’s inherent to them.”

I guess you’ll never know, Virgil snarled, and Nuri bristled.

“Any necromantic contract requires more blood than you’ve got in that feline body, familiar, spirit magic or not,” Alaric said, watching his hand write on the clipboard and flipping to a new page.

Virgil stood and leaped to the ground, landing soundlessly, and with a slight flash of violet magic, appeared in his human form—not nearly as jarring as Dorian’s transformation. The Chief Judge’s eyebrows shot up, but she said nothing. Steros regarded Virgil carefully, her hand resting on her sword hilt. Rathmore gasped.

“We should have known the Last Heir’s familiar would be just as powerful,” Alecto said, fanged smile widening.

Virgil pointedly ignored her, holding up the back of his hand for Alaric to see. “There. Happy?” he snapped. “Now are you gonna let us go, or what?”

Nuri scowled. “I was thinking a prison cell, personally. Regardless of the boy’s intentions or title as the Last Heir, he’s broken several licensing laws and fatally attacked Captain Steros.”

Kestrel nodded. “I second the notion. We can’t let such a powerful, untrained witch loose on the city.”

“And what? You all think he’ll suddenly become less of a threat if we lock him in a box and bury him?” Oberon demanded. “He needs to be trained, that’s all. I have contacts at the university. I’m sure Vinliden will—”

“No,” the Chief Judge said, armor tinkling like a bag of coins as she sat up. She’d been awfully quiet until now. “I agree with Oberon. Locking him up will do nothing but create a stronger enemy. I will respect the prophecy and allow Amaryllis to cultivate Roman’s power under my supervision, and perhaps that of Vinliden’s. His punishment for breaking licensing law will be one year of community service.”

“Community service?” Nuri spat. “People go to jail for years—”

“Those people are not the Last Heir of prophecy,” the Chief Judge said forcefully.

“Yes, but we cannot give him special treatment simply because—”

“Are you volunteering to be his jailer? Does being the subject of such a grudge appeal to you?” She stood, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. “I am proposing what will provide the most benefit to the Witchlands, as is my duty.”

Nuri winced, and even Roman could hear the unspoken and yours as well at the end of her sentence.

The Chief Judge took a breath, and her shoulders relaxed a touch. “I will take full responsibility for the Heir’s actions from this point forward. Captain,” she said, turning to Steros, “do you wish to press charges against him?”

“He repaired the damage he caused,” the captain said, an undercurrent of warmth beneath her formality. Roman fought to keep the surprise off his face. He thought Steros would have hated him, regardless of him healing her wounds. “I will not press charges.”

The Chief Judge nodded, then turned back to the panel. “Am I to assume you are all in agreement? Or shall we cast a vote?”

No one spoke up.

Nuri, fighting an angry, embarrassed flush, cleared her throat. “And what of licensing? Disregarding his previous infractions, he’ll eventually need one, yes?”

The Chief Judge nodded. “Yes, of course. I will speak with Vinliden about the unique situation once everything is settled. Thank you for bringing it up, Judge Nuri. With that said, may we adjourn this hearing?”

“Aye,” they all said in unison.

The Chief Judge turned to Roman, standing almost a full head above him despite his own considerable height. She smiled and cocked her head. “Let’s get those restraints off.”

* * * * * * * * * *

The hearing ended at once. The other judges disappeared through side doors, Steros giving the Chief Judge a nod and a smile before striding away down the main corridor. Rathmore shifted on his feet, like he couldn’t decide whether to follow Steros or keep staring dumbfounded at the Chief Judge.

“Rathmore,” the armored woman said. “The shackles, if you would.”

“Oh! Yes!” he spluttered, stepping forward and taking up Roman’s wrists. The witch cringed a little touching the iron, muttering, “Tranto iskaia’ben isumani.” The lines of alchemy carved into the metal disappeared, as if unwriting themselves in reverse, returning the shackles to simple iron cuffs. Roman felt something of a weight lift from his shoulders, but the numbness didn’t let up. Rathmore gave a final, “Baesta,” and the cuffs split open, falling to the floor with a heavy clang.

As soon as the iron wasn’t touching his skin, feeling flooded back into Roman’s arms and hands.

“Thanks,” he said, rubbing his wrists. Virgil stood at his side, eyes flitting between everyone milling about the room, observing.

“Walk with me?” the Chief Judge said, starting out the main doors. Roman kept stride with her, Virgil staying close behind with Amaryllis. Her armor was even more mesmerizing when she was in motion, the scales interlocking but not grating against one another, the light from the windows casting green and purple reflections, like she’d coated them in oil.

“Thank you,” Roman said, unsure if he was allowed to speak before spoken to when it came to the head of the state, but the silence was edging toward unbearable. “For, uh, not sending me to prison.”

“Of course. I hope you’ll forgive Nuri their suspicions of you. They’re wary by nature, and many times has kept me from overly brash decisions. I wouldn’t take it personally,” she said.

Roman swallowed. “I didn’t know they were… they,” he said, shakily relieved he hadn’t accidentally misgendered the judge to their face. He was pretty sure they hated him enough already.

The Chief Judge looked confused for only a moment as they started up a small flight of spiraling stairs. “I keep forgetting you’re from the outside world,” she chuckled. “Yes, Nuri uses they/them. So do Alecto and Alaric. Dinwyl, Kestrel, and I use she/her, and Oberon uses he/him.”

“Thank you,” Roman said, only slightly overwhelmed. “I’m he/him, by the way.”

The Chief Judge smiled. Roman felt a flutter in his stomach. He’d never had to specify his pronouns to anyone before, and… he didn’t really mind it. In fact, it was kinda nice having someone ask first, even if they’d probably get it right. It made them more his own, instead of something that passively happened without input.

They exited the stairwell into a calmer, but no less ornate, hallway, and the Chief Judge glanced over her shoulder at Virgil and Amaryllis expectantly.

“He/him,” Virgil muttered, dividing his attention between watching the armored woman for signs of hostility, and the rest of the people they passed in the corridors. Most were guards, wielding the same metal staffs that the two in front of the courtroom had. They were about the thickness of two fingers and had dull diamond-shaped knobs on both ends. Each guard had personalized their staff with paint, or carvings, or even dangling strings of beads.

“And you?” the Chief Judge asked, looking directly at Amaryllis.

The ghostly witch started, then relaxed, smiling. “She/her. Thank you.”

“Of course,” she said. “I apologize for any insults you may have received on your way here. There are some unfortunate prejudices against the necromantic arts.”

Amaryllis gestured to the wound in her chest. “I’d be just as wary if I were them.”

Virgil’s shoulders hunched.

The Chief Judge turned suddenly, pushing open two balcony doors and walking out into the fresh air. Her armor shone even more brilliantly in the sunlight, and Roman had to consciously keep himself from flat out staring.

“Close the door behind you, Roman,” she said, her voice much softer now. He did, Virgil casting him a wary look.

I don’t like this, he grumbled. Surprise flashed across Roman’s face. He hadn’t realized Virgil could speak in his mind when he was human, as well. That would certainly prove an advantage later on. He’d have to ask Virgil to teach him how to talk back later. Roman smiled and patted his shoulder reassuringly, then came to stand at the Chief Judge’s side. The balcony overlooked the entire west side of the city, the streets like complex webbings amid the clusters of buildings. They were high enough he figured no one below would hear their conversation. Upon further, subtle inspection of their surroundings, there weren’t any windows for people inside to eavesdrop from either.

“You’ll have to break the habit of offering your name to people like food on a platter,” the Chief Judge said. “I imagine once word of your arrival gets out, you’ll have a deplorable amount of people calling on you constantly.”

Roman flushed a little. “Right. How am I supposed to do it?”

“Well,” she said, “for example, you may call me Valerie.”

“And you may call me Roman,” he offered, then quickly muttered, “like that?”

Valerie grinned. “Yes, that was perfect. Though, I should make it clear you’ll still have to use my title outside of our personal conversations,” she said. “Despite your position as prophecy-bearer, there’s plenty of propriety surrounding being Chief Judge.”

Roman stepped back and made a deep bow. “In that case, I am most honored to be granted such a privilege.”

So he can be articulate, Virgil quipped from behind. Roman shot him an upside-down look before straightening. He braced both hands on the balcony railing and was about to say something when he found Valerie staring at his hand. At the star.

“You’re so young,” she muttered.

“Rathmore said the same thing.” He paused, the gold mark drawing his own attention as well. “Everyone keeps talking about a prophecy,” he said, almost to himself. He looked up at her. “Do you know it?”

“Everyone knows it,” Valerie said, as if trying for humor but falling flat. She took a breath. “It’s bad form to repeat whole prophecies outside of the ancient temple, especially around their subject, but seeing as yours is practically common knowledge, I suppose you’ll hear it eventually.” She glanced down at him. “Though, you may be disappointed.”

Roman gave a dry smile. “Oh? Predicts my demise, does it?”

“No,” she said, returning her gaze to the cityscape. “It’s incomplete. Prophecies like this one—oracle-given, that is—have structure to them, like spells.”

“Not witchtongue,” Roman clarified. “The English ones that rhyme, right?”

“English?”

Roman hesitated. “Yes?”

Valerie smiled. “The language we are currently speaking is called Common, here. What a strange name. English.” She shook her head. “We’re getting off topic. You wanted to hear what remains of your prophecy, yes?”

Roman nodded.

“They shall burn as a candle struck amid the shadow of a demon. They shall bring death to immortals and save the Witchlands with the Star of Kaia in their hand. They shall bring life by learning from the dead, all manner of beings at their side. Trailing in their ancestor’s footsteps, they shall rise to great power. Beloved of their kingdom, and yet they shall leave it,” she said fluidly, as if she’d repeated it a hundred times. There was a lot to unpack in just those few sentences. Roman would have to ask her to write it down for him, or find it in a book, later.

“So, what’s missing?”

