#(this has been in my drafts since February and I am desperately trying to be better this year about making gifsets

[isalabells]

[gucciwins]

it’s your birthday?

As luck would have it you once again find yourself in a breakout room with Harry

Word count: 3296

A/N: Hello friends, it’s a new semester and it felt only right to continue breakout room, a story that was well loved by you. The inspiration once again came to me during class and also because it’s Harry’s birthday. Thank you to the lovely @soullikestyles for reading this over. Here it is, enjoy!!!

I hope you love this, it is a continuation from Breakout Room 

Please shoot me a message of what you thought!!!!

i love you, take care xx 

_____

It's the start of a new semester. It's safe to say you did not make any friends last semester due to this ongoing pandemic, but what you did manage to get was a 3.9 G.P.A for the Fall semester. It was probably because you did not leave your apartment, and when you did, it was to go grocery shopping with your roommate, who would be dead without you because, as she liked to put it, you're the chef, and she's the taster. 

Well, you maybe did make one friend. 

Harry Styles.

He was the person to talk to you during a zoom breakout room in your women's gender studies course.

Sure, you were never in the same room again, but you might or might not have pinned his face during one of the professor's long ramblings that is no longer related to the course. 

He was pretty to look at; you would never deny that. 

No, with the floppy curls that he almost always seemed to run his hand through, then stopping when one of his rings got caught in a knotted ringlet. His camera would instantly turn off, and in thirty seconds, he was back as if nothing had happened. The glasses framed his face just right, making his eyes look soft and inviting. Also made his dimples stand out. He almost always wore a different colored cardigan. Your favorite from the semester was when he wore a multicolored cardigan. That looks like it was knitted; there was a hole by his heart. Honestly, you were hoping he had, would have made him even more endearing. 

Also, might one day ask him to make you one, or he could even teach you. You're a fast learner and have patience. 

He's got a great choice in clothing from what you was able to observe in such a short time—also a lovely personality. 

After his initial email, you decided to answer, thus creating a chain of messages back and forth. He was honestly funny, and that was just on paper. He had asked for her number and said no, and he respected that. It doesn't mean they never helped each other in the class; Harry asking for more help than Y/N. She sent him over her notes and explained the readings he found harder to grasp. 

As soon as finals week hit, she received her last email from him with the subject as Goodbye. It took you by surprise, and you erased the draft you had waiting for him that had your phone number wanting to keep talking to him. Still, clearly, he thought of them as just classmates for the semester, so without even opening his last email, you trashed it. 

You felt guilty about it, so you then transferred it to your archives, where it sits with other unwanted emails. 

_____

The holidays are over, and since you could not make the trip home, you celebrated with Amy, your roommate. You both help each other buy your family's presents, looking for the best discounts and adding extra items to get the free shipping. Together, well, mostly you as she handed you pieces of tape you wrapped present after present in brown wrapping paper. It was harder to tear and more comfortable to decorate in any way you wanted. On each box, it had everyone's name written in beautiful handwriting, courtesy of you. Then you would add snowflakes or stripes to make it stand out. 

It was a success from their looks when each gift was open through the zoom call. 

The month break flew by, and the next thing you knew, it was time to be back at your desk for hours of learning. It was fun until it wasn't sure there was a lot to look forward to, but you would miss sleeping all day and eating snacks in bed with no fear of forgetting to submit an assignment. 

This semester you had four major courses. Psychology of Personality and Psychology of Aging were the two courses you were most looking forward to. You decided on taking the women's gender studies class called Politics of Sexuality. You had gotten the recommendation from the department's head to take it and did so without a second thought. Yes, fifteen units was a lot, but you were close to graduating, and you knew you could handle it. 

The first week flew by because it was merely going over the syllabus. You had your camera on, but you did not bother to look at your other classmates. Sasha, a fellow person in your major, would be your study partner as she had been all semester. Sasha might not always be in the class section, but she did take the same professors and courses. It makes studying and taking notes easier. You know you won't always have Sasha, but having a study partner has ever made you do better. 

February 1st. The start of the second week of the semester. 

You woke up at seven, got the tea that Amy had ready for you, and were sitting at your desk by eight. Your professor droned on about the first chapter of the book. You felt confident knowing you understood the significant points. 

It's 11:30, and your second course of the day is going to start. You were not looking forward to the class simply because Dr. Rossi had warned you he would be putting you into breakout rooms of two. That person would be your partner for the semester. You had a project due at the end of the semester, and he wanted you to be acquainted with someone rather than having a person working alone. 

You sat there, Baby Yoda ceramic mug in hand, as you waited for your breakout room to load and to see who you were destined to work with for the next fourteen weeks. 

There was a knock on your door that distracted you from seeing the video of someone else load. 

"Sorry, I know you're in class, but I was wondering when lunch was to see how big of a snack I should have." Amy shoots you a small smile. 

"No worries, Ames, I'm out at 12:45 and will need half an hour to cook, so roughly 1:30. Is that okay?" You tell her feeling a little awful, making her wait. 

"It's perfect. Have a good class." Amy shuts the door.

As you hear the click, you turn back to your computer, and they're staring at you in a lavender cardigan with a white shirt underneath is the one and only Harry Styles.  

His curls are shorter, meaning he recently got a haircut, and they are just growing back. You wished he had let it grow out, wanting to see how much more ruly they would have gotten.

You feel your face heat up, remembering you did not do your hair, instead of letting it sit messily in a low ponytail, small hair framing your hair. You were sure the black sweatshirt you had one had a hummus stain but too afraid to look down to check. You weren't even aware he was in this class; it shows you should be paying attention more to your classmates. 

He shoots you a small smile, and you grimace, trying to force one out, but you're still a bit shocked. 

You see his microphone go white, meaning he was about to speak. You leaned forward in anticipation, a bit desperate to hear his smooth accent through your computer speakers. 

"Hello, it's been a while." Harry raises his glasses to hold back his hair. 

You reach forward and unmute yourself. "Hello, Harry. It has been a while. It's a new year and everything." You joke. 

He chuckles, scratching his chin. You aren't sure what to do; it was never this awkward the first time you chatted. 

"Guess we're partners, huh." 

"Apparently." You sigh, a bit loud, forgetting he can hear you. 

"Ouch, don't need to sound too excited." He tells you not at all hiding his frown. 

"No, I didn't." You stop not knowing how to go back from that. "Sorry, that was rude of me." 

He nods, not saying anything more, and you take it as a sign to continue. 

"I-i, well, after our last class ended, I figured that was that. You said goodbye in the last email, so I figured that was the end of our friendship, if you can even call it that." 

"I thought my email would give the opposite impression, but not everything can translate as smoothly when talking." He tells you, which causes you to pause. 

"Your email literally said goodbye," You blurt out before you can stop yourself.

He hides his smile, "My subject said goodbye, the content said quite the opposite. You did read it, right?" 

You duck your head, not allowing yourself to meet his eye even through a computer screen, too embarrassed to be caught. "Well, no, I didn't. Hurt my feelings, just seeing the goodbye." You look up and see his eyes soften, giving you just a bit more courage to continue. "I've always struggled to make friends, I have like three good friends, and it's hard putting myself out there, and I didn't actually if you considered me a friend or not." 

"Y/N" He breathes out your name.

You stop him before he can continue. "Do you mind if I read it now?" 

Harry shakes his head. 

You restore down the zoom and open up your Gmail on the split-screen. You find it reasonably quickly; you look up at him to see him patiently sitting back chipping at his nails. They are a pastel yellow; it makes you smile, knowing just yesterday you went from that color to a deep red. 

hstyles@gmail.com 

Subject: Goodbye 

Y/N, 

It's been enjoyable emailing back and forth. I honestly would not have passed this class without you. I think you are brilliant and if I had you in every course, I would finish with A's in them all. So, thank you for having the patience to teach me. 

Also, thank you for being my friend. I know we mostly talked about school work. Still, you did help me decide on what coat to buy for my sister, so I know that makes us friends, and I did help you get that switch for your little brother. (That was like trying to buy floor tickets for Lady Gaga.)

On another note, after emailing for twelve weeks, I was wondering if I could have your number. I would like the chance to give you a call and formally ask you on a date. I know we're in the middle of a pandemic, and dating is hard, but we can do zoom dates before we try in person. 

I understand if it's a no, but I am really grateful to have met you.

Your friend (although I do want to try to be more)

Harry Styles 

City Pointe Apt 32 (in case you want to send a care package, I would gladly return the favor)

"Oh, Harry," You inhale, "I'm so sorry." 

"No worries." He shrugs. 

You pause, thinking your next words. "I live in Rose Villa." Those were not the words you wanted to say, but you don't take it back. 

"That's across the street from my building." He gasps. "We could have run into each other." 

You nod. "Small world." 

Harry brings his focus back to something you skipped over. "I realize you didn't mention the part of asking you on a date." 

"Oh, I figured you over that now. It's been well over a month since I ignored your email." You grimace, starting to feel awful about it all over again. 

"I guess it was email abandonment this time." He jokes.

You laugh, and it gets Harry laughing as well. He was always good at that, making you laugh and not be so serious even if he didn't know it. 

"Y/N," Harry's voice was strong, no signs of laughter in his trace. You lock eyes as best you can through a computer screen. "I would still very much like to take you on a date."

A date with Harry. 

You want to say yes, but it's like you're frozen. 

"Can I say something else before you give me an answer?" You nod, waiting for him to go on. "Sarah Jones, do you know her?" 

Sarah Jones, you rack your brain trying to place her. 

The theater composer. She's written original tracks for the theatre department for the original plays they've done and remakes. She's won countless awards.

Sarah even won the talent show. Played a killer drum solo that no one else could ever think of topping. 

If you're honest, she's the definition of your girl crush. 

"We follow each other on social media. We met at a paint night; she was really easy to talk to." You tell him, remembering how sweet she was to you when she saw you walk in, and just as you were about to walk out, she introduced herself to you, asking to sit with you. 

He nods. "Sarah is my roommate's girlfriend. Mitch and Sarah practically live together; he's so in love with her it truly is the sweetest thing. Back to the point, she overheard me talking about you to Mitch and spoke how she knew you. Then I proceeded to stalk your Instagram on her account. I hope that's not weird." 

You laugh, and it causes Harry to calm down, "Not weird at all. I would have done the same thing, but as you can see, I rarely upload anything." 