“Prophecies are comprised of five lines of they shall statements—three left-leaning and two right-leaning—describing the deeds of their subject’s life,” she explained. Roman nodded, despite only barely following. “The most important line,” she continued, “is the last. The one your prophecy is so conveniently missing. It’s the longest and least vague, telling of one singular event that no witch could hope to avert, and how the conflict will inevitably resolve. In that line, the future is set.”

Roman was suddenly very glad he’d grabbed the railing. The prophecy had said he’d kill immortals. Could that mean Ursula? Or maybe just Dorian. The word was plural, so maybe both? But he’d finally started to trust, and maybe even like, the demon. Roman realized, for the first time, he didn’t want to kill him. And wasn’t Virgil also technically immortal, since he’d been living as long as Ursula? He’d certainly outlived a natural death. Would becoming his familiar change that? Roman’s mind produced a horrifying image of Virgil crumpling into dust, nothing more than a pile of ancient bones, and it was all Roman’s fault—

Soft fur brushed the underside of his forearm, startling Roman out of his spiraling thoughts. Virgil blinked up at him from his perch on the railing, tail curled around his elbow.

What’s wrong?

Roman realized Valerie was still talking, and scooped Virgil up into his arms, holding him close to his chest, and trying to tune back into the conversation.

“… interpretations between scholars, so there’s really no point in trying and make solid sense of it,” she said, hesitating when she saw Roman’s face. Apparently, he wasn’t hiding his stress as well as he’d hoped. Valerie smiled warmly. “This must be a lot. I apologize.”

Roman gave her a halfhearted smile, not trusting himself to speak.

“Here.” She pulled a ring from her finger, black and shiny as her armor with a silver emblem on the top. “This ring will keep you from getting arrested again. There’s an inn by the canal, just down this road,” she said, pointing out into the city. “Show this to Bodbyn. She’ll let you stay there.”

Roman took the ring, still warm from her hand. “Thank you.”

Valerie nodded. “Of course. Oh, and Virgil? Help him find some less conspicuous clothing, would you?” she said, reaching into a pocket Roman hadn’t noticed and pulling out a stack of coins with holes in the center strung through a leather string knotted at the bottom.

Virgil blinked at her, and she took it as a good enough acknowledgement. With one more nod, she disappeared inside the courthouse.

* * * * * * * * * *

Clothes shopping, as it turned out, was far more enjoyable than Roman had anticipated. Valerie had given them quite the respectable sum of money, according to Virgil, so they had no problem securing outfits for the two of them.

Roman sat on a circle cushion outside the dressing room in his own newly purchased outfit while Virgil changed. His top was loose-fitting crimson cotton with a v-neck and billowing sleeves that cinched at his wrists. Roman ran a finger along the gold thread at his cuffs and collar. Real gold. The commonplaceness of the precious metal in something as every-day as clothing had surprised Roman, but Virgil had only shrugged.

“It’s not nearly as rare, here,” he’d explained absently, riffling through the hangers. “It’s the lowest coin we’ve got—though we call coins shils.” He’d held up the string of money Valerie had given them. “These are silver shils. Should last us a few days.”

Roman’s outfit finished with some dark, durable pants and heeled boots that ended just below his knee. Apparently, shoes without heels were exclusively children’s, and the shortest socially acceptable heels were at least two inches tall. Thankfully, the boots they’d found had thick, blocky heels that were a little easier to walk in. They’d also secured Roman some thin, breathable gloves to cover the mark on the back of his hand.

The dressing room curtain swished to the side and Roman’s heart crawled up into his throat. Virgil strode out in a black velvet tailcoat with silver clasps running up the chest to a high collar ending just below Virgil’s chin, like a much fancier version of a turtle-neck. The cuffs extended over his wrists and looped around his middle finger, almost bleeding into the dark stripe that continued down his right finger from the contract he’d made with Amaryllis. Fitted black pants and knee-high leather boots with matching silver buckles and heels significantly taller and thinner than Roman’s completed the look.

“Wow,” Amaryllis breathed, rising. “You look great, Virgil.”

“We both look pretty old-fashioned. I haven’t been up to date on the current fashion trends for a few centuries, but I’m glad heels are still in,” he said, avoiding looking at Amaryllis, but flashing a small smile, anyway. Roman thought he would implode right then and there. He got to his feet.

“You look like a noble,” Amaryllis said, “but with less jewelry.”

Virgil shrugged. “That’s kind of what I was going for, since we’ll be working closely with the Chief Judge. Ursula’s family was pretty prominent back when she was younger, so I dressed like this a lot. Jewelry, too, but we don’t have enough money for—mmph!” he cut off in surprise as Roman surged forward and cupped his face with both hands, pressing their mouths together in a breathless kiss. Roman could barely think straight, but began to pull away, just in case Virgil didn’t want it. He probably should have asked first, but—

Virgil’s surprise faded fast, and he fisted a hand in the hair at the nape of Roman’s neck, pulling him back into another searing kiss. Roman sighed, “You’re so beautiful,” into his mouth, stars bursting beneath his eyelids, and they stumbled back against the poles holding up the dressing curtain.

Amaryllis laughed and shook her head, muttering, “Finally.”

“Witchgods,” the merchant cursed from behind a counter across the store. “None of that in here! Nordrana almighty, you’ll break something.”

They broke apart, foreheads resting together. Roman smiled. “What’s he saying?”

“Nordrana,” Virgil breathed back, running his fingers up Roman’s jaw and holding his chin like he was the most fragile glass he’d ever handled. “Patron of love,” he murmured and pressed a final, chaste kiss to his lips, “among other things. Shall we get going?”

Roman laughed. “Sure thing.”

They paid for the outfits they were wearing, along with some sleep clothes and one spare, drab outfit each—“for Wash Day,” Virgil explained. Roman just nodded, too enamored by the way Virgil looked when he moved in his midnight-black clothing to ask what he meant. Each click of his heels sent shivers up Roman’s spine. Virgil’s amber eyes flitted to a shimmering gold cape with red lining hung on the wall behind the merchant. He unstrung two additional silver coins and set them on the counter, nodding to the article. “We’ll take that, as well.”

The man looked as if he would demand more money for it, but Virgil, as tall as Roman in his heels and several times more intimidating, raised an eyebrow and the merchant’s mouth clicked shut.

“Certainly, joka iskaia,” he said quickly, unhooking the gorgeous cape, folding it over his arm, and setting it on the counter. Virgil gave a curt nod, then pocketed the meager remains of their money and flung the cape around Roman’s shoulders, quickly securing the gold chain connecting the corners at his collarbones.

“Can’t be out-dressing my own witch,” he said under his breath with a wink that stole Roman’s breath away. Roman hated how utterly flustered he was, but wasn’t about to complain when Virgil nodded to the merchant, and hooked his arm through Roman’s as they stepped out onto the street.

“What did he call you?”

“Hm? Oh, a child of Kaia,” Virgil said, “though I doubt he realized I actually was. It’s a kind of honorific for nobles or those of higher social class than you, as well.”

Roman’s brow knit. “What do you mean you actually are?” His eyes widened. “Are you a demigod or something?”

Virgil laughed, a beautiful noise. “No. Magical creatures are figuratively called the children of Kaia, since our magic is inherent. The legend goes that Kaia granted humans their core magic to spite her mother, Nordrana, and creating witches in the process.”

The kiss had changed everything and seemingly nothing at the same time. A weight Roman hadn’t known was there had lifted from his shoulders, and despite the newness of the dynamic, his side fit against Virgil’s as if it had always belonged there. It felt both sudden and a long time coming, like trying shoes he’d never worn before but were tailored to fit perfectly.

People stepped to the side when they approached, and Roman found himself standing a little taller. Clothes really did make a world of difference. He tripped a few times when the ground became uneven beneath his heels, but Virgil was always there, keeping him from falling. He held onto Roman’s arm so firmly that Roman asked if he was okay. Virgil gave a smile that must have been an attempt at reassurance, but Roman felt the undercurrent of fear passing from Virgil’s mind to his own.

He gripped Virgil’s hand back.

Eventually, they found the inn Valerie had mentioned. It was a sturdy wooden building with two floors and thick wood columns lining the front. Within a gold-painted, wooden Star of Kaia, the name Argoi Ismerint—Goldfire, Virgil translated.

“If everyone speaks Common,” Roman asked softly as they stepped into the inn, “why’s the name in witchtongue?”

Virgil tilted his head and muttered in Roman’s ear, “Names are important things around here. Most buildings have their true names visible, but you’d still call it by its Common name outloud unless you were casting some kind of spell.”

“Buildings have true names?”

“Everything does. Buildings are easy, since those that build them give them their names. I don’t envy the Namers in charge of discovering every other major landmark and species,” he snorted.

Goldfire was respectably busy, but not crowded. A fair amount of people lined the bar and filled the tables. A small empty stage sat nestled in the corner, barely big enough for a single person. As they entered, several people looked them over, though the noise only quieted a little. Most seemed confused by Amaryllis.

Virgil slipped his arm out of Roman’s and approached the bar, leaning his weight against it. The bartender finished pouring a drink for a patron and then made her way over. She was a broad shouldered woman with gold beads woven into her thick braided hair.

“Welcome,” she said. “What can I get for you, two?”

“We’re looking for Bodbyn.”

“You’ve found her,” she said, though a measure of wariness crossed her features.

Roman stepped up to Virgil’s side, setting Valerie’s ring on the counter. “She said you could help us out. We need a room.”

Bodbyn took up the ring and inspected it for a minute before tossing it back to Roman. “We’re heading into market season. I need every room open for business once it comes around.”

Virgil folded his arms. “How far’s market season?”

She gave Virgil an odd look, like he’d asked what color the sky was. “Two weeks. You can stay until then, but not a day longer, understood?”

“Perfectly,” Roman said, putting a hand on Virgil’s shoulder and flashing a smile. “Thank you.”

Bodbyn gave them their key and room number, and Virgil used the last of their money to purchase some dinner for the two of them. Amaryllis, as jealous as she was, didn’t get hungry as a ghost, and physically couldn’t eat even if she wanted to. Roman made to set their bag of clothes down at a table to eat, but Virgil stood near the stairwell with both their bowls of what Roman guessed was some kind of chicken curry over rice, expression blank.

Roman stopped. “Virge?”

He blinked, coming back to himself. Amaryllis is attracting attention. We should head up to our room to eat, he said silently. Not urgent, but firm.

“Okay,” Roman said easily, following Virgil up the stairs and down the hall to their room. The room itself had one bed, reasonably sized for two people, a desk facing a wood-paned window with a view of the street, a dresser with four drawers, and a medium-sized mirror on the wall just above it. Virgil handed Roman his bowl and sat on the foot of the bed, looking like it was taking everything in him not to collapse onto the bed right then.

Roman lowered to the desk seat, setting his bowl down and pulling his boots off. “You’re feet don’t hurt?” he asked, flexing his toes. Virgil shook his head, chewing slowly. “Are you sure you’re okay, Virgil?”

Tired, he said, swallowing.

“How do I do that? Speak back to you, I mean,” Roman asked, trying some of the food himself. It was surprisingly sweet, but not in a bad way. He quite liked it, actually.

Think at me, Virgil replied.

Roman cocked his head. “What?”

I don’t know. I can’t… words right now. Ask me later. He finished his bowl and got to his feet. Setting the bowl on the dresser, he approached the door and leaned against it. At first, Roman thought he’d fallen asleep standing up, but after a few moments Virgil retreated, leaving a glowing purple handprint on the wood of the door, that same strange symbol he’d put on the cellar door back in Wakeby when they’d trapped Remus seared into the glowing hand’s palm.

There… he sighed, then stumbled back to the bed. Virgil fell toward the mattress, violet light snapping through the air, and he landed as a black cat. A handful of heartbeats later, and he was curled up next to the pillow, asleep.

#COTN #Creatures of the Night #sanders sides #sanders sides fic #sanders sides fanfic #sanders sides fanfiction #tw unintentional misgendering

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biofunmy · 4 years

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What We Learned in N.F.L. Week 13

It would be hard to draw up a weirder Sunday than one in which the Miami Dolphins, the Washington Redskins and the Cincinnati Bengals all won, while the New England Patriots and the San Francisco 49ers lost. The surprising victories by the league’s lesser teams provided plenty of entertainment, but Week 13 was all about the potential Super Bowl preview between the Baltimore Ravens and the 49ers, a pair of heavyweight teams that fought their way to a 20-17 classic.

Here’s what we learned:

A 49ers-Ravens Super Bowl would be intense. Watching these teams feel each other out was fascinating. It was 17-14 in favor of Baltimore at halftime, with both sides moving the ball consistently. But a series of defensive adjustments led to both offenses disappearing. The second half consisted of just seven drives, which resulted in two punts, two turnovers on downs, a fumble and two field goals. While the game didn’t match the scoring of last year’s 54-51 thriller between the Kansas City Chiefs and the Los Angeles Rams, it had every bit as much intensity, and for much of the second half there was a feeling that whichever team ended up with the ball last would win. Lamar Jackson and the Ravens made that a reality by grinding out the final 6 minutes 28 seconds with a drive that took 12 plays to go just 34 yards before Justin Tucker’s game-winning 49-yard field goal.

Baltimore and San Francisco are two of the three most likely teams to make the Super Bowl, according to The Upshot, with New England being the third. Getting a chance to see the 49ers and Ravens face off again — after their offenses get a chance to watch the film and see what they were doing wrong — would be an absolute treat.

Sunday’s Top Performers

Top Passer: Deshaun Watson

Aaron Rodgers threw four touchdown passes in the snow, and Ryan Tannehill continued to be ruthlessly efficient, but Watson’s performance, especially in the context of it coming against New England, stood out above the rest. Coming into the game, New England had allowed four passing touchdowns all season. Houston matched that total by itself, with Watson throwing three — one of which was a 35-yard bullet to Kenny Stills in the end zone — before being credited as a receiver on the fourth when DeAndre Hopkins took a handoff, ran the ball to the edge and then flipped the ball back to Watson who dove into the end zone.

Top Runner: Derrius Guice

Guice, who came into the game with just 74 rushing yards in a two-year career that has been hampered by knee injuries, got nearly double that on just 10 carries in a breakout performance. He and the veteran Adrian Peterson combined for 228 yards on the ground.

Top Receiver: DeVante Parker

Robert Woods of the Rams had more receiving yards, but Parker absolutely dominated Philadelphia, making a pair of terrific touchdown catches in the enormous upset.

One* Sentence About Sunday’s Games

*Except when it takes more.

Chiefs 40, Raiders 9 It does not seem particularly fair for Kansas City to run up 40 points in a game in which Patrick Mahomes only threw one touchdown pass.

Texans 28, Patriots 22 New England made up for a slow start some with a push toward the end, but their first seven possessions were brutal: Field goal, interception, four straight punts and a turnover on downs.

Ravens 20, 49ers 17 Even in a loss, San Francisco’s pass defense looked terrific, holding Baltimore to 105 yards through the air — the 10th time in 12 games that the 49ers have held an opponent to 200 passing yards or less.

Packers 31, Giants 13 “I loved the conditions,” Aaron Rodgers told reporters of the snowy day at MetLife Stadium in which he threw for 243 yards and four touchdowns.

Titans 31, Colts 17 “It’s almost looking like a weapon for us,” Coach Mike Vrabel said of his team blocking a third field goal attempt in a span of three weeks.

Steelers 20, Browns 13 After falling behind by 10-0, Pittsburgh outscored Cleveland by 20-3 the rest of the way, getting some revenge for an ugly (and controversy-filled) loss in Week 11.

Rams 34, Cardinals 7 Jared Goff threw for 424 yards, Todd Gurley had 115 yards from scrimmage, Robert Woods had 172 receiving yards, Cooper Kupp and Brandin Cooks both contributed and the Los Angeles defense got a pick-6 from Taylor Rapp. Where has this team been all year?

Buccaneers 28, Jaguars 11 “It’s difficult,” Nick Foles said of a game in which he committed a turnovers on each of his team’s first three possessions. “But you know what, I’m going to look at the bright things and keep my head held high.”

Broncos 23, Chargers 20 If you’re Coach Anthony Lynn of the Chargers, and the Broncos run a last-second play that is fairly obviously designed to draw a pass interference penalty against your team, it had to sting to watch one of your players actually commit the penalty, setting up Denver’s game-winning field goal.

Dolphins 37, Eagles 31 Sure, DeVante Parker had two touchdown receptions, but Jason Sanders caught a touchdown pass, then kicked his own extra-point, and he chipped in with a 51-yard field goal in the fourth quarter for good measure. According to Pro Football Reference, Sanders is the first player to kick an extra-point and have a receiving touchdown in the same game since 1977.

Redskins 29, Panthers 21 If you thought Carolina’s failed goal line try in the closing seconds of a loss to Green Bay in Week 10 was bad, consider this: Trailing Washington by just 8 points with 40 seconds left to play on Sunday, the Panthers had a 1st-and-goal at Washington’s 1-yard line. They proceeded to run the ball for negative yardage twice, throw an incomplete pass and then turn the ball over on downs on a sack, effectively ending the game.

Bengals 22, Jets 6 Andy Dalton got into a game for the first time since Week 8, and proceeded to become Cincinnati’s career leader in passing touchdowns, its career leader in completions, and he ended what had been a 13-game losing streak for his team going back to last season. Not bad.

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flauntpage · 5 years

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This Team is Going to the Playoffs – Ten Takeaways from Eagles 24, Redskins 0

Well slap my ass and call me Sally!

The Eagles are going to the playoffs.

Not sure about you, but I’m gobsmacked by this turn of events. Floored, even.

I’m floored because this is the same team that fell to 6-7 just three weeks ago after losing in Dallas. They were left for dead. Done. Kaput. The buzzards were circling and we were in the process of sticking the fork in them.

Then Nick Foles came in to pull out that fork. He breathed life into a lifeless squad, like Jesus leaving the tomb after that big rock had been rolled out of the way. He started releasing the ball early and getting Alshon Jeffery involved. The banged-up defense began “flying around” and Doug Pederson miraculously started calling better plays. Everything seemed to click once the Eagles found themselves in the familiar position of feeling disrespected and counted out. They were once again the underdogs, which is obviously the only effective motivator for this team, even in a title defense season.

It’s really been a bizarre ride, hasn’t it? This doesn’t look anything like the team that lost in abhorrent fashion to the Panthers, Vikings, Cowboys, Cowboys, and Titans. They look like the grizzled and savvy team that understands how to get the job done, and here they are with 9 wins and 7 losses, now heading to Chicago to play a Bears squad that has playoff experience ranging anywhere from “little” to “none at all.”

As Jim Fassel once said, “This team is going to the playoffs.”

Giddy up!

1) Time of possession

The Eagles controlled the clock for a little more than 43 minutes in this game and will finish as the NFL’s second-best time of possession team with a 32:54 average number through 16 games. Baltimore finished first and Chicago finished third on the strength of a +12 turnover margin. Should be a good battle in this department this weekend.

In two games this season, the Eagles won the time of possession battle against the Redskins by a margin of 82 to 38 minutes, and that’s what happens when you play against Mark Sanchez, Colt Mccoy, and Josh Johnson. The only games in which the Eagles really struggled in this department were against Dallas, when they had issues containing Zeke Elliott, and obviously in the Saints game, when they just got run off the field entirely.

In addition to finishing as a top-half third down team this season, and one of the best 4th down squads in football (which kept the Eagles offense on the field), another key reason why they crushed teams in TOP this season was because of:

2) Run defense

The thing that really made the Birds what they were in 2017 was the defense’s ability to shut down the run and force teams to become one-dimensional.