"Well, the things you do have, I think, are wonderful." He rambles on explaining how your beach photo on a bike with a pretty pink basket was one of his favorites and how cute you look wearing sweaters. 

As endearing as Harry was being, you decided to put him out of his misery. "Harry," you interrupt. 

"Yes." 

"I'd love to go on a date with you." 

"You would?" He gasps in surprise. 

"Yes." 

"That's fantastic. I think this is the best birthday gift I could have received." He tells you, but you're stuck on the last thing he said. 

"It's your birthday?" 

Harry smiles sheepishly. "Yes." 

"Happy Birthday, Harry." You tell him softly, a big smile on your face.

A blush overtakes his face; you can tell he wishes to cover up his face with hands but holds back from doing so. "Thank you." 

"Do you have any plans?" 

"No, well. Mitch and Sarah are coming over for lunch in a bit. Then they are off to study at Sarah's for the week. Her roommates are gone for the week." 

You frown, not liking that he'll spend the rest of his birthday alone. 

"Would you-never mind" You stop yourself from being able to invite yourself over to celebrate with him?

"Hey, it's okay. Whatever you wanted to say, I wouldn't judge you, love." His voice was soft and reassuring. 

"Well, I'd love to come over and hang out with you if that's okay. I can make us dinner, I make delicious enchiladas. Also, my carrot cake is to die for." 

Harry is surprised at her offer but nods his head quickly. "That sounds wonderful, but you don't have to cook for me. We can order takeout."

She shakes her head. "Consider it my gift to you." 

"Well, okay. Is six okay for you?" He bites his lip, not believing this is happening.

"Perfect." 

You sit there smiling at each other. 

When a message pops up overhead, "You have five minutes left before we join back as a group."

Your eyes go wide, having forgotten you were in class. "We didn't even discuss the assignment." 

Harry shakes his head in laughter, a smile spreads over your face. He has an adorable laugh that just rings through your ears, and you can't wait to hear it in person. 

"We've got time, now that it seems we'll be getting to know each other better." 

You relax, settling a bit, you have weeks before the assignment is due.

"I'll email you my number, love. Easier to communicate for later."

"Sounds great." You respond. 

_____

It's five-fifty, and you're standing outside his door. You're more than a little nervous. You're wearing high waisted jeans paired with a black off the shoulder top with floral embroidered sleeves. You decided against a sweater knowing the short walk would keep you warm enough. Your mask is red, with three small hearts stitched on the lower right side. Perfect for February. 

You shift the items in your hand to the right and lift your hand up to knock. After three gentle knocks, you hear footsteps and take a step back. 

"Hi," Harry breathes out, a big smile on his face.

"Hello, Harry, happy birthday." 

"Thank you." He smiles wide, blessing you with his dimples. Definitely look better in person. "Please come in." He grabs some of the items from your hand and allows you to step in before locking the door behind you. 

"Your mask is lovely. Did you make it?" 

"I did!" You share excitedly. "My roommate, Amy, and I spent lots of our free time making a different kind. We took old shirts we no longer wanted and used for the material. It was a lot of trial and error, but we're pretty solid at it now. My embroidery could use some work, but I think it's lovely. 

"It really is. Would you make me one?" He asks, staring at you as you pocket your mask. No longer needing it in his home. 

"Yes, I'll send you pictures of the fabric I have, or you could come over, and I can teach you as well." You tell him, excited at the prospect. 

"Sounds like a wonderful date." You nod, feeling your body get warm at the word date because today could also classify as a date. 

Harry knocks you out of your head when calling your name. "Turned the oven on like you requested." He informs you. 

"Thank you, my mom showed me how to make them, but I learned about the melted cheese on my own. She wasn't a big fan of it, but everyone else I know loves it, so I hope you will as well." 

Harry grabs your hand and gives it a squeeze. "I'm sure it's wonderful." He bumps your shoulder gently. "Go finish up; I'll set the table." 

He pushes you into the kitchen, and you go in and place your stuff. Harry is whistling, settling down on the table two glasses and two forks when you turn back around towards him. 

Harry turns around just in time for you to wrap your hands around his waist. You fit perfectly in his arms, taking in his musky scent. "Happy birthday, Harry." You whisper against his chest.

He squeezes you tighter, leaning his head on top of yours. "Thank you, love." 

He pulls back, holding you by your shoulders. A big smile on his face, you reciprocate it feeling his happiness warm your heart. 

"Run along now; I'm starving." He jokes.

You walk backward, creating distance; as his left-hand trails down your right hand slowly until he's touching your fingertips, do you pull away. Although you, more than anything, wanted to hold his hand. You want to feel the weight of it in yours; you want to know if his hands are soft or calloused. How cool his rings will feel against your palm. All in due time. 

"I'm happy to be here." 

"Me too, love. Me too." 

It's safe to say you were more than luckily going to have yourself a valentine for the first time in a long time. 

[slashiest-slasher]

for @slashthedice‘s Frisky February event!

Day 3: Breeding

Bubba Sawyer x male s/o (you know how i said i wasn't comfortable with mlm breeding kink? i am, unless it happens to be done for hilarity's sake.) 

It's been about a year since you've started working for Drayton, just a lonely drifting looking for a place you could make a quick buck. Helping him run a gas station was easy enough. Physically intensive sure, but you could get over that. Even let you crash in the back room after all he found out you were sleeping in your car.

Cared for you like you were one of his own.

You saw his younger brothers every so often, mostly Nubbins, though you hadn't seen Chop Top since he got drafted. And "little", as Drayton said, Bubba. He rarely ever left the house, but from time to time he came up to the gas station. Little, your ass. He has at least six inches on you, and enough muscle to pick you up like you weighed nothing if he wanted to.

And the sweetest damn man you have ever had the pleasure of meeting. Despite all the strength, he was so careful and gentle around you. Yeah, he didn't say much, squealed like a pig, and wore weird masks, but who didn't have their eccentricities.

'Course yours got you kicked out of your house. And made sure you couldn't get a job in your hometown. At least down here you had anonymity. As long as you were stealthy about admiring Bubba's biceps and thighs and dear /Lord/ that ass, then no one would be the wiser.

But Drayton was a perceptive old man. Saw the way you were looking at his baby nephew, who was probably older than you, and rounded on you. You prepared yourself for the worst. A gun, knife, yelling, punching, calling you "sinning whore" like you mama had.

The slap to the back and arm around the shoulder wasn't among them. "I knew there was a reason I liked you, son. You've taken a liking to Bubba, huh? Tell ya what, kid, I'll show you something, and if you still want to go steady with my boy, I'll wholly support it."

What could it be? you thought. There was a lot of things running around in your head, but you saw where your train of thought left you last time, so tried not making any guesses.

And yet you were still surprised, when Drayton took you into the back room, where he made barbeque, down into a hidden hatch, where there an ice chest you used to think was full of frozen cow.

But nope, it was human body parts in there.

You just shook your head and said, "Just don't expect me to eat the chili anymore Mr. Sawyer." Which earned you another slap on the back and a hearty laugh.

Well, it really was none of your business.

Bubba was the easiest and hardest person to seduce you ever met. You could walk right up to him, shirt unbuttoned, leaning up against the wall and tell him he has some real nice lips. And he would squeal and get jittery, but never really do anything about it. He didn't even get it when you gave a passing grope of his ass, or asked to feel how strong his arms were!

So of course you have to do all the hard work and yank that boy down by his tie for the best damn kiss of his life. His hands fluttered about, and he still wasn't sure until you wrapped your arms around his neck. He finally took the hint and hoisted you up and grabbed handfuls of your ass, trying his damndest to kiss back. But it was, of course, his first kiss. But that enthusiasm made up for it.

That was about seven months ago. Four months ago, you had sex for the first time, and despite Bubba being a virgin, he sure knew the fastest way to your orgasm. Maybe it was how his dick was the perfect shape and size to fuck you into oblivion. Or how sweetly he squealed out moans when you gripped his hips and gave as good as you got.

And for the past few weeks, Bubba has been wanting to bottom all the time. Which may seem like an odd thing to complain about, now that you think about it, but Christ sometimes you just want your giant boyfriend to use that height and muscles to his advantage and fuck you until you were screaming.

It's been a bit rough, especially since Bubba is extremely needy and can easily go three rounds before he's tires out. Which is more than easy to bear with when he's fucking you dry, but there's only so much you can handle when you're the one fucking. And getting Bubba to rise you is an issue, though you have yet to figure out why.

But you haven't been by the house in a few weeks, Drayton keeping you quite busy at the gas station. Or out hitch hiking back since Nubbins went and broke his ankle in a scrap with a meal. Most nights as of late were spent in Bubba's bed, but you were lucky if you could make it back to the dusty mattress in the gas station.

So when you crawl into bed with Bubba, who wasn't expecting and was already half asleep, he snaps wide awake and hold you close. He babbles out something, and pets your face.

"Missed ya too sugar," you murmur into his neck. When you scoot closer, you can feel his erection nudging against your thigh. "Missed this," you whisper against his lips, kissingly him lazily. He still isn't that great of kisser, but his fumbling return spreads warmth in your chest. "Can I bottom tonight?" you ask.

Bubba pulls back, and you can already see that pleading look in his eyes before says something you can barely understand.

"Sweetie please, I'm too tired."

He gets up on you, fumbling to grind against you, and does the strangest thing you've ever seen and rubs his stomach. When you don't quite get it, he does it again, but this times rocks his arms as if he's swaddling something. That makes everything click.

"You trying to get yourself pregnant Bubba?"

He nods and works on getting the both of you out of your underwear. Which made things easier, because what else were either going to sleep in when Bubba slept with you wrapped up in his arms on hot Texas nights?

You know that everything Bubba learned, he learned from homeschooling with Drayton. And you're not surprised that Drayton didn't teach him a damn thing about sex education. You had to teach him that much. But you at least hoped he knew babies came from a man and a woman, not just sex in general.

Apparently not.

Oh well, you can break his heart later. For now, the fact that Bubba was desperate to get knocked up with your kid, was frankly hot and helped you shake off any weariness in your bones. Bubba is a big boy, but easily goes with you when you roll him onto his back, settling between his legs.

"Well, well, well... Isn't that cute? If you wanted them, you should've told me honey. I'm gonna give it to ya so good tonight so you'll be full of my babies." It's too easy to rile Bubba up, and that's all it really takes before he's hard and whining. You grab vaseline from the nightstand, and prepare Bubba.

He's already close, just from that, but he's a good boy and holds out at first. It's all over the first few thrusts when you aim for his prostate. He's bucking under you, gasping and babbling, and splattering cum all over his chest.

"Shhh, I've got you sugar," you tell him, fucking him through his first orgasm. One of the greatest things about Bubba is how fast he bounces back, and after a few minutes of you hitting him deep and slow, he's hard and raring to go.

You grab onto his hips for better leverage. "Ooooh," you moan. "You're such a good boy, gonna fill you up with my cum 'til you're dripping with it. But you're going to hold it in for me, right?"

He nods again, making more of those sweet noises that drive you wild. Bubba tries to go to jerk off his cock, but you hold his wrists down on the bed. It only serves to make him whine and squirm, but he doesn't try to pull out of your grasp.

You rest your forehead against his as you slow down your thrusts. You can feel yourself getting close, but you gotta hold out until at least after his second. It's really the best view, because he can't look away and you get to see how desperate those gorgeous brown eyes can get. Pleading with you in ways he can't with words.

"I can't wait 'til you're knocked up," you whisper, letting whatever words came to your lips spill out between kisses. "Can't wait 'til you're big with my kids, oh you're gonna look so gorgeous, all glowing. Carrying my kids."

Bubba's so close, you can feel it in the way he's clenching around you and panting rapidly. You're not too far off yourself. "You're gonna be such a good daddy, Bubba. The best damn daddy any kid could have. Oh, those kids are gonna love you, but not as much as i do."

That does him in, and he strains under you while cumming for the second time, adding to the mess on his torso. He doesn't close his eyes when he cum, and it's the hottest thing. You chase your own release until you sum inside, buried to the hilt and moaning into his ear. You roll off to the side, barely a bone left in your body.

Normally, you'd jerk Bubba off for his third time, but you can hardly move. And for the first time, it looks like Bubba's done in as well. But if you had any strength left, you would've fucked him sloppy and filling him up with a second load after seeing him fingering himself to keep the cum from spilling out.

You knew there was no point in getting up to go get cleaned, because you sure as shit knew Bubba wasn't going to. So you cuddled up under his arm, and drifted off to the sound of his breathing returning to normal, before he felt his other arm go to stroke his dick. It was going to be tragic when Bubba learned the truth, truly, but that can wait until morning.

Oh well, you could always adopt children.

[televinita]

Library Triage

Got too many good books as of late; having trouble deciding what to actually read in my free time, so...time to do this.

Part I: Physical Library Checkouts

1. The Rural Diaries - Hilarie Burton Morgan: Since I can’t renew this memoir, between the time I started this draft and when I posted, I actually began reading it. It’s really good so far so I am kind of savoring it and reading slowly.

2. Harry Potter & the Goblet of Fire (reread): Waiting on the illustrated version to come in from the library (due back Jan. 21...we shall see)

3. Roam - Alan Lazar: This looks like one of the best dog books for adults I’ve ever seen, but I gotta make sure I’m by a computer or at least my phone so I can play the accompanying music at the appropriate times in the story. It’s hard to have to be in the mood for piano music AND a dog story at once, but I’ve been checking this out since like...November, so I’m probably going to do this one next.

4. A Slice of Heaven and/or Home in Carolina - Sherryl Woods: Kind of want to read one more character-orienting book in the Sweet Magnolias series before I settle in for the Ty/Annie story I really want and should have just gone for in the first place; now that I’ve started I already feel weirdly guilty/like I’m going to be missing a lot of background leadup by skipping books 3 and 4.

Also feeling rapidly like I won’t get to either; mass market romance is satisfying when you need tropes, but quickly loses its appeal and becomes bland if you try to have more than one helping without a long rejuvenation period.

5. What If It’s Us - Becky Albertalli & Adam Silvera: tbh this is my 2nd time checking it out and it’s probably time to admit that I’m not going to be in the mood for it any time soon, and save it for when I am. History Is All You Left Me took 4 years, but it was worth waiting for and I’m glad I did, and some books have taken even longer, so if that happens again so be it.

6. You’d Be Mine - Erin Hahn: This reread is also not gonna happen any time soon...but I know that the second I return it, I’m gonna be like WHERE IS MY MUSICIANS FALL IN LOVE ON TOUR BOOK, WHERE IS IT! and it’s gonna be 3-6 days before I get it back and as soon as I do, the mood will be gone again, so. Gonna keep it to the end of my renewal limit.

==========

Part II: Audiobooks

1. Murder at the Mansion - Sheila Connolly: Picked at random while utterly desperate for a decent audiobook to put me to bed, I am almost an hour into this 9.5 hour stint and there has not been anything close to a murder yet. IS THIS FALSE ADVERTISING?? It’s okay though, because so far I’ve been very drawn in by descriptions of hotel administration and the title mansion in its small town location.

2. Happy Birthday, Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle: See above, since I love the one book I’ve read. I didn’t realize this was a posthumous release (in 2007!) or I would have tried to look for one of the older books, but oh well. I only have a chapter left but since I’ve decided I’m not going to count it as a book on this year’s reading list due to its brevity, I’m in no rush.

3. And We Stay - Jenny Hubbard: yet another random pick. My curiosity is highly piqued, but I think I might try to get this as a physical copy because it’s hard to track by ear when I’m not totally sure what the premise is.

4. A Slice of Heaven - Sherryl Woods: Yep, I got this on audiobook too because nothing is better than being able to continue the book you’re reading as you fall asleep, but also be able to finish it as fast as you want the next day. That presumes I’m actually interested in the book, though, so...

=======

Part III: Oh Dear, My Eyes Are Already Roamin’ To New Territory

a.k.a. Books I Am Interested In Ordering Next

1. Lost To Me - Jamie Blair: I mean, obviously. [edit: WHAT DO U MEAN I CAN’T GET IT VIA ILL??  || edit 2: WHAT DO YOU MEAN I CAN’T EVEN BUY IT FOR UNDER TEN DOLLARS??]

2. When We Were Lost - Kevin Wignall: “When their plane crashes in a remote rainforest with no adults left alive, a group of high school students struggles to survive against sinister threats from the jungle -- and one another -- in this tense thriller.” Looks similar in scope and setting to If We Survive, which I read 4 years ago in February and still relish the memory of reading, so this feels liek ther ight time of year for it.

Cutting myself off there but also...still Thinking.

[scarletphantom1704]

Wanda x Vision - Nightmares

Just some Scarlet Vision fluff (+ some angst) to remind us of the days when Vision wasn't being hunted by a maniac hoping to tear the Mind Stone from his head. I'd love some feedback!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wanda wraps the blanket closer to herself, trying to block out the memories of the vivid nightmare that awoke her. Tears spring to her eyes and spill over steadily onto her face, which is already damp from sweat. Her heart races quickly in her chest, still palpitating from the horrors her mind had conjured during this late hour; the hour when only the most traumatized souls are awake.

Moonlight floods her quaint room, illuminating the odd trinkets lying about. The light brings a small sense of serenity to the young Avenger’s room but it is quickly broken when a passing cloud obstructs its path, that cloud reminiscent of the depressing haze that suspends itself over her shattered heart.

Wanda’s eyes flicker to a small picture of a blonde haired child pinned on her wall: Pietro. The picture breaks the mental crutch she is clinging to and she forces herself to choke back a sob.

Biting down harshly on her tongue, Wanda forces herself to get up and take a walk around the new compound to steady herself. She collects a softly-toned grey blanket from the back of her plush chair and drapes it over her shoulders gently.

Clutching the blanket tightly, she slowly pushes open her wooden door to the desolate hallway. A cold draft engulfs her, causing a shiver to reverberate down her aching spine; the previous sparring session with Natasha has had a toll on her.

She can hear the soft snoring of Sam as she passes by his room and her heart aches with envy. What she would give to have a full night of sleep was unimaginable. The insomnia and nightmares that has plagued her since her brother’s death are similar to a disease and she is still desperate for a cure.

Before she could comprehend it, Wanda had arrived in the bare kitchen. She quietly makes a steaming cup of tea, mixed with a variety of calming herbs with the help of her scarlet powers. Just as she levitates the mug into the microwave, a smooth, British accent cuts through the silence like a knife through skin.

“Wanda?” Immediately Wanda knew who had confronted her at this unusual time at night. She spins around to see The Vision hovering a few inches from the ground staring back at her with a puzzled look on her face. “Might I ask what you are doing awake at this time of night?”

“I’m just getting a cup of tea, Vizh. I couldn’t sleep.” She says softly, her voice cracking slightly. Her eyes drop from Vision’s to the granite countertop separating them.

Silence ensues between the two as Wanda stares aimlessly at the counter trying to numb the nagging memory of her chilling nightmare. Vision remains still, transfixed at the sight of such a broken soul.

“Please allow me to prepare the rest of your tea. I suggest for you to relax on the couch before you collapse. Exhaustion has detrimental effects on the human body, one of which is tiring and aching of muscle tissue.”

Wanda flinches at the sudden sound of his voice but nods without protesting. Vision phases through the counter seamlessly and finishes preparing the tea. Once again, silence fills that air like a low-lying cloud on a spring morning. To mask the silence, Wanda uses her phone to turn on a Sokovian lullaby her mom used to sing while soothing her to sleep.

After about 3 minutes, Vision floats his way over to the small woman propped up against the couch. Taking the steaming cup in her hands from Vision, Wanda mumbles a soft “Thank you.” He nods before taking a seat next to her with a respectable amount of distance between them.

“I am guessing it is Sokovian?” Vision asks, referencing the beautiful melody wafting throughout the room.

Wanda nods politely, taking a delicate sip of her drink. The temperature warms her in seconds and it slowly calms her worried mind.

Vision fiddles with his hands while listening to the guitar, piano and violin ensemble. “It is unlike many lullabies I’ve heard. It has an underlying melody, like a voice hiding beneath its surface that, in my opinion, is much more interesting then what the composer is trying to highlight. It is unique, just like you.”

Clasping the drink in her hands, Wanda meets Vision’s eyes with a small smile. “Thank you Vizh. You aren’t quite so normal yourself either.” She says with a soft laugh.

Vision holds a confused look on his face that results in Wanda breaking out into a fit of giggles. Despite being perplexed, he smiles, glad to see that she was enjoying herself for the first time in a while.

After calming down, Wanda apologizes sincerely. “I didn’t mean to offend you or anything. You are unique and that is a good thing. Uniqueness gives one character and humanizes an individual.” Vision, still smiling, thanks her.