Last night Adrian Peterson ran the ball four times for zero yards. Chris Thompson carried it twice for 10 yards and Samaje Perrine ran the ball three times for seven yards. Throw in four yards from Josh Johnson and Washington was only able to muster 21 yards on 12 carries, good for a whopping 1.8 average.

In the Houston game, second stringer Alfred Blue ran it four times for 14 yards and D’Onta Foreman somehow carried the ball seven times for -1 yard. Houston finished with 19 carries for 62 yards on the strength of Deshaun Watson’s eight runs for 49 yards and two scores, but the running backs did less than diddly poo.

Even in the Rams game, Todd Gurley only went 48 yards on 12 carries for a pair of touchdowns as the Eagles built a lead and forced the Rams to throw the ball instead. LA finished with 18 carries for 82 yards total.

That’s three wins and three great performances against the run. It’s not a coincidence. You limit the run, force teams to throw, get your defense off the field, and keep them rested. It’s the same formula that carried the Birds to the #1 seed in the NFC en route to the Super Bowl, and this year they finished 7th in run defense by allowing just 96.9 ground yards per game:

3) Pressure up the middle

The thing that really surprises me about the Eagles’ turnaround is how the defense improved over the last three weeks. Say what you will about Foles, but the Birds were a top-five time of possession team with Carson Wentz on the field, yet the defense looked nothing like it does now.

In addition to shutting down the run, the defensive line is really generating a ton of pressure out of their base four man rush. Sunday night, specifically, they really did a nice job of flushing Josh Johnson from the pocket by bringing pressure up the middle.

Johnson really could not climb the pocket and instead had to run for his life horizontally, which resulted in some yardage losses and a couple of noodle-arm deep efforts, which are really tough for a quarterback to put in the right spot when you’re throwing on the run.

Here’s an example:

The pocket disappears so quickly there that Johnson has no choice but to run for his life. This is the same scenario that resulted in the Rasul Douglas interception on the first play of the game.

I’m not sure what else you can say about Fletcher Cox and Michael Bennett, who have just been monstrous over the past few weeks. 10.5 sacks is a career high for Cox and Bennett’s nine sacks are the most he’s had since the 2015 Seattle season.

4) Another one for the record books

Nick Foles tied an NFL record when he completed 25 straight passes in this game.

On the 26th effort, he threw behind Nelson Agholor on the goal line and the receiver just couldn’t haul it in with one hand. Bummer, because he had him wide open. The Eagles went to the same exact play on the very next snap and scored a touchdown on it, so go figure.

The only other quarterbacks to complete 25 passes in a row are Ryan Tannehill (three years ago) and Philip Rivers (November). Per Eagles, PR, Rivers accomplished the feat in a single game while Tannehill hit the mark over the course of two games.

The Eagles’ previous record was 24 in a row from Donovan McNabb, which required two games. Donovan’s single-game record was 18 in a row, achieved in 2007 against the Detroit Lions.

One of the little wrinkles regarding this stat is that the jet sweep the Eagles ran with Agholor last night actually counts as a completed pass, even though it’s just an underhanded flip to an in-motion receiver. If you go back and watch some college games, some quarterback stats can become bloated when a receiver takes these kinds of plays for 15 or 20 yards. Geno Smith and Tavon Austin used to connect on this play on almost every game, and they’d get credit for the completion and passing yards, even though the “air distance” of the pass was something like 18 inches.

Here’s the one that Nick and “Nelly” ran last night, which Washington sniffed out:

Completed pass. Counts just the same as a 50-yard bomb down the field.

5) Next man up

This isn’t a specific takeaway from this game, but I thought it would make sense to take a step back and write down all of the dudes who are currently out of commission, or were out of commission at some point this season:

Rodney McLeod – injured reserve

Jay Ajayi – injured reserve

Derek Barnett – injured reserve

Ronald Darby – injured reserve

Josh Perkins – injured reserve

Mack Hollins – injured reserve

Paul Worrilow – injured reserve

Chris Maragos – injured reserve

Jordan Mailata – injured reserve

Josh Sweat – injured reserve

Corey Clement – injured reserve

Jalen Mills – injured reserve

Carson Wentz – ACL recovery/back issue

Mike Wallace – just came off IR

Richard Rodgers – came off IR

Sidney Jones – out with hamstring injury

Isaac Seumalo – out with pectoral injury

Tim Jernigan – whatever he currently has

Jordan Hicks – calf issue

Jason Peters – in and out of lineup all year long

Darren Sproles – hamstring kept him out for entire middle part of year

That’s 21 guys off the top of my head. There were other injuries to non-starters and special teams players as well. Alshon Jeffery didn’t start the season healthy. Lane Johnson had the ankle thing. Bennett is dealing with a foot injury, though you wouldn’t be able to tell. It’s really insane how much they’ve dealt with this year to scrape back to a 9-7 record.

6) Ref, you suck

Actually, they didn’t suck yesterday, I just thought this would be a clever title for entry number six.

Four things jumped out to me in this game:

The Alshon Jeffery sideline catch: if you watch it again, the ball slides a bit when he hits the ground, but I think under the new catch rules it would have stood after review. The Eagles did a nice job of getting up to the line and running a play before Washington could challenge.

I’m not sure why the booth review was necessary on the Josh Johnson non-fumble. Clearly his arm was making a noticeable forward motion and the ball ended up going 10+ yards down the field.

There was a play early in the third quarter when Zach Ertz was whistled down on a catch near the first down marker, where I felt like his feet were still moving. In a close game, maybe that gets some complaints.

The Nelson Agholor touchdown catch at the end of the third: two feet down and a “football move” (reaching over the goal line) rendered what otherwise would be an incomplete pass as a touchdown instead.

Here’s the Ertz catch, which actually was a really nice design, complete with pre-snap motion and a drag back to his original starting position with a natural screen on the middle linebacker:

Early whistle.

Anyway, pretty clean stuff overall. The Eagles had two false starts, a neutral zone infraction, defensive offsides, and a delay of game, but no bogus pass interference or helmet contact or unnecessary roughness.

Nada.

7) Winning these battles

Utter domination here:

won time of possession, 43 to 17 minutes

0 turnover margin (each team with an interception)

8-14 on third down (57.1%)

1-1 on fourth down

Redskins went 0-9 on third down (0%)

lost 12 yards on 3 sacks

2-3 success rate in red zone

5 penalties for 25 yards

That’s as good as it gets for the Eagles, who limited the Redskins to eight first downs and ran 27 more plays. Washington finished with 89 total yards on the entire evening, which is absurdly bad.

8) Doug’s best call?

You want a QB sneak on 4th and 1?

Yeah let’s do it.

Good choice by Doug to just make the most obvious play call right there. I also loved the timing of the Andy Reid shovel pass, which almost resulted in a touchdown.

He also showed a nice mix with his running looks – some under center, some shotgun looks, a 12/11/7 split for Wendell Smallwood, Josh Adams, and Darren Sproles.

Another good Doug game. He’ll have his work cut out for him next week against the NFL’s best defense.

9) Doug’s worst call?

I can’t think of one.

Probably the only thing that should bother anybody about that game is the Washington fake punt, but otherwise, that’s about as complete of a performance as one can put together.

10) Mediocrity in broadcasting

We got Chris Myers, Daryl Johnston, and Laura Okmin, who I think are fine as a team.

My problems with the broadcast were two-fold:

We didn’t get NEARLY enough Bears/Vikings cutaways or even single-clip video footage in this game. Myers and Johnson kept talking about the playoff scenario and how the other game affected the Eagles, but it felt the producer and director did a poor job of building up excitement by giving us nothing but scraps from Minneapolis.

Myers and Johnston didn’t even seem super excited to be calling a week 17 game with playoff implications. It sounded like they were calling Buffalo/Miami instead. Most broadcast teams get shitty and pointless week 17 games, so you’d think they would have been thrilled to get this game, even if the Eagles are beating down a lame duck Redskins team.

I think point #2 kind of reflects my recurring complaint about the broadcasts we watched this year. It felt like a lot of the guys in the booth were just sort of going through the motions. I know it’s just a job for them, and work is a grind, but you have to at least make it seem exciting or feign people into believing that you actually give a shit. That comes with the territory.

There was also this:

They didn’t know anything about the ski masks either. Don’t they have producers?

— John Carr (@UtleyYATM) December 31, 2018

My only other broadcast gripe is that the reversal on the Agholor touchdown came during a commercial break. You have to be live for those kinds of important in-game moments.

Anyway, this team is going to the playoffs:

The post This Team is Going to the Playoffs – Ten Takeaways from Eagles 24, Redskins 0 appeared first on Crossing Broad.

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i-am-very-very-tired · 6 years

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She approached him because she recognized his camera flash — Aziz Ansari was taking pictures at the 2017 Emmy Awards after-party with a film camera, not a digital one. “I stood up, and I’m like tipsy at this point and feeling really confident. I’m in a gown, and I walked up to Aziz and said, ‘What’d you just shoot with?’”

Grace is a 23-year-old Brooklyn-based photographer, then aged 22. We are not using her real name to protect her identity because she is not a public figure. She says Ansari brushed her off at first, but after he realized they both brought the same kind of camera to the event, an old model from the 80s, he was impressed.

They flirted a little — he took two pictures of her, she snapped some of him — and then she and her date went back to the dance floor. “It was like, one of those things where you’re aware of the other person all night,” she said. “We would catch eyes every now and then.”

They ran into each other one last time, right as Grace was leaving. At Ansari’s suggestion, she put her number in his phone.

When her plane landed back in New York the next day, she already had a message from him. They exchanged flirtatious banter over text for a week or so before he asked her to go out with him on Monday, September 25.

The date didn’t go as planned. The night would end with Grace in an Uber home, in tears, messaging her friends about how Ansari behaved. Babe spoke to the first friends she told about it, and reviewed the messages on her phone.