He then notices an odd emotion take over his body, one that contains a genuine sense of happiness and feeling of deep respect; it could only described be adoration. Wanda hums along to the Sokovian lullaby before cutting through Vision’s thoughts.

“There are lyrics to this songs as well. They talk about a girl who is afraid; she is someone who is afraid of change. She tries to hold onto her past but it ultimately slips from her grip and she is thrust into this unfamiliar, terrifying world. For example, this line sings: Солнце упало за облаками и оставило ее в темноте. Ей пришлось по частям объединиться по частям.”

Vision pays close attention to how she speaks her native tongue; he watches how it effortlessly flows from her lips.

“When you translate the verse, it means: The sun fell behind the clouds and left her in the dark. She had to put herself back together piece by piece, part by part.”

“Just like you and I,” Vision proclaims. Wanda looks at him with a perplexed look so he continues.

“The songs pertains more to you than me but we both were placed in this unfamiliar world. You were, in a sense, torn from your past just like the girl in the song. And when it says ‘She had to put herself back together piece by piece,’ you could say that you are doing just that right now.”  Wanda listens intently to Vision’s explanation with tired eyes.

Every sentence he spoke causes Wanda to realize the uncanny resemblance she had to the girl in the song.

“Wow, I never realized that.” She says when he finishes. He nods and then looks at her with an inquisitive look as she fumbles with the mug. The melody slows and transitions into the next song on her phone.

“Please excuse me for asking but are you okay? It is unlike you to be up at this hour and you’ve been in a depressive state of being throughout the past week.” Everything that she had previously let go of came rushing back suddenly.

Wanda stays quiet for a minute before levitating her cup onto the nearby coffee table and shaking her head, eyes trained on her lap. She then shakes her head, meeting Vision’s eyes with a sea of tears, her green eyes like the sun setting on the sea’s horizon.

“I . . . I can’t sleep because I keep having these dreams, nightmares really, about Pietro. This week has been especially hard because our birthday is tomorrow.” She chokes out, tears now slowly cascading down her cheeks.

Vision opens his mouth to say something but hushes quickly when she begins again.

“I lied to you and to the other Avengers about my birthday, saying that it was in February. I just couldn’t do it; I couldn’t tell you the truth, Vizh. It hurts too much.” The sythezoid’s face contorts, showing an expression of pity and sorrow.

“May I comfort you with a hug?” He asks shyly, desperate to help calm his hurting friend. Wanda flushes a soft red but then nods, scooting closer to Vision and wrapping her arms around his Vibranium torso.

She lays her head on his shoulder, exhausted both mentally and physically. He smiles, relaxing into the hug and rubbing her back soothingly in time with the melodic song.

“Thank you.” Wanda mumbles into Vision’s shoulder tiredly, wiping a stray tear from her face. “If you don’t mind, can we just stay here? It is nice to have your company.” She asks after stifling a yawn and pulling out of the hug.

“I don’t mind staying with you but I do believe that we should transfer to your room, if that is okay with you. Captain Rogers and Mr. Wilson will be up in an hour to begin their morning run and, in the likely chance that you fall asleep, they might wake you up.” Vision states, standing up from the couch and offering a hand to Wanda.

She nods and accepts his hand gratefully. The two walk back to Wanda’s room with their hands still clasped together. When they get into Wanda’s room, she walks over to her bed while Vision stands awkwardly, unsure of where to sit. He starts to work his way over the plush grey chair but is stopped by Wanda.

“You can sit over here on my bed. I don’t mind.” She says with a reassuring smile, patting the empty space next to her.

The unbroken moonlight in the room reflects off of Vision’s red face as he starts to protest. Wanda cuts in saying, “Please, I insist.” Vision nods and sits down next to her.

The silence is slightly awkward as the two sit next to one another, Wanda wrapped up in her blanket and Vision sitting stiffly next to her. “Thank you for being here for me, Vision.” Wanda says, turning her body in his direction. “It is nice to have someone that I can confine my secrets to.” She looks at him with a sense of sincerity as she speaks.

“I can say the same about you. You are a wonderful person to be friends with.” Vision responds, relaxing his tense posture as the two converse back and forth.

The two talk for the next hour or so before sleep consumes Wanda. She ends up passed out next to Vision, her arms wrapped around his waist and her head on the pillow that is resting on his lap. He mindlessly plays with a strand of her hair as she sleeps, softly humming the Sokovian lullaby from before.

And for the first time in months, Wanda didn’t wake in terror from another nightmare. Instead, she awoke with a smile on her face.

(1772 words)

[fanaste]

New Years? I’ll Parse.

December 31st 2014 – 11:57pm (three minutes to midnight)

They were fighting.  He got that.  They’d had a fight, he got that too.  But Jesus fucking Christ they’d had lots of fights before.  He was familiar with the silent treatment okay? He was.  But it’d been weeks.  Weeks that had morphed into months and now he’s sitting here staring at his God damn phone at a number he hasn’t seen flash up on his screen since last December.

And maybe because of that someone could say they had officially parted on bad terms but if you’d asked Kent, if you ask him now even he’d tell you they weren’t the worst terms they’d ever parted on.  At least Jack was still breathing when Kent left him.

Someone pushes the door to the smoking area open and Kent hears the tantalising notes of the Beyonce song that always makes him think of fucking.  It’s about drinking and fucking and she’s on the beach writhing around and if Kent were into women he’d be into that.  As it happens he’s not into women.  He’s into emotionally unavailable French Canadians with an ego the size of his home country.

“You can’t…you don’t come to my fucking school unannounced-“

“Because you shut me out!”

“And corner me in my room.”

“I’m trying to help-“

“And expect me to do whatever you want-“

He was just trying to help.  Kent promised Jack he’d come back for him.  Maybe not out loud, not with words Jack could take and keep inside him for cold nights when Jack thought he’d left all possibility of Hockey behind in a sick puddle on the bathroom floor.  Jack had to know he hadn’t stayed away because he wanted to.  His parents must have told them he’d tried to visit but that Alicia had told him not to come.

“Don’t come Kent.  He need to rest.  He needs to know there’s life outside of Hockey.”

And like an idiot.  Like a newly drafted NHL player idiot he listened.

But he never forgot.  How could he?

Jack was the love of his life.

In the background Beyonce sings about being in love.  Kent’s in love all right and he’s shit faced.  And this song reminds him of frat house hallways and hands groping desperately at a body he hadn’t touched in too long but that felt familiar as his own.

“Fuck Jack! What do you want me to say? That I miss you? I miss you, ok? I miss you.”

He was just trying to fucking help! But Jack was too stubborn, to determined to try and fail on his own and face his father’s rejection like some martyr.  And Kent knew he’d hate it, he’d hate it and he’d love it because deep down he wanted it because he felt like he deserved it.

“You always say that.”

In the spaces between his hammering heart beats Kent felt the edges of his longing turn to anger.  Why was Jack being like this? Why was he throwing Kent’s help away? Why was he trying to throw Kent away? And on the wave of those questions came more questions like, why hadn’t Jack tried to call? Kent found his fucking body didn’t he remember that? Hadn’t anyone told him? Didn’t he care?!

“You know what Zimmermann? You think you’re too fucked up to care about? That you’re not good enough? Everyone already knows what you are but it’s people like me who still car!”

“Shut up.”

Jack didn’t want his help then fucking fine.

“You’re scared everyone else is going to find out you’re worthless right? Oh don’t worry! Just give it a few seasons Jack trust me!”

“G-get out of my room.”

Heaving in the silence Kent swallowed around the jagged parts of his heart and in the hardest voice he could muster said,

“Fine.  Shut me out.  Again.”

Truthfully Kent expected to ride out the next few days of the silent treatment, give Jack a chance to calm down, to realise that his pride wasn’t going to get him anywhere fast.  Magnanimously Kent gave him a week to sort his shit out before texting,

‘I’m sorry about last weekend.  Please consider my offer’.

But all he got was more silence.  Silence in January, silence in February and come draft day there was more of the same except this silence was worse because it was screamed all over the sports networks and blogs.

Zimmermann signs with Providence Falconers

Kent skated so hard that day he puked.

Now Kent stands in the smoking area of a club on the strip with too much coke in the air and too much liquor in his body and he’s staring down at his phone and cursing Jack Zimmermann’s name.  Sagging against the dirty brick wall he takes a deep breath and with every cell in his body and all the power in his mind he makes a wish.  He makes several wishes, actually.

I wish I was happy.

I wish I was stronger.

I wish I didn’t know how to love.

I wish I’d never fallen in love with Jack Zimmermann.

I wish I’d never met Jack Zimmermann.

Something in him shifts anxiously after that last one and his eyes snap open.   No.  He doesn’t wish that.  He doesn’t.  He can’t because…because he doesn’t know who he is if a part of him doesn’t love a man he can’t have.

He pulls up Jack’s number again.  Sooner or later he’ll see Jack.  They’ll face off on the ice and even though they’ll be playing against one another he’ll remember what it was like to play in the Q.  He’ll remember that when they played together nothing could beat them.  When they hit the ice Kent will look at Jack and Jack will smile and he will know that whatever happened last year doesn’t matter.

Maybe Jack will love him again.

He brings the phone to his ear and listen to the ring.

“You’ve reached the T-Mobile voicemail service for ‘Jack Zimmermann’,” Kent’s heart clenches at the sound of his voice.  “This person is unavailable to take your call.  Please leave a message after the tone.”

Kent hangs up.

In the background the music stops and a voice, muffled by the thick walls of the exterior, announces.  “It’s almost midnight! Countdown with me!”

Ten

Kent brings the phone to his ear again.

Nine

It rings.

Eight

Seven

“You’ve reached the t-mobile voicemail service for ‘Jack Zimmermann’,”

Six

“this person is unavailable to take your call,”

Five

“Please leave a message after the tone.”

Four

Three

Two

One

“Hey it’s- it’s me.  Happy New Year.”

December 31st 2015 – 10:55pm

Kent Zips up his pants, fishes his cell out and leans against the stall door.  The music is muted in the bathroom but he can’t tell if it’s because it’s any quieter in here or if it’s just the ringing in his ears.  Occasionally the hiss of urine hitting porcelain reminds him where he is but soon his focus on the little glowing screen drowns even that out.  The little glowing screen all lit up with the sky blues of twitter.

That Bittle kid is tweeting up a storm.  He’s back in Samwell for the new year and there’s pictures of him leaning heavily into bodies twice as tall and twice as wide as himself.  Not that it’s hard when then guy’s the size of a thimble.

@omgcheckplease @clarissaexplainsitall showin’ bros how it’s done.

Kent’s signal is shitty in here and it takes his phone an agonisingly long time to pull up the picture of Lardo grinning as Holsom and Ranster(???) bow before her.  She has a heeled foot on Holsom’s shoulder and her shutter shades, that can hide a look of determination so scary Kent knew he was done for the moment he accepted the pong ball, do nothing to obscure the triumph she exudes.

@omgcheckplease reigning 2016 champion @clarissaexplainsitall

Kent closes the photo and scrolls up and down looking for a tweet, any tweet, that’ll clue him in to what’s going on in Samwell…or more importantly what’s going on with a certain dark haired, blue eyed Canadian.

Kent’s not a fan of Eric’s, not in the least, but he’s become an avid checker of his feed ever since a picture of Jack turned up over the fourth of July weekend.  A picture of him looking comfortable in a kitchen straight out of a Southern Homes Style magazine.

They haven’t spoken since the game.  They didn’t even speak at the game just exchanged passive aggressive jibes through reporters who resurrected all their old clips from the Q helping Kent to relieve the now excruciating memories of good times playing with a guy Kent thought to call his soul mate.

At the end of the game Kent tried to get hold of Jack but he was long gone.  At least Kent got the game winning goal.  If there was ever a better fuck you to someone it was a game loss for Jack.

Finally when his finger hurts from swiping and his eyes g smudgy Kent locks his phone and slips it back in his pocket.

A second later a smack on the door makes him jump so hard he nearly topples into the toilet.

“Hey open the fuck up!” A familiar voice bellows.

“We know you’re in there Parson! There’s a shot here with your name on it!”

Kent takes a deep breath and tries to pull himself together.  When he opens the door he covers any sign of heartache with a glower at two of his team mates.  “What the fuck were you doing in there?” Cray peers curiously past him.

“Making sure they’ve got the right number for your mom on the wall.” Kent retorts summoning the cocky half smile he wears in all he posters and cards he scrawls his signature over after games.  All it takes is this quirk and Kent’s untouchable again.  The boys follow him across to the sink.  There’s no soap and all the taps do is dribble water when he turns them.  He can’t believe they charge fifty bucks for tickets to this event and can’t even spring for decent plumbing.  If he was a better team captain he’d have sanitiser with him.

Jeff guffaws and Cray flips him off.  “Quit hiding like a bitch in here and come join the party.  The company got hotter.”

“How,” Kent scoffs, “I was in here.”

Cray gives him a sarcastic little smile, “You think you’re the hottest member of this team huh?”

Jeff ushers them both out of the men’s room.

“I am the hottest member!” Kent shouts over yet another terrible remix of a song he likes.

Cray mimes that he can’t hear him.

Kent rolls his eyes and pushes through the sweaty corridor of bodies that strain their necks to see the three figures heading up to the coveted VIP area.  Kent wipes sweat from his brow that he’s not convinced is his with a grimace.  He doesn’t want to be here and he’s not drunk enough yet to forget that he hates New Years.  It’s the same shit every year.  A different party, a different city but it’s always the same vibe.  He’s always with people he likes, he always drinks too much and then makes the same promise.

He’s going to live life like he never met Jack Zimmermann.

He’s not drunk enough yet though but luckily for him (or at least as promised by Cray) there are six women dressed in flirty little skirts and tops waiting for them on the leather seats specifically designed to make you feel like you can drink (and snort) as much as you like and it’ll all slide down you and not stain just like the liquor you’ll spill on their wipe clean couches.

Kent takes a deep breath and reinforces the face that makes it look like he’s into this.  “Where are the shots?”

Jeff gives him an indecipherable look and situates himself on the bench furthest from the girls.  Cray rolls his eyes as if to say ‘whipped’.

One of the girls leaps up, prompted by her friends, and crosses the small space towards him.  She’s wearing heels, not that Kent’s looking at her feet, but her tottering is unmistakeable and more prominent still because she’s obviously drunk.  “I’m Amber.” She says when they’re within shouting distance.

Kent smiles like his posters.  “Hi Amber.”

One hand rises to tuck her hair behind her ear and she smiles coyly down at her chest.  It’s dusted with glitter Kent can see it shimmering in the strobes.  “You like to party?” she asks withdrawing a little white baggy from her sparkly cleavage.  When she looks up Kent thinks her eyes flash black.  Kent wonders if this is a sign that he should give up now and just let someone drag him into oblivion the quick way.  His eyes snag on the baggy full of shit that gets guys benched Amber shakes in her long fingertips.

He thinks about it.  It’s a party.  There’s only the team up here.  The team and six women who won’t keep quiet about partying with the hottest members of the Las Vegas Aces.  Who will regale their friends with very detailed stories, from what they wore to what they took.  Time feels suspended as he tries to make his decision but his brain is foggy enough that he quickly bores of his pros and cons list and where he falls on the turns has him nodding faintly.

He’s nowhere near the ice now.  “Yeah.” He breathes, “I like to party.”

Amber’s grin is a mirror of his own as she pops open the bag and sprinkles a line across the rise of her left breast.  Kent feels like a rapper when he snorts it from her skin and accepts the chaser shot Cray hands him.

He feels like a NHL player.

He feels like the Kent Parson they write about on the blogs.

In the background someone mutters, “Just like Zimmermann.”

December 31st 2015 – 11:30pm

Kent doesn’t know who dragged who but he’s not moving anymore.  He’s pressed up against a toilet stall door and whoever it was that was giving him eyes from across the room is now giving him eyes from the floor as they kneel ready to make good on a threat delivered between the dancefloor and the sticky club hall.

I’ll show you a good time.

This isn’t Kent’s first rodeo, he’s made toilet stall fucks into an art form and so he bites down on his lips to smother the embarrassingly loud moan of relief when the guys plump lips wrap around his dick and a hot wet tongue circles the head.

Kent puts out a hand to brace himself on the stall wall behind his kneeled companion.  His hips jolt as he shifts and the guy pulls back with a protesting, “Dude.”

“Sorry.” Kent mutters and means it.  The guy gives him a sceptical look and Kent would reassure him that he isn’t into forcing strangers to deep throat him if he could find any of the words needed to articulate that and sound genuine.  Instead he prompt’s the guy with a “So?” desperate to drown out the droning remix of a Solvig song with the sound of this guy sucking his dick.

Mercifully the guy takes a breath and takes Kent into his mouth again.  He knows what he’s doing and when Kent feels the guys other hand cup his balls he thinks that perhaps this could be over before midnight, just in time for Kent to stumble out and say Happy New Year as if he thinks this year is going to be any different from the last.  Or the one before that, or any of the ones before his best friend tried to kill himself and cast Kent out of his new post suicide life.

Kent blinks slowly and slower still until a particularly lascivious lap of his friends tongue pushes him far from the bathroom at Midas and back to somewhere they’re not playing terrible remixes of songs he likes.  Somewhere the music is something with a bit more twang and completely ill fitting to the Canadian mansion he’s in.

The mouth on his there isn’t hurried or impersonal.  It’s slow and loving and a little shy because he’s just seventeen and both of them pretend to know what they’re doing with girls but with each other there’s nothing but honesty, and so when Jack takes him into his mouth it’s with an uncertainty that makes Kent both impatient and fond.  Kent reaches out to caress Jack’s cheek, to tell him he feels so good, that his mouth is amazing and that he’s about to come.  It’s crude and scripted but he hopes that between the stock phrases they’ve picked up from all those pornos that Jack hears what Kent is really saying.

You’re perfect.  I can’t believe you’re doing this for me.  I love you.

They never said they loved each other but you didn’t get chemistry on the ice like theirs without heart.

A tug on his dick pulls him from the tentative ministrations of the past and plants him back in the toilet stall of the club he wished he’d never fucking suggested for the night.  His hand hovers in mid air paused on it’s way to the strangers face.  The guy gives it a sideways look but doesn’t say anything.  Instead he pushes his face down and down and down until his nose brushes the hairs at Kent’s groin.

Kent moans.

“You like that?” The guy pants his lips spit slick and eyes glassy from too much fairy dust.

All he can do is nod because his throat is throbbing so hard he feels like he can’t breathe.

“Fuck yeah you do.” The guy smirks moving his tight grip up and down Kent’s flesh.  Kent’s belly quivers and his balls tighten between his legs.

Kent can’t remember the guy’s name and it doesn’t matter.  It won’t matter when he’s come, it won’t matter when they leave the stall and go back outside to toast another year of fucking around and being fucking miserable and wishing he’d never met Jack fucking Zimmermann and then taking it back because he daren’t risk the wish coming true.  Because what excuse would he have for burying his misery in every body he meets at a club three sheets to the wind if he can’t blame it on Jack?

What would he do with all the mental space freed up by getting over Jack?

The hand stops moving and clamps around the base of his dick.  Kent mewls belatedly realising he was close, so close.

“Not yet.” The voice below him growls.

Fuck you yes yet Kent scowls removing the guys hand.

The guy smirks at him and mutters something that doesn’t sound English.  Kent’s belly clenches and his dick pulses.  When he looks down again all he can see is dark hair.

“Can- uh, can you speak French?” he asks brokenly.

“Huh?” the guy frowns up at him shattering the bubble.

“Nothing – nothing forget it.”

The guy gives him another wary look like he’s deciding this is more hassle than it’s worth and Kent wouldn’t blame him but he could kill him if he stops now because he’s so, so close.

In the background the music the cuts off.  A second later the chant starts.

Ten

Nine

Eight

Seven

Kent’s once again enveloped in the wet heat of the strangers mouth.

Six

Five

Four

Three

His belly tightens and his leg shakes.

Two

One

In a rush his body tightens and the black behind his lids turns white as the cum painting his partners face.

The guy turns to spit what load he caught in his mouth, down the toilet.

Happy New Year.

December 31st 2016 – 3:00pm

“Last year Hudson said you all went to a club.” Lewsey says scooping up his Taco but leaving half the filling behind on the Styrofoam plate.

“Uh huh.” Kent answers taking care to keep his own Taco filling in the damn Taco because he’s not an animal and this is not his only meal of the day so he’s not going to act like it is…well not in front of the rookies who are acting every bit like the children they are when Lewis pouts and misses the hint to quit while he’s ahead.  “And?” Kent asks after he’s finally swallowed.