The day after the incident, she wrote a long text to Ansari, saying: “I just want to take this moment to make you aware of [your] behavior and how uneasy it made me.” To that message, Ansari responds: “Clearly, I misread things in the moment and I’m truly sorry.”

The mobile phone number from which his texts to her were sent matches up with his details on a searchable public register.

We spoke to Grace last week. When we met, Ansari had just won Best Actor for his Netflix show “Master Of None” at the Golden Globes, where he declared his support for the fight against sexual assault and harassment by wearing a “Time’s Up” pin on the red carpet.

Grace said it was surreal to be meeting up with Ansari, a successful comedian and major celebrity, and she was “excited” for their date.

Before meeting Ansari, Grace told friends and coworkers about the date and consulted her go-to group chat about what she should wear to fit the “cocktail chic” dress-code he gave her. She settled on “a tank-top dress and jeans.” She showed me a picture, it was a good outfit.

After arriving at his apartment in Manhattan on Monday evening, they exchanged small talk and drank wine. “It was white,” she said. “I didn’t get to choose and I prefer red, but it was white wine.” Then Ansari walked her to Grand Banks, an Oyster bar onboard a historic wooden schooner on the Hudson River just a few blocks away.

She said it was a beautiful, warm September night. They discussed NYU, comedy and a new, secret project he was working on, but she says she did most of the talking.

Grace says she sensed Ansari was eager for them to leave. “When the waiter came over he quickly asked for the check and he said like, ‘Let’s get off this boat.’” She recalls there was still wine in her glass and more left in the bottle he ordered. The abruptness surprised her. “Like, he got the check and then it was bada-boom, bada-bing, we’re out of there.”

They walked the two blocks back to his apartment building, an exclusive address on TriBeCa’s Franklin Street, where Taylor Swift has a place too. When they walked back in, she complimented his marble countertops. According to Grace, Ansari turned the compliment into an invitation.

“He said something along the lines of, ‘How about you hop up and take a seat?’” Within moments, he was kissing her. “In a second, his hand was on my breast.” Then he was undressing her, then he undressed himself. She remembers feeling uncomfortable at how quickly things escalated.

When Ansari told her he was going to grab a condom within minutes of their first kiss, Grace voiced her hesitation explicitly. “I said something like, ‘Whoa, let’s relax for a sec, let’s chill.’” She says he then resumed kissing her, briefly performed oral sex on her, and asked her to do the same thing to him. She did, but not for long. “It was really quick. Everything was pretty much touched and done within ten minutes of hooking up, except for actual sex.”

She says Ansari began making a move on her that he repeated during their encounter. “The move he kept doing was taking his two fingers in a V-shape and putting them in my mouth, in my throat to wet his fingers, because the moment he’d stick his fingers in my throat he’d go straight for my vagina and try to finger me.” Grace called the move “the claw.”

Ansari also physically pulled her hand towards his penis multiple times throughout the night, from the time he first kissed her on the countertop onward. “He probably moved my hand to his dick five to seven times,” she said. “He really kept doing it after I moved it away.”

But the main thing was that he wouldn’t let her move away from him. She compared the path they cut across his apartment to a football play. “It was 30 minutes of me getting up and moving and him following and sticking his fingers down my throat again. It was really repetitive. It felt like a fucking game.”

Throughout the course of her short time in the apartment, she says she used verbal and non-verbal cues to indicate how uncomfortable and distressed she was. “Most of my discomfort was expressed in me pulling away and mumbling. I know that my hand stopped moving at some points,” she said. “I stopped moving my lips and turned cold.”

Whether Ansari didn’t notice Grace’s reticence or knowingly ignored it is impossible for her to say. “I know I was physically giving off cues that I wasn’t interested. I don’t think that was noticed at all, or if it was, it was ignored.”

Ansari wanted to have sex. She said she remembers him asking again and again, “Where do you want me to fuck you?” while she was still seated on the countertop. She says she found the question tough to answer because she says she didn’t want to fuck him at all.

“I wasn’t really even thinking of that, I didn’t want to be engaged in that with him. But he kept asking, so I said, ‘Next time.’ And he goes, ‘Oh, you mean second date?’ and I go, ‘Oh, yeah, sure,’ and he goes, ‘Well, if I poured you another glass of wine now, would it count as our second date?’” He then poured her a glass and handed it to her. She excused herself to the bathroom soon after.

Grace says she spent around five minutes in the bathroom, collecting herself in the mirror and splashing herself with water. Then she went back to Ansari. He asked her if she was okay. “I said I don’t want to feel forced because then I’ll hate you, and I’d rather not hate you,” she said.

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She told babe that at first, she was happy with how he reacted. “He said, ‘Oh, of course, it’s only fun if we’re both having fun.’ The response was technically very sweet and acknowledging the fact that I was very uncomfortable. Verbally, in that moment, he acknowledged that I needed to take it slow. Then he said, ‘Let’s just chill over here on the couch.’”

This moment is particularly significant for Grace, because she thought that would be the end of the sexual encounter — her remark about not wanting to feel “forced” had added a verbal component to the cues she was trying to give him about her discomfort. When she sat down on the floor next to Ansari, who sat on the couch, she thought he might rub her back, or play with her hair — something to calm her down.

Ansari instructed her to turn around. “He sat back and pointed to his penis and motioned for me to go down on him. And I did. I think I just felt really pressured. It was literally the most unexpected thing I thought would happen at that moment because I told him I was uncomfortable.”

Soon, he pulled her back up onto the couch. She would tell her friend via text later that night, “He [made out] with me again and says, ‘Doesn’t look like you hate me.’”

Halfway into the encounter, he led her from the couch to a different part of his apartment. He said he had to show her something. Then he brought her to a large mirror, bent her over and asked her again, “Where do you want me to fuck you? Do you want me to fuck you right here?” He rammed his penis against her ass while he said it, pantomiming intercourse.

“I just remember looking in the mirror and seeing him behind me. He was very much caught up in the moment and I obviously very much wasn’t,” Grace said. “After he bent me over is when I stood up and said no, I don’t think I’m ready to do this, I really don’t think I’m going to do this. And he said, ‘How about we just chill, but this time with our clothes on?’”

They got dressed, sat side by side on the couch they’d already “chilled” on, and he turned on an episode of Seinfeld. She’d never seen it before. She said that’s when the reality of what was going on sank in. “It really hit me that I was violated. I felt really emotional all at once when we sat down there. That that whole experience was actually horrible.”

While the TV played in the background, he kissed her again, stuck his fingers down her throat again, and moved to undo her pants. She turned away. She remembers “feeling in a different mindset at that point.”

“I remember saying, ‘You guys are all the same, you guys are all the fucking same.’” Ansari asked her what she meant. When she turned to answer, she says he met her with “gross, forceful kisses.”

After that last kiss, Grace stood up from the couch, moved back to the kitchen island where she left her phone, and said she would call herself a car. He hugged her and kissed her goodbye, another “aggressive” kiss. When she pulled away, Ansari finally relented and insisted he’d call her the car. “He said, ‘It’s coming, but just tell them your name is Essence,’” she said, a name he has joked about using as a pseudonym in his sitcom.

She teared up in the hallway, outside his place, pressing the down button on the elevator. The Uber was waiting when she left the building. He asked if she was Essence, she said yes, and then she rode back to her Brooklyn apartment. “I cried the whole ride home. At that point I felt violated. That last hour was so out of my hand.”

Babe asked Ansari’s representatives if they wanted to respond to Grace’s account but they have yet to do so. [Update – 10:02pm, January 14: Ansari has released a statement, which you can read in full here. In it, he acknowledges that they “engaged in sexual activity” but says “by all indications [it] was completely consensual.”]

Grace compares Ansari’s sexual mannerisms to those of a horny, rough, entitled 18-year-old. She said so to her friends via text after the date and said the same thing to me when we spoke.

But Aziz Ansari isn’t an 18-year-old. He’s a 34-year-old actor and comedian of global renown who’s probably done more thinking about the nuances of dating and sex in the digital age than practically anyone else. He wrote a book about it, “Modern Romance”, and it was a New York Times bestseller. Ansari built his career on being cute and nice and parsing the signals women send to men and the male emotions that result and turning them into award-winning, Madison Square Garden-filling comedy.

Most people first saw Aziz when he was Tom Haverford, a Parks and Rec fan favorite whose absurd, hilarious phrases were made to be memed. Who hasn’t said “treat yo’ self” once or twice? At that time, he branded himself as the witty, woke alternative to the stereotypical douchebag bro. His early 2010s routines paint him as the kind of guy who strikes out because he actually respects women.

And then, as he rose to prominence, he focused less on his own sexual disenfranchisement and more on pressing societal issues like racism and sexual assault, a move that’s earned him tons of praise. Refinery29 called him “a certified woke bae.”

In the second season of “Master of None”, one episode introduces a macho TV food guy called Chef Jeff, who gives Ansari’s character Dev a huge career opportunity before being accused of sexually inappropriate conduct by a bunch of women.

Discussing the storyline, Ansari said he wanted to examine what happens when much-loved characters are revealed to be creeps, making all those around them who don’t speak out complicit. “So it was like, ‘Okay, what if this is one of those types of guys and we just get the audience to love him? And then pull the rug out from under them at the end and reveal that he’s actually not a good dude?’”

Speaking to babe, Grace mentioned the glaring gap between Ansari’s comedy persona and the behavior she experienced in his apartment as a reason why she didn’t get out earlier. “I didn’t leave because I think I was stunned and shocked,” she said. “This was not what I expected. I’d seen some of his shows and read excerpts from his book and I was not expecting a bad night at all, much less a violating night and a painful one.”

In the Uber home from Ansari’s apartment, Grace texted a friend: “I hate men.” She continued: “I had to say no a lot. He wanted sex. He wanted to get me drunk and then fuck me.” She texted another friend after she got back to her apartment, “I’m taking a bath I’m really upset I feel weird.”