“I’m just sayin’ a house party…it’s a little…” he gropes around for the right word and Kent hopes to god it’s the right word because he’s in a pissy mood.  Killing himself in the gym was not the good mood shortcut he’d hoped it be and despite Cray engaging him in a squat competition (and losing sorely which always makes Kent’s gloating a little sweeter) the endorphin’s washed away with the soapy run off down the drain.

He’s tried to solve the problem with food but that’s not working either.

“High school?” Cray finishes because he loves watching a car crash.

Kent shoots Cray a dirty look that he brushes off with an obtuse smile.  Kent takes a delaying bite and when he’s finished he gives Lewsey the kind of look you reserve for the child that’s been winding you up all day.  It’s a look he inherited from his mum and makes him look just like her.  “We all went to a club and it was hella expensive and wasn’t that much fun.  Jeff’s got a huge fucking house, the booze is free and the music’ll be better.” He takes a breather and sips his soda, “But by all means go to a club and stand outside in line all night.  You won’t be missed.”

Lewsey gapes and Taco filling falls from his mouth.  He struggles to catch it back, “Erm.” He chews quickly, “No it’s-“ he looks at Cray for help but Cray’s too busy trying to smother his laughter.  “It’s fine.”

“Is it?” Kent asks tartly.  “You don’t have to come.”

Lewsey once again looks to Cray for help which is stupid because the guy lives for awkward moments like these.  Everyone thinks Cray’s a nice guy because he doesn’t verbally give the rookies shit, but none of them have wisened up to the traps he silently lays.

“No, no! I want to.” Lewsey insists.

“It’s not mandatory.” Cray says with artful nonchalance.

Kent looks down at the table for a knife but all he sees is a straw.  If he gets an eye it’ll shut Cray up but he’ll only get one shot and he can’t vouch for his accuracy.  Which is ironic considering what he does for a living.

“It isn’t?” Lewsey doesn’t sound sure.

Before he answers Kent finishes his Taco.  He takes his sweet time with it and Cray doesn’t fill the gap of silence which leaves their rookie to glance between them anxiously while nibbling on his own food.

By the time Kent’s done Lewsey’s practically purple.

“Look,” Kent begins, wiping his greasy fingers on a napkin.  “Come, don’t come, I don’t give a shit.” He screws up his tissue and punctuates his words by throwing it onto Lewsey’s plate.

“No, no! I wan-wanna come.” Lewsey stutters.

Kent shrugs and gathers up the their debris.  “Whatever man.  Be there or not it’s your night.” And with that he takes off for the trash can at the back of the restaurant.

While Kent’s in the bathroom Lewsey looks helplessly at Cray who shrugs like he doesn’t know what’s up with their captain but looks like he knows exactly what’s up with their captain.

“Did I- did I really offend Parser or something?” Lewsey asks slowly.

Cray makes to shrug again but he likes Lewsey the best out of all the rookies.  Lewsey reminds him of his sister (the only family member he can stand), he even kind of looks like her…or the male version of her at least which is more than he does because he got their dad’s looks which includes their dads unfortunate nose and tendency to put weight on round the face.  Cray takes a deep breath then on an exhale answers, “Parser hates New Years.”

Lewsey takes a moment to digest this.  He considers it for a moment after that and then says, “My brother hates New Years too but that’s because he got run over when he was a kid and I’m pretty sure he has PTSD from it.  Or at least that’s what my sister thinks.  I think he just hates that he never has anyone to kiss at midnight.” He shrugs as though it’s just one of those mysteries he’ll never figure out.

Cray loves this kid.

“Does Kent have PTSD?” he asks.

Cray blinks a little startled.  He doesn’t know if Kent has PTSD per say but he knows that when it comes to December thirty first there’s something ugly that unfurls inside Kent.  “Nah he just never has anyone to kiss at midnight.” Cray lies easily.

Lewsey rears back like this is the most confusing part of his afternoon so far.  Not the being abducted at two thirty to go get Taco’s from a tiny fast food joint right on the lip of the city.  Not being told to leave his phone behind on pain of endless drills.  Not being told that he can only order an everything Taco or a nothing Taco with extra refried beans.  Not being forced to wear shorts even though it’s a little too chilly for that.

“That doesn’t make any sense.” Lewsey declares.  “He’s Kent Parson! Captain of the Las Vegas Aces.”

Cray’s smile makes his face ache.  “And yet,” he tries not to laugh, “he finds himself puckering up into air at midnight.”

Lewsey lowers his voice, “Every year?” he asks disbelievingly.

“Every year.” Cray confirms.

“Is it a suspicion thing? Like Moller and the…” he makes a crude motion with his hand.

“No.  Not many people know this but,” Cray leans in conspiratorially, “Kent Parson has no game.”

“No!” Lewsey practically gasps.  “No way!” he almost sounds scared like if Kent Parson has no game then none of them do.

“Honest to God.” Cray crosses his fingers under the table.

When Kent returns it takes one look at Lewsey’s confounded expression for him to turn a suspicious one on Cray.  “What did you tell him?”

“I told him you woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning and not to take your piss poor mood personally.” Cray lies seamlessly.

Kent doesn’t miss a beat, “You told him I got not game didn’t you?”

Cray’s grin is shit eating, “He believed me too.  You need to pick up more, it’s getting too easy.”

Kent flips him off.  “Crays a liar and a scumbag,” Kent educates Lewsey, “and out of the two of us he’s been celibate the longest.”

“Helps me focus my game.” Cray replies sombrely.

“Right…” Lewsey’s eyes dart between them both.

“Let’s blow this joint.” Kent pauses, “If you’re not familiar with the term Cray it’s when-“

“Fuck you man.” Cray shoves his shoulder and they burst out into the white sun of the parking lot.

Cray cries shotgun and runs for the car like a child.  Kent walks slower because his hamstrings are fucking killing him and Lewsey hovers in the gap between them like an excited child but one that doesn’t want to lose sight of his parents.  When he reaches out for the backdoor handle Kent frowns.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting in the car.” Lewsey rolls his eyes.

“Rookies walk home.” Kent deadpans.

Lewsey laughs haltingly, “Har har.” He tries the handle again but Kent won’t unlock the car.  “Seriously?” Lewsey squeaks.  “How am I supposed to get back?”

Kent shrugs.

“Come on man.” He whines tugging on the handle.

Kent motions for him to back away from the car and Lewsey retreats a step.  “Next time,” Kent advises opening the drivers side and getting in, “don’t be so ready to believe Cray’s lies.” He slams the door down and a second later the window rolls down.  “See you at Jeff’s later.” Kent salutes him then starts the car.

Lewsey makes an aborted sound of protest but Kent’s car peels out of the lot and he doesn’t even break when he meets the road.

Lewsey stares after them long after they’re gone.  And even longer after that when he realises he doesn’t have his phone.

December 31st 2016 – 6:02pm

“You’re wearing that?” Kent leans forward to squint at the screen even though he can see Katie perfectly.

His sister gives an impatient little snort, “The hanger makes it look shorter.” She says to reassure him.

Not reassured in the least Kent remarks, “I think the dress makes the dress look short.”

Kate’s withering look is just as effective on screen as it is in person, “I don’t tell you how to dress.” She retorts.

“I don’t wear tiny dresses.” He argues.

“Only because you don’t have the legs for it!”

There’s a pause and then both Parson siblings dissolve into laughter.  Kent clutches his heart dramatically and in between guffaws pouts, “Wow babe.  Ouch.”

“Sorry, sorry.” Katie sighs giving a rueful little smile.

“You already had this talk with mom eh?”

“I already had this talk with mom.” She nods.

Kent sits back feeling like an asshole.  “Sorry.”

“It’s fine but it’s not like I can help being hot.” She smirks.

Kent rolls his eyes but says, “Well it is to be expected of the sister of Kent Parson.”

Katie looks confused, “Is this Kent Parson massive nerd and consistent loser of hungry hippos, pool, connect four, fuzboll and basically every other game that isn’t on the ice?”

“No it’d be the other Kent.  The one who’s good at everything.” He says sardonically.

Katie shrugs clueless.  “Never met the guy.”

“Christ put mom back on.” He groans.

Katie’s eyes bug out of her head and Kent’s about to tell her to calm down when she sputters “Is that Cray?!”

Kent does a double take over his shoulder when he sees what Cray’s wearing…or not wearing.  He thinks this is bad enough but Cray’s wearing the boxers with beavers all over them, a nod to a very lewd joke he will definitely not share with his sister.  From the screen there’s a wolf whistle and said sister sings, “Hey hot stuff! Where’d you get that body?”

Kent slams the laptop screen down.  “I was on skype to my little sister!”

“Yeah,” Cray laughs, “And she can chirp with the best of them.”

Kent will not tell Katie that in case she feels entitled to gloat.  “What the fuck are you doing in your underwear in my room?”

“I thought you liked that kind of thing.” Cray scoffs.

Kent feels his heart leap into the back of his throat.  “Why the fuck would you think that?” He chokes out venomously.

Cray rears back, “I was joking Christ.  Fragile masculinity much?”

Kent could howl if he were capable of finding anything to do with his panic funny.  He hasn’t been able to relax since Zimmermann and his stupid blonde boyfriend came out on centre ice after the cup win this summer.  He knows it’s ironic to feel even more trapped now when Zimm’s no doubt did it to unchain not only himself but many others living closeted life in the world of professional sports.  Kent doesn’t know if Zimmermann forgot what that sort of scrutiny would do to everyone in his life or if he just didn’t care but on the cusp of the big reveal came a litany of blog posts that spent way too much time looking for clues about his orientation in his past and unearthed some rumours about he and Kent that sat way too close for comfort.

Kent hasn’t said a thing about them but he’s been approached several times and even now, all these months later, he still has to watch what he says when Jack’s name comes up.

It also means he’s had to act like the big ol’ straight bro in the locker room just to convince the other guys that the rumours are just that, rumours for teenage girls who romanticise gay relationships between hot guys.

Honestly it’s more exhausting than the regular old pretending he was doing before.

“You’re still half naked in my room.” Kent blinks at Cray.

“I was looking for a spare towel.  I gotta shower.”

He couldn’t come in looking for a towel before he took his god damn clothes off? Kent girits his teeth.  “What’s wrong with your shower?”