Grace’s roommate, who babe has spoken to, didn’t see or talk to Grace until the morning after. The roommate asked how it went right away. “She said, ‘it was awful. It didn’t feel good at all.’” Grace filled her roommate in on the details later. “I guess it ended up getting really fucking weird, really fucking quick,” the roommate said. “She was really shaken up about it.”

Another friend, who Grace texted on the way home from Ansari’s apartment and spoke to the day after on the phone, told babe she was “so upset.”

Grace says she spent the next day groggy and miserable. When they asked, she told her coworkers that the date had gone poorly. She also reached out to her friends, who helped her craft a message to tell Ansari how she felt about the date. But he reached out first.

“It was fun meeting you last night,” Ansari sent on Tuesday evening. “Last night might’ve been fun for you, but it wasn’t for me,” Grace responded. “You ignored clear non-verbal cues; you kept going with advances.” She explains why she is telling him how she felt: “I want to make sure you’re aware so maybe the next girl doesn’t have to cry on the ride home.”

“I’m so sad to hear this,” he responded. “Clearly, I misread things in the moment and I’m truly sorry.”

Those texts were the last Grace had contact with Ansari. And that night in his apartment was the last time she saw him, until she watched him win big at the Golden Globes.

Grace says her friends helped her grapple with the aftermath of her night with Ansari. “It took a really long time for me to validate this as sexual assault,” she told us. “I was debating if this was an awkward sexual experience or sexual assault. And that’s why I confronted so many of my friends and listened to what they had to say, because I wanted validation that it was actually bad.”

For Grace, the Golden Globes brought the events back to the forefront of her mind. “It was actually painful to watch him win and accept an award,” she said. “And absolutely cringeworthy that he was wearing the Time’s Up pin. I think that started a new fire, and it kind of made it more real.”

She told babe: “I believe that I was taken advantage of by Aziz. I was not listened to and ignored. It was by far the worst experience with a man I’ve ever had.”

Ansari has now released a statement denying sexual misconduct.

He said: “It was true that everything did seem okay to me, so when I heard that it was not the case for her, I was surprised and concerned.”

Update: Ansari’s full statement:

“In September of last year, I met a woman at a party. We exchanged numbers. We texted back and forth and eventually went on a date. We went out to dinner, and afterwards we ended up engaging in sexual activity, which by all indications was completely consensual.

“The next day, I got a text from her saying that although ‘it may have seemed okay,’ upon further reflection, she felt uncomfortable. It was true that everything did seem okay to me, so when I heard that it was not the case for her, I was surprised and concerned. I took her words to heart and responded privately after taking the time to process what she had said.

“I continue to support the movement that is happening in our culture. It is necessary and long overdue.” – Aziz Ansari

Contact babe on Twitter, Instagram and Facebook, or email us at [email protected].

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gibsonsflowofthoughts · 6 years

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Joe Moorhead explains what makes the Mississippi State offense so dangerous

Everything changed for Joe Moorhead as soon as he obtained the most valuable commodity in coaching: final say.

Moorhead had moved from FCS position coach to power conference offensive coordinator in just six years, and he had been reasonably successful as a play-caller. But when he took the head coaching job at Fordham in 2012, it was his chance to fully institute his offensive vision.

“That first year at Fordham, we said, ‘Alright, we’ve got 51 percent of the vote, and all of the things we’ve been talking about wanting to do,’” Moorhead tells SB Nation. “‘We’re gonna sit down and put the system in place that we want to run.’”

Fordham was desperate for a jolt of energy. It was the perfect environment for getting creative. The system Moorhead and his assistants created would help usher in the run-pass option (RPO) era.

The turnaround was immediate. The Rams improved by five wins in his first year and by six more, to 12-2, in his second.

They averaged 37.6 points per game in 2013, and despite an offseason ACL injury to dual-threat quarterback Michael Nebrich, they began to adopt some run-pass option reads, improving to 39.2 points per game in 2014.

Moorhead’s system wasn’t a reinvention of the geometry of football in the way that Hal Mumme’s air raid was. This was more the synthesis of a bunch of the most versatile ideas.

The former Penn State OC was an optimistic head coaching hire on Mississippi State’s part, one predicated on finding an extremely talented coach, not an overthought attempt at finding someone with perfect SEC (read: Nick Saban) or Mississippi ties. And Moorhead’s is an optimistic offense, one that has baked in as much flexibility as possible, in both tactics and QB empowerment.

If there’s any proof that Moorhead can thrive in Starkville, it’s the tenets of his offensive system, which reflect a commitment to inclusiveness and ingenuity.

Defensive coordinators have to make their decisions based on your personnel, not your formation. Don’t give them anything to work with.

All offenses try to make defenses guess incorrectly. That’s the trick behind any option concept: isolate specific defenders, make them guess, and punish them for that choice. Moorhead tries to make defensive coordinators guess wrong, too.

In 2016, as Penn State was making its run to the Big Ten title, Moorhead’s offense ran more than 98 percent of its plays out of 11 personnel (one running back, one tight end, three receivers). The numbers barely changed last year. A Moorhead offense can morph into plenty of looks, and players can substitute within their position groups, but the defense can’t glean anything from the players coming on and off the field.

“Defensive coordinators, they don’t really know what formation you’re going to line up in,” Moorhead says. “So when you’re in a certain personnel grouping, you have to make a defensive call, and it’s gotta match up against any formation they can align in.”

Joe Moorhead looks on as Penn State quarterback Trace McSorley warms up before playing Pitt in 2017.

Rich Barnes-USA TODAY Sports

By the time the defense sees the formation, it’s too late to call a play.

“So with us never switching personnel, we can align in three different formations with the tight end attached, we can align in two different formations with the tight end detached, and then we can line up in three different empty[-backfield] formations. And we haven’t taken anybody out of the game.”

Moorhead began to realize the power of singular personnel when he served as J.D. Brookhart’s coordinator at Akron from 2006 to 2008.

“We were no-huddle, but we were multiple personnel. It was like running a pro-style out of the no-huddle. It was hit-and-miss from a production standpoint.

“I would say the 2008 season was really the first time where we said, ‘Alright, we’re gonna be 11 and 10 personnel [one back, no TEs], mix in a little bit of 12 [one back, two TEs] — limited formations, limited plays. That ‘08 year was kind of the 1.0 version.”

Give your players as much control as they have earned. Teach the QB to be your eyes on the field and make changes based on what he sees.

Moorhead offers a hypothetical. Let’s say you’ve called a base RPO, in which you’re going to either hand the ball off to the running back or throw to a man running a replace route (i.e., running to a spot where an attacking defender once stood). But you’ve determined the defense is in man-to-man coverage, negating much of the point of an RPO, which is designed to conflict defenders who have responsibilities in both run and pass defense.

“There are things within the play to take advantage of that,” he says, and a well-designed offense has contingencies on top of contingencies. But if you’re not comfortable with what you’re seeing, just change the play.

“One of the benefits of our system is that we don’t have to stick to that play. If it’s a look that you don’t like, just get into a play that attacks that look.”

The concept seems intuitive, but player-coach relationships aren’t always so, shall we say, collaborative. And it wasn’t until Moorhead experienced collaboration that he realized he wanted to be a coach. His last two seasons as a quarterback at Fordham, he played for former Bill Snyder assistant Nick Quartaro, who gave his QB freedom Moorhead never knew was possible.

Quartaro went 11-31-1 as Fordham’s head coach, though that was a marked improvement over what he inherited. Four of those 11 wins came when Moorhead was a senior.

“The system that he put in — Bill Snyder’s system — was a one-back, mostly 11 personnel,” Moorhead says. “Going back to that playbook — to improve upon an existing play call or change the play call completely — that was something I took a great amount of pride in.

“I think maybe that subconsciously stoked some of those coaching embers,” he notes. “In [Quartaro’s] system, you could get to the line of scrimmage, and literally if you didn’t like something, you could completely change it,” which Moorhead did quite often.

“I think that was the best thing about it, being able to play in a system that gave the quarterback an incredible amount of autonomy. And really from a preparation standpoint, you had to know what was going on. When you have that kind of freedom, you can’t just wing it.”

He laughs, “Coach and I still joke about it all the time. There was one game, and one of my buddies, a defensive guy, was standing next to him on the sideline. We’re going through a drive, and I think I had checked out of five or six straight plays. He’s like, ‘Jeez oh man, this guy’s checking out of every play that I call!’”

Until Quartaro’s influence, Moorhead had envisioned a different path for himself. He was an English major who expected to go into sports journalism, but only once it was clear his first career choice wasn’t going to work out.

“In all honesty, I wanted to play professional football. I wanted to be Dan Marino or Terry Bradshaw and chased that dream as long as I possibly could.”

It would make sense that someone whose major included a creative writing curriculum filled his playbook with more choices than plays. Take Moorhead’s go-to play-action call, for instance. It’s what he ran in 2003, his one year as Georgetown coordinator.

Joe Moorhead

This is your common power run look to the right side, and the Z receiver — the receiver lined up on the strong side of the formation with the tight end — has route options based on how he’s being covered. He has to read the same thing that the QB is reading.

“That’s what we got from [former Pitt coach] Walt [Harris],” the former Panthers graduate assistant says. “That’s one that’s stood the test of time. Going all the way back to 1999, it’s literally the same play.”

The option route can be traced back to John Elway’s high school days.

“But essentially what we’ve done now is, we can run this concept to any of the other receivers.”

It’s a Z option here, but it could be an X option (to the end split alone on the other side), or an option for the slot receiver or tight end.

“I’d say there’s a tremendous amount of carryover from Akron to here,” Moorhead says. “It’s developed and progressed throughout those stops, but the run game is what’s completely changed.”

Never put yourself in a position in which your QB doesn’t have options.

“I would say 85 to 90 percent of the runs we called had a second phase or a tag,” Moorhead says. The complexity varied, but “rarely do we just call a run and just hand it off without having the quarterback read somebody at the first, second, or third level.”

This is where football has begun to change. It’s easy to think of RPOs as a third category of play, alongside runs and passes. But you have to be prepared to run if you’re calling a run-pass option; the concept is only going to have so much use on, say, third-and-11.

To illustrate how the RPO is utilized, let’s look at a couple of mesh points (the point at which the hand off is to occur, or not occur).

This is the same inside run play, the first taking place on first-and-10, the second on second-and-10. But they have different tags. The first play has a bubble screen slapped onto it, the second has something different.

On the first, against Northwestern last year, McSorley appears to be reading the defensive end, who surges upfield and opens up space for Saquon Barkley to do Saquon Barkley things. Barkley races to the end zone to ice the game.

On the second play, from late in the 2017 win over Michigan, McSorley appears to read the outside linebacker, who is himself reading run and not covering the slot receiver. McSorley then throws to an open slot man for a 23-yard gain.

Both of these plays were called as runs. This is how you take your pro-style influences and fit them into an innovative, ridiculously QB-friendly system.

Defenses will always try to dictate the reads you make. Stay one step ahead of them.

In that Northwestern game, not much was working. The Nittany Lions were never severely threatened on the scoreboard — in the first half, they forced three turnovers and a turnover on downs, all in their own territory — but in a season in which it seemed like PSU led every game 14-0 at opening kickoff, Northwestern had the offense locked down.

Sometimes, you need playmakers. Barkley made one.

The play that turned the 2016 season around wasn’t a run-pass option of any sort, just a plain, old pass Penn State used pretty frequently.

Joe Moorhead

PSU was trailing 13-3 against Minnesota early in the third quarter. The Nittany Lions were 2-2 and coming off of a blowout loss to Michigan. No one was thinking of them as Big Ten contenders. Head coach James Franklin, who had brought Moorhead in to liven up a stagnant offense, was catching more heat by the week.

Moorhead called one of his go-tos, a pass that often went to tight end Mike Gesicki, the guy lined up opposite the three receivers on the other side.

Minnesota had Gesicki and Barkley, the dump-off option, covered up. The Gophers were well-prepared for the attack to that point. McSorley had to step up in the pocket and make a play downfield.

“The post part of that route” — the middle receiver’s route in the trips combo — “is one that may have changed our whole tenure at Penn State,“ Moorhead says. “Irv Charles caught it ... actually the ball kinda caught him ... but he split it for 80.”

Later, McSorley improvised again, scrambling for 26 yards to set up a game-tying field goal.

“That was the point in that season when everything kinda turned around,” Moorhead says. “From that point on, we made a conscious decision that we were gonna run Trace more. And that opened up a lot of things for us.”

Offenses have control when they build options into their attack, but defenses can still dictate which options get chosen. So at some point, McSorley had to make plays. And the better an offense adapts to its personnel, the more likely it is to figure out what its playmakers can do.

In 2016, only two teams had more gains of 30-plus yards than the Nittany Lions did. In 2017, Moorhead’s second year, defenses completely changed how they defended PSU. So McSorley took what he was given.

“Defenses were attempting to take away the big plays,” Moorhead says. “Trace read it, the deep ball wasn’t there, and he came down to our second or third option. Or the coverage for us to go deep wasn’t right, and we ended up going to the other side of the field.”

If you don’t have talented players touching the ball, your system is only going to be so effective. But Moorhead feels he has built the best system for whatever his personnel has to offer.

“What excites me the most is the simplicity and flexibility of our system,” he says. “We can tailor it to a running quarterback, and we can tailor it to a throwing quarterback. If we need to pass more because that’s our strength, then we’ve done that — 5,000 yards one year at Fordham, and Trace has broken all the records at Penn State. If it’s a team that’s more offensive line-centered and run game-centered, then we can lean on that. We’ve never been higher than 55 percent [run or pass], one way or the other.”

Joe Moorhead congratulating wide receiver DaeSean Hamilton after Penn State’s win over Nebraska in 2017.

TNS via Getty Images

That could be key in 2018, as Moorhead inherits one of the most proven rushing quarterbacks in the country, Nick Fitzgerald. Not including sacks, the senior-to-be rushed 155 times for 1,026 yards and 14 touchdowns in 2017. When Fitzgerald got hurt, backup Keytaon Thompson rushed for 155 non-sack yards and outplayed Lamar Jackson in a bowl win over Louisville.

Fitzgerald is really good, but he’s different than McSorley. Moorhead’s fine with that.

“The success of our offense isn’t contingent upon one phase being that much better than the other, and I think that’s where we as coaches need to be cognizant of it. It’s not what we want to work, it’s what’s gonna work based on who we have and how we can teach it.”

The fifth tenet to Moorhead’s philosophy has more to do with the man than the system.

Starkville is a lot further south than anywhere Moorhead has ever coached.

He is a generous and well-spirited interview. But when you ask him about a change in culture, about getting a head coaching job in the SEC without ever having coached in the league before, he looks a little weary. You can tell he’s been asked the question quite a bit. But until there are actual games, all he can do is talk.

Recently, that meant going to Memphis, Houston, and Atlanta (where plenty of MSU grads and potential recruits live), but also to Mississippi towns like Vicksburg, Cleveland, Biloxi, Meridian, and Tupelo.

“We were on the road through all of December and into January,” he says, “and we’ve had multiple coaching staffs come through here and talk ball. I’ve had a chance to go throughout the state on this Road Dawgs Tour and meet the fans and people who support the program. I think it’s probably part Southern hospitality and part just being genuine with people, but it doesn’t make the transition very difficult.

“And I just feel strongly in my heart of hearts that the regional aspect of coaching and recruiting is incredibly overblown. If you can coach, you can coach. If you can recruit, you can recruit.”

The tour gave him time to test out a strong talking point: “I ask the crowd if they know Nick Saban, Jimbo Fisher, and Urban Meyer’s home towns. Fairmont, W.V.; Clarksburg, W.V.; and Ashtabula, Ohio, which is almost in Canada. It hasn’t hurt them too much. Not to compare myself to them from a productivity standpoint, but — it might not guarantee success, but it doesn’t eliminate it either.”

Moorhead tried to align his staff to account for the holes in his résumé. He is surrounded by an almost perfect mix of former Moorhead assistants, coaches with Mississippi or SEC experience, and coaches with head coaching experience.

“It’s like Ocean’s Eleven,” Moorhead says about the way he put his staff together.

At Fordham, he inherited far less talent than what he’s found in Starkville. When former head coach Dan Mullen left to take the Florida job, he did Moorhead a favor, leaving behind both a well-stocked cupboard and room for growth.

In nine years under Mullen, the Bulldogs averaged 7.7 wins per year and won in a way that MSU had not since the late-1930s and early-1940s. They even reached No. 1 in the AP poll for the first time, midway through 2014.

“We’ve been very good,” Moorhead says, “but there’s been one winning record in the SEC for Mississippi State in the last 15 years.”

The SEC West is still the toughest division in college football. Simply getting to 4-4 in conference play, as Mullen did in each of the last three years, will never not be an accomplishment for the Bulldogs.

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missvalerietanner · 7 years

Text

This Is Not Your Fault | Story Excerpt (mature)

This is based on a dream I had last night. Well, it occurred more like this morning since this was the disturbing dream that woke me up at 6 AM and left me unable to go back to sleep. Oh, no, not because it was twisted, but because it was the answer to a story I’ve had in my head for a few days now, and I made myself get up and write this.

And yes, before you ask, I am a little fucked up. Mentally, that is.

Enjoy. If you dare...

- { 2,597 Words // Mature Scenes Ahead // Trigger Warning } -

(There’s more to the story here, but all you need to know is that Adam and Erin both live in abusive homes, and they’re running away from home this night in Adam’s mom’s stolen Buick. A pickup truck starts to follow them and then begins trying to ram them off the road for seemingly no reason. All characters present are 16-17 years old.)

When their pickup rammed the back of the Buick again, Adam lost control, unable to keep the bulky car on the road. The wheel spun hard to the right, tearing free from his hands. He panicked and clutched at the wheel with frantic hands while Erin bounced around in the seat beside him. Her hands gripped the dashboard in front of her with white knuckles, and a look of absolute fear trapped in her eyes. Grabbing the wheel, he jerked it back to the left, hoping to straighten out the vehicle, but he over-corrected, sending the Buick into the ditch on the side of the road.

The car slammed into the dirt, sending fragments of earth scattering onto the hood as it sank into its final resting place. Panic ignited his senses, and he searched glanced through the back window to see the pickup truck screech to halt behind the car. He shook Erin, who reeled back from the dash with a line of blood running down her temple.

“Shit,” he groaned. “You’re bleeding.”

She rubbed at her forehead, smearing the blood across her fingertips. “I--I’m fine. I just hit my head on the dash.” She saw the fear in his eyes and glanced back to see their followers climbing out of the truck. “We have to get out of here.”

“The car’s trashed. We’re on foot.” Adam shoved open the driver’s side door, and it creaked with weariness as he climbed out. Reaching back, he helped her crawl over the center console and land on solid footing outside the car. He grabbed her hand and led her at a full run away from the vehicles while their followers began to pursue them.

They ran toward a massive warehouse in the distance, the only place in sight. Adam knew it well. This was the town’s storage for the maintenance and restoration of the school buses. Any school buses that needed a fresh coat of paint or some engine work were brought here to be fixed. The place was large--large enough to hide in.

Adam led her toward the warehouse, and they stormed through the side entrance and into the darkness waiting inside. He pushed the door shut and flipped the lock, ensuring they couldn’t be followed inside. As he turned away from the door, he felt her hands grip his arm tight.

“What’s happening, Adam? Why are they doing this?”

“Maybe somebody has a real problem with us leaving this town.”