“The waters still not back on.  Jesus Christ Parson what crawled up your butt and died? I shower here all the time.”

Cray’s right.  Parson lets him shower here all the time, he’s even peed while Cray’s been in the shower so it’s not like he hasn’t seen Cray’s bubble butt before.  But (butt!) it’s different now because before Kent was straight and now he’s…well he’s never been straight but the guys didn’t know that, and the ones who did suspect were such a minority as to be easy to ignore or convince otherwise.

Fucking Zimmermann.

“So can I use your shower?”

Kent deflates and hopes his expression is less anxiety and more apology for snapping ‘irrationally’, “Yeah.  Towels are in the airing cupboard it’s the door beside my bedroom door.”

“Ahh,” Cray hums, “So that’s what that room is.”

Kent almost doesn’t dare ask but he’s desperate for the distraction, “What did you think it was?”

“Your red room.” Cray snickers.

December 31st 2016 – 9:30pm

Swoops opens the door in a glittery green shirt that makes Kent question his whole existence.  “Parse, glad you could make it.” Swoops exchanges a handshake and when both men pull each other in for a back slap Swoops speaks against his ear, “mention the shirt and I’ll pee in your beers.”

When Kent pulls back he’s smirking.

“Kent.” Swoops warns.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“You two spend too much time together.” Swoops’ girlfriend sashays down the hall.  She looks stunning in a velvet grey dress that hugs her hips in a way that means Swoops is gonna be cleaning up everybody’s drool all night.  Jasmine hip checks Swops out of the way and embraces Kent.  “Glad you could make it.” She presses a kiss to his cheek.

Kent’s missed Jasmine and Swoops over Christmas while they went to Spain to visit Jas’ parents and he opens his mouth to tell them so when Hudson interrupts from over his shoulder.

“You almost sound like you mean it.” He guffaws shouldering his way past Kent through the front door.  Neither Swoops not Kent miss the stiffening of Jasmines spine or the tightening of her smile.

There’s a history there.  A history Swoops will never talk about because he’s been advised not to jeopardies team dynamics.  It’s a history he won’t tell Kent in case Kent feels obligated to do something.  It’s a history that makes Jasmine suddenly look self-conscious in her outfit.

Kent pulls away and he watches as Swoops and Hudson exchange a perfunctory handshake and back slap.  Hudson turns and does the same with Kent.  It’s full of just as much feeling as Swoops’.  “Glad you could make it Parser.  Missing the club?” Hudson’s eyes glint with innuendo.

Kent tries to head his flush off before it reaches his face.  “Only thing I’m missing is a beer.”

“Bar’s where you left it.” Swoops waves them in.

December 31st 2016 – 10:30pm

“You should have seen this guy! He looked like fucking Puff daddy snorting coke off that chicks tit.” Hudson claps Kent on the back so hard he sloshes beer on Swoops’ carpet.

“Shit.”

Swoops leaps up with him, “I got it Parse.” He puts out a hand to stop Kent from rising from the couch to do it himself but Kent’s sick of hearing Hudson tell a story that makes him sound like a grade A douchebag.  Kent’s a dick he doesn’t exactly work to prove otherwise but the coke thing was exceptionally douchey and he’s only ever done it once.  But once is all it takes and now it’s Hudson’s favourite story to tell.

He wasn’t even there until after Kent had done it but nobody ever seems to fact check him.  Hudson’s a good story teller and even Kent finds himself believing his version of events because it makes him sound less like a fratty white boy and more like the pimp people expect a professional athlete to be.

“Parse I got it.” Swoops assures him a second time for show when Kent is on his feet and following him into the kitchen.  Jasmine whirls round wine glass to her lips looking guilty that she’s been caught necking pinot.

“Having a good time baby?” Swoops laughs.

“It’ll be great when I get to bottom of this bottle.” She pours another generous glass and waves the bottle at Kent, “Want one sweetheart?”

Something in Kent will always soften when Jasmine calls him sweetheart.  It’s the way she says it with such fondness in her voice.  It fools Kent into thinking that Jasmine loves him too.  He’s five beers in and it’s easy to say yes to another drink and bask in the warmth of the press of Jasmines lips to his cheek and her hand cupping his jaw.  “You okay?”

Kent nods.

“Hudson’s telling the coke story again.” Swoops shuts the fridge.

Jasmine tucks her lips between her teeth in displeasure.  “What so he thinks you’re like him now?” her voice is sharper than the knife on the cheese board.

“He’ll get bored in a second when he realises all the women here have heard the story.” Kent waves it off.

“Which one?” Jasmine can’t fight snorting.

“All of them.” Jeff says meaningfully.

There’s that history again.  Kent’s got enough beer in him to give him amnesia and ask about these other stories but there’s a crash from the study that sends Swoops flying with the names of someone’s kids on his lips.

Jasmine swipes  a bit of cheese and holds it out to Kent, “Soak some of that up yeah?” She gestures to the bottle in Kent’s hand.  Kent waves off her concern because he’s very determined to get wasted before twelve and he’s only got – he checks his watch- ninety minutes left.  He chugs the rest of the beer and steals Jasmine’s glass.

“One day,” she sighs, “you’re going to have to get over him.”

“Who?”

Jasmine gives him a look.

“Who says?” he gasps wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Your sanity?” Kent reaches for the wine but Jasmine pushes it out of his reach.  “Come on Kent.”

“Don’t tell me how to live my life.” He scowls childishly.

Jasmine gives him a long look but when he doesn’t rush to apologise she leaves the kitchen.  Kent snags the wine bottle and takes a swig trying to fill the space that Jasmine’s disappointment hollows out of him.  When it doesn’t work he goes out to freeze in the garden.

December 31st 2016 – 11:25pm

Kent’s butt has gone numb but he’s still staring at the god damn app.

He wants to say he’s happy for them.  He wants to get behind them like everyone else and say words like ‘good for them’ and ‘that’s real progress they’re pioneering’ and ‘we should all representation’ and other sentences with buzz words like that but he just…can’t.  Kent can’t support them not because he’s a raging homophobe but because he’s broken hearted and bitter.

Silence he could take.  Being frozen out he could take.  But seeing them like that? On the ice in front of thousands of fans and cameras that broadcast to millions more all over the country, all over the world, kissing? Kissing like they were in love? Kissing like they’d waited their lifetimes to do it?

Kissing like they were fucking happy.

There was nothing but white noise in his head when he saw it on Cray’s phone but after they’d gotten outside, after Carly couldn’t be heard giving his opinion like anyone gave a shit, his brain filled up with the kind of howling Kent was terrified people could hear.

That was supposed to be us!

His brain still screams it sometimes.  It screams it when his eyes snag on a picture of Jack beaming at the camera holding a fucking pie that isn’t on any diet plan Kent’s ever prescribed to.  He screams it when he sees a picture of them kissing on instagram or twitter.  He yowls it when he sees the picture of Jack passed out in bed, covers hiked up to his waist and hair all sleep mussed.

Roadies are tough even on the veterans the caption reads.

It’s supposed to be cute but it makes Kent want to hurl.  Kent only met that bitty kid once but he’s pretty sure that whatever he has with Jack can in no way compare to what he and Kent had.

They were masters on the ice.  The bloody champions of the no look one shot goal for fucks sake! Everything they were on the ice they were a million times more off of it and each side fed into the other making them real contenders.  Kent and Jack were supposed to go in the draft together.  They were supposed to graduate to pro from their farm teams and get the A’s and then captaincy.  Kent was supposed to spend his days doing the two things he enjoyed most.  Playing hockey and loving Jack.

Sure Kent still gets to play hockey but he has to watch someone else love Jack and Jack love someone else.

Meanwhile Kent sits here on his ass too afraid to take a chance on someone else because lord knows Jack got all the luck.  He gets lucky enough to find a boyfriend at Samwell, a boyfriend who obviously understood the dangers of Jack coming out in the world.  Kent wouldn’t be so lucky.  Kent would probably tether his line to someone who would sell him down the river, out in him in the tabloids or blackmail him for their silence.  Or worse resent him for pulling them back into the closet with him.

Kent pitches the wine bottle into the garden and hears it smash somewhere down the patio.  He regrets it immediately.

Gluttonous for punishment Kent opens up Eric’s twitter.

@omgcheckplease start as you mean to go on.

Attached is a picture of a series of pies all laid out neatly and photogenically along a gleaming kitchen counter.  A kitchen counter Jack’s pay check paid for no doubt.

The next few tweets are a transcript of conversations they’ve been having with their friends and family during the day.  The next few are a saccharine sweet shout out to all the ‘fans’ who have supported them this year since the Falconers cup win and Jack and Eric’s big gay reveal.

Eric doesn’t type big gay reveal, Kent just adds that in because he’s angry and petty and self-destruction has no bite unless he’s adding in his own internalised (and really it has to be internalised because only six people in Kent’s life know he’s gay) homophobia.

The next tweet comes with a picture of a beer pong table set up.

@omgcheckplease @clarissaexplainsitall showin’ bros how it’s done again!

@omgcheckplease reigning 2017 champion @clarissaexplainsitall

Attached is a photo reminiscent of the photo taken last time except there’s only one guy beneath her foot and it’s Jack.  His face is all scrunched up and peculiar looking and Kent does a double take when he realises that it’s because he’s laughing so hard.

He sways on the wall and closes his phone.

He doesn’t know who the fuck that guy in the photo is.

Falling off the wall Kent starts the slow stumble back to the house and when he steps through the patio doors the warm air dries his lips and shrinks his bladder threateningly.

He hunts for the bathroom but the downstairs one is occupied and so he crawls, on his hands and knees, up the stairs too drunk to just hold onto the railing.  When he summits them he spots two girls leaning against the landing wall each staring at their phones.  Both are leggy and blonde and completely Hudson’s type

“They are goals.” The tallest leggiest one gushes.  Her gold dress makes her glow.

“Such goals.” Her less leggier but no less blonder friend agrees.

“I know it’s, like, not pc to say but I totally think them making out on centre ice was hot.”

“Oh my god hella hot.”

If you think that’s hot you should have seen him sucking cock Kent thinks to himself and because he finds himself so hilarious he snorts out loud.  The girls whirl around eyes saucer wide and full of guilt.

“Sssorry ladies,” he slurs passing them, “Please go back to…whatever the fuck you were doin’.” He sends an approximation of a grin over his shoulder before shutting the bathroom door behind him.

He throws the lid up, pulls his pants down and relieves himself.  Outside in the hall he hears the girls say,

“Kent’s hot.”

“Brett says he’s a fucking mess and a coke addict.”

Hudson invited them then.

“Do you think those rumours about him and Jack were true? You know the-“ she pauses and Kent wonders if she’s miming sniffing coke or a handjob.

“Regardless I’d still fuck him.”

After a beat the other girl says, “Yeah me too.”

December 31st 2016 – 11:48pm

“Kent? Kent? Open the door.  I know you’re in there.” The handle twists but Kent made sure to lock it so all it does is rattle against the frame.  “Fucks sake.  You better not be passed out in your own puke.”

Kent grunts.  Not his style.

There’s a muffled “Thank god.” Outside the door followed by a click of the lock and finally the door opening.  Swoops appears with a glass bottle in his hand and the first thing Kent slurs is,

“That better be vodka.”

“Ha ha.” Jeff says humourlessly.  “No.  You’ve had enough fucking liquor you can drink this.” He hands him the bottle and a slice of bread, “And eat this.  Why are you in my bath tub?”

Kent ignores the water but does take the bread.  Crumbs fall onto his chest.  “It looked comfortable.”

Jeff heaves a weary sigh, “And is it?”

Kent shakes his head and more crumbs tumble down.  It’s very uncomfortable but Kent was sad anyway and so he decided what was a little more discomfort in the grand scheme of things? “I should have come.” Jeff gives him a look.  “I’m ruining the…the…good times.”

“Hudson’s hitting on Maya.  You’re missing a hell of a crash and burn but other than that,” Jeff pushes the water at him again, “you’re not preventing anything.”

Kent doesn’t believe him for a second.  He’s always fucking up and getting too drunk and then too mopey and Swoops, no Jeff, he’s Jeff when it’s just them together, is always there to look after him.  To drag him from one drink too many, helping to smooth over fights that Kent swears to god he didn’t start.  Jeff’s like his guardian angel…or his carer.

“You shouldn’t have to look after me.”

Unexpectedly Jeff snaps, “Then stop needing it.” Taken aback Kent blinks up at him.  “Is this about Zimmermann?”

Kent sinks down in the tub, “No.” he mumbles into his chest.

“And last year wasn’t about him either?”

“No.”

“You’re the worlds worst liar I swear to fucking god.” Jeff mutters, “I don’t know how nobody has figured you out.”

“I’m Captain,” Kent pouts petulant, “you’re not supposed to give your captain shit.”

Jeff gives him a dry look, “Pretty sure the captains not supposed to get wasted and curl up to die in my bath tub, and yet.”

Kent flips him off.

“Real captainly.”

Kent swigs water and hopes Jeff is affected by the defiance in the violent gulping.

“It could be you, you know.” Jeff says softly after a minute.  “You could come out.”

Kent almost spits his water out.  “I’m not like Jack.” He says when he’s done.

“You’re not?” Jeff looks genuinely puzzled.

Kent might find it fond if he knew how to process that expression and all it really meant.  “I’m not…” he combs his soupy brain for the word, “beloved.”

“Beloved?” Jeff blinks at him in disbelief.

“Beloved.” Kent scowls at him.  It’s less effective every time he does it.

“How in the fuck is Zimmermann beloved? You think just cos his dad was a hockey star and his boyfriend started a black market jam trade that that makes him beloved?” Jeff snorts as if to say give me strength “It’s his boyfriend doing the baking not him.  Jack Zimmermann is no more or less ‘beloved’ than you.”

“I can’t come out.”

“Can’t or don’t want to?” Jeff replies swiftly.

Kent bristles, “Don’t want to.” Kent snaps.

At length Jeff decides, “I think that’s bullshit.”

“Don’t fucking assume you know anything about what I want.” Kent snaps viciously…or vicious for a guy drunk in a bath tub with crumbs all over his shirt.

“God forbid I do that Kent huh? God forbid I try to help you off this self-destructive fucking rollercoaster you are determined to be strapped into.”

“I never asked you to help me!”

“That’s what friends do!”

“I don’t need you as my friend!” he shouts.

“Of course you fucking do!” Jeff shouts back.  “Without me you’d be dead, or worse, slandered in all the papers for all the fucking bathroom blowjobs.”

Kent scoffs bitterly, “I never took you for a homophobe.”

Jeff sneers at him, “I’m not a fucking homophobe you asshole I’m trying to look out for you.  You don’t want to be out then stop fucking around with randoms who would sell you down the river if they ever found out who you are.  You don’t want the wider world knowing things about you you’d rather keep secret then maybe you should stop taking strangers into back rooms and working your way through Nevada one grindr user at a time and focus on getting over Jack fucking Zimmermann.”

By the time he’s done Jeff’s chest is heaving and the air’s turned thick and heavy with all the words he’s just said.  Kent can’t say anything for the giant lump in his throat and it takes him several tries before he feels like he can swallow it enough to make sound around it.  “Why couldn’t it be me?”

Jeff sinks down, turns and leans his back against the tub.  “You and Jack?”

“We used to date.” Kent whispers like he’s just admitted something huge.  Like Jeff doesn’t already know that the tear in Kent’s heart is shaped like Zimmermann’s knife.  “He thinks I forgot him and then when I went to talk to him at Samwell he just-“ Kent takes a shuddering breath, “he didn’t want to know.  He told me to get out.”

Jeff takes a breath, “That was a long time ago.”

“He gets everything.” Kent croaks miserably.  “The legendary parents, the money and the privilege.  He got the fresh start and every hockey team vying to be his first pick even after he left them hanging.  Then he gets the A and the perfect fucking boyfriend and now,” Kent’s head lolls against the tub, “now he gets a team who supports who he really is.”

Kent makes Jeff wait for the kicker.

“And he did it all without me.”

And there it is.

“We’d be there for you.”

Kent snorts, it’s a nice thought but it’s hardly true.  “You think Hudson and Macksey are gonna be there for me? You think the GM’s are gonna be there for me? You know what they’ll fucking say.  They’ll watch the ticket sales go down and the fights on the ice get worse and they’ll think maybe it’s best if I get scratched for a few games.  Then it’s me handing over my C and sending me down to ‘train’ kids at the farm and then come trade day,” he makes a whistle bomb sound, “they’ll sell me to the only bidder.”

“They can’t kick you off the team for being gay Kent.”

“They can make it hard to stay on it.” He snaps, “God Jeff I love you but you’re fucking naïve.”

Jeff makes an angry impatient noise in the back of his throat, “You think you’re the only one who has a secret on this team? Do you think you’re the only player on this roster who has things they think they need to hide for fear of being benched or sent down to the farm? Jesus Christ Kent you’re the fucking captain.  You could help these peoples!”

“I don’t owe anybody anything.”

“Then you’re just like Zimmermann, or worse because he just did that.”

“For himself.” Kent refuses to believe that Jack did that for anybody but himself.  He won’t have thought about the wider world.  Jack’s only ever crippled under the public pressure, he’s never risen to meet it or change it.

Jeff makes that sound again, “For himself or not he’s not opened a door that the leagues been trying to hold closed for decades.  Whether he continues with this or not it’s out there now and pretty soon other players are going to gently nudge their way out and declare themselves too.  You could be one of them.”

Kent’s silence is considering.  “But I’d be alone.” He says quietly.

“You wouldn’t be alone.”

“You think I could find someone to kiss live on air after a game?”

Jeff rolls his eyes, “Now you’re just being facetious.  I’m saying that if you came out you’d have people in your corner.  Your family for one and me and Jasmine and loads of other guys on the team.”

Kent makes a sound, “You sure of that?”

“I am.  If this bullshit,” he waves over his shoulder to Kent wasted in the bath, “is about more than your heartbreak with Zimmermann just know that you don’t have to be afraid of walking out there alone if you want to be honest with the world about this part of you.  But if this is only about Jack then I have some friendly advice for you.”

Jeff pauses so Kent has to ask ,”And that is?”

“Get some therapy and get over him.”

“I thought the best way to get over someone was to get under someone else.”

Jeff thinks he hears a smile in Kent’s voice.  He answers with his own, “The rate you’re going through them don’t you think if that were true it would have happened by now?”

“You can’t slut shame me.” He grumbles sinking down into the tub.  His sneakers squeak on the porcelain.

Finally Jeff turns hooking his muscled forearms over the lip of the tub and staring down into Kent’s tear streaked face.  Gently he wipes one away from his cheek.  “Kent.  I love you okay? I can’t watch you do this anymore.  You’re too fucking talented and amazing to be sitting in my tub thirty seconds from midnight drunk crying over a boy who doesn’t love you.”

Kent sucks in a breath.

“Yes you idiot I love you.” Jeff rests his cheek on the tub and regards Kent with a fond smile.  “And so does Jasmine.”

“It’s not exactly the kind of love that has us making out on centre ice is it?”

Jeff shrugs, “You never know”

Kent’s belly does something clenchy that he’ll only start to understand when he’s hungover, “but if you want it to be you’ll have to start picking up the tab at meals.  You can even start at brunch tomorrow.”

Kent burps.  “Oh God.” He scrambles to get up.

Jeff fights to lean back before Kent’s flailing limbs can smack him in the face.  “Jesus okay? We can ease into it you can get the coffees.”

“Nope!” Kent falls half out of the bath in his haste to get away.

“Christ Kent you’ll never get that-“

Kent pushes violently past him and falls face first into the toilet.  Then vomits.

“-kiss now.”

“Urgh.” Kent gasps into the bowl.

Jeff leans over and presses his hand to the space between Kent’s shoulder blades and slowly rubs up and down in what he hopes is a soothing manner.  Kent opens his mouth to thank him then vomits again.

“Happy New Year Kent.”

Kent flips him off.

“No really.  It’s midnight.” He slides his phone under Kent’s face.  “See?”

On the screen 00:00 flashes up.  “Fuck.” He sighs.  “Happy New year man.”

Jeff’s hand returns a steady slow comforting stroke along his spine.  “Happy New Year bro.”

Staring at the rancid water at the bottom of the toilet bowl Kent doesn’t know how happy the new years going to be but when he wakes in the morning to find two Advil’s and a water with a note propped against it that reads;

Hi sweetheart.  Breakfast’s on you yeah?

He begins to reconsider.

[coffeeandcalligraphy]

You Only Line Once #1 | Line Editing

Sooo, here I am, back at it again with yet another series. I