“They’re just punks, assholes from school. They couldn’t know what we were doing tonight.”

“O.K.,” he laughed, always a fan of her honesty. “Then they’re just assholes. Either way, we gotta wait ‘em out in here.”

“Wait who out?” a voice boomed above them as the lights snapped on.

Squinting against the burn of sudden light, Adam surveyed the area for the source of the voice. The warehouse was emptier than he had expected it to be. There was an office to their left, just beside the door where they’d entered and a commercial paint booth sat in the far right corner. But the rest of the warehouse was open space aside from two buses spaced half a mile apart. Plastic lined every inch of the concrete floor to protect from paint and oil splatters, and standing on top of the bus nearest to them was Anthony Milbrew, the pride and joy of the football team. His twin brother, Andrew, stood on the far side of the warehouse next to the fuse box that controlled the lights.

“You two didn’t think you were gonna slip away that easily, did ya?”

“What do you want?” Adam asked with a snarl in his voice, disgusted that they were trapped by the Twins. They were known for being cruel and strange, but the fact that their parents were the wealthiest in town didn’t help to simmer their egos and self-righteousness. He shuffled Erin behind him to keep her from harm, dreading what they planned to do. “We didn’t do nothin’ to you.”

“You hear that, Drew? Should we let ‘em go?”

“Nawh,” Andrew retorted as he started stalking toward them. “We caught wind of what you guys have been doing up in that old tower.”

“And we want a taste.”Anthony finished his brother’s statement as he crouched on the edge of the bus and slid down onto the ground below.

Together, the Twins strolled toward them and began encircling them like prey stuck in a snake’s grip. Anthony stepped away for a second to unlock the side door, allowing four backups--two boys and two girls--to enter the warehouse. Under the orders of the Twins, the two boys grabbed Adam and shoved him to the ground. When he tried to resist, the boys punched him in the stomach, ensuring he would stay on his knees while the Twins gripped Erin’s arms and guided her to the center of the warehouse.

The Twins held her down on her knees in the pose of an execution while the two girls stood on either side of her and held her arms outstretched, trapping her under the twins’ grip. Tears poured from her eyes as she shook her head, rustling her short, blonde waves now smeared with dirt. She sobbed silently, her chest jumping in quick movements as her lungs struggled to breath through the choking constrictions.

The boys dragged Adam to the center as well while he mumbled pleas they refused to hear. The other boys held him pinned in the same position as Erin, forcing him to his knees to watch his love cry alone and just too many feet out of reach. The hands of the boys were hot against his arms as they tightened like the coils of a snake around his skin.

“Please,” Adam begged in a cracking voice, broken with tears. “Leave us alone.”

The Twins glanced up at him and laughed in unison, a chilling hiss that made his eyes widen and his heart still. One of the Twins dropped his hands off of her body to retrieve a box cutter from his back pocket. Plastic clicked against metal in a rattling noise as he extended the blade from its shell a solid three inches. The Twin paced around Erin’s trapped form and danced with joy in his heart like a court jester. And then he began to drag the knife’s blade across her tender flesh, leaving shallow red tears in his wake.

Erin’s screams of pain filled the warehouse as he cut her again and again. Adam wrestled against his captors, but they only held tighter, squeezed tighter like the vipers they were. His shouts of agony joined hers in a symphony of pain as he watched, helpless.

Twenty-eight cuts later, the Twin retracted the knife which now dripped with a heavy stream of blood, marking a trail across the floor as he continued his taunting dance. Only then did he turn the knife toward her clothes. Laughing, he gripped the collar of her shirt and yanked it down, allowing clearance for the blade. He stabbed the blade through the fabric and began sawing through the shirt with short, rushed, and jagged movements until the clothing fell open. The girls pinning her arms took turns peeling the torn shirt from her back until it was free from her body, and they tossed it aside, leaving Erin exposed in her bra.

“Stop,” Adam screamed again, never taking his eyes off of Erin’s downturned face. “Let us go.”

“Not now,” the Twin still holding her pinned replied. “You don’t want to miss the main event.”

The second Twin continued slicing away her clothes until she remained only in her bra and panties with her shoes still on. She began to squirm a bit more beneath their touch now, sensing the doom lingering in her future, and Adam began shouting incoherent words, desperate to distract them because he sensed the same end awaiting her.

“D-d-don’t do this, please,” he begged through new tears. “Don’t hurt her. Hurt me instead. Leaving was my idea. Please. Don’t. Let her go.”

“Where would be the fun in that?” the Twins mocked with more laughter as the girls holding her arms smiled wide and evil.

The Twin with the knife severed the latch on the back of her bra then held each strap in his grimy, sweaty palms as he cut them loose from her body. The bra crumpled to the ground below without resistance, and the Twin turned his attention to her panties. He gathered the majority of the fabric into his fist, just below her hips, and dragged the knife through it, opening her up to attack. He then cut the seam from her waist, releasing the panties from her body completely so that they could join the bra on the plastic-covered concrete floor below.

She screamed as his hands settled on her hips, and Adam dropped his head, looking away. He couldn’t stomach watching this, and he felt bile rising in his throat, wishing he could silence his ears as easily. But the boys holding him grabbed his chin, forcing him to stare straight ahead. With defiance, he held his eyes shut tight until he felt hot air brush across his face.

“You’re going to watch this,” the Twin said. “Or I’ll slice off your eyelids and make you.”

Trembling, Adam opened his eyes slowly to see the Twin smile proudly. With a laugh, the Twin retracted the knife and returned to her. He settled onto his knees behind her, unzipped his jeans, grabbed her hips, and forced himself inside her as she screamed.

The other’s held Adam’s face frozen in place, stripping him of his ability to look away. With open, wet eyes, he watched the rape, growing deaf to all the sounds in the world other than the dry clapping of his body slamming against hers and the heaving grunts leaking from his upturned lips. And when the first Twin finished, Adam felt some relief, praying it was over, but the Twins simply switched places, and the torment continued.

She was broken. The girls still held her tired arms outstretched, but the first Twin had no reason to hold her down. She wasn’t resisting anymore; she wasn’t crying or screaming anymore. She had grown silent and numb to their assault, and so the Twin turned his attention to Adam. He lifted the knife from his back pocket and passed it off to one of the boys holding Adam in place.

“Cut off his clothes,” the Twin ordered. “Let’s see if he’s enjoying himself.”

The boy to his right released him, but before Adam could slip free, the Twin moved into his place, holding him even tighter than the first boy. He felt the knife eat away at his clothes as it was dragged across his body. His shirt fell open and then his jeans were cut from the zipper, through his thighs, and up the back so the legs could be torn off one at a time. Then the boy sawed at his underwear, peeling its white fabric away from his nudity in the same as his jeans.

Handing the knife back to the Twin, the boy resumed his original task of holding Adam still. The Twin didn’t retreat, though. Instead, he lingered before Adam with that same sinister grin. He watched the Twin bobble back and forth in front him like a cartoon, too eager to control himself and so eager he might explode. Haunted by the continuing thumps and grunts echoing from behind the Twin, Adam begged in silence for any release, any freedom from this madness. And in response, the Twin began slashing at his skin with the blade, leaving shallow red marks just as he had done to his love.

Stepping away from him, the Twin wiped the blood from the box cutter against his jeans and shoved the knife into his pocket as his brother finished. The Twins stood side-by-side and motioned for everyone to leave. The girls holding Erin stepped away first, and her weakened and sore body slumped over to the side, trapped in a permanent stillness that shattered his heart. Then the boys holding him moved away, but Adam didn’t fight them. His only concern was for her, and destroying them wasn’t a task he could accomplish right now. He had to be there for her first.

Laughing a harmonic rhythm, the group of six retreated, leaving them to their sadness, to their death. Adam sat on his knees for a long time, trying to catch his breath and numb his stinging muscles at the same time. Once his racing and fractured heart eased its battle inside, he crawled on his hands and knees toward her body. He stared at the cuts that leaked thin lines of blood all over her body, and he saw the blood and early-forming bruises spreading across her inner thighs. He wanted to feel hate, but he pushed that raw emotion away to let his love for her consume him. She mattered now. She was the only one who mattered now.

“C--cover--” she stuttered, struggling to speak through her dry throat and her cracking lips. “Cover me up.”

He slid onto his side against her bare body and pulled her underneath him. He wound his arms around her back and dragged her into him, cradling her as close as possible within his warmth. He whispered meaningless apologies, promising false hope, and she lifted a shaky hand toward his mouth to press her fingers against his lips, silencing him.

“T--they--” she wept freely, unable to stop the flow of tears running down her cheeks. “They c--cut too deep.”

His eyes narrowed as he stared at her, not understanding until he felt a sudden wave of warmth settle against his hip. Lifting his body away from hers, he stared down between their bare forms to where her other arm was pinned, lying lax against the plastic. And he stared at her slit open wrist in horror as the flood of blood poured from her severed vein at an alarming rate.

“No no no,” he mumbled as he grabbed her wrist and clamped his fist against it, wishing with all his might he could halt the red river from its rushing path. “Please, no. Don’t leave me. D--don’t make me stay here without you. Please.”

A soft smile tugged at her lips as her body grew weaker. Her hand fell away from his face, and her muscles began to grow still, too weak to continue living. But before she left, she met his eyes, steadied her senses, and whispered: “This is not your fault.”

He shook his head wildly in disbelief, but before he could react, before he could say all the things he needed to say, her body slumped backwards, slipping from his arms and falling still against the plastic. He was silent, unable to move as he stared at her body--her corpse. All he could do was cry. He bowed his head, resting it against her shoulder, and he wept, open and free, until all of his energy drained from his body. He collapsed into unconsciousness, letting the darkness surround him with the only mercy he would be granted tonight.

#writings #original fiction #creative fiction #writing #trigger warning #mature #fiction #original #original writing #writer #trigger #mvt #missvalerietanner

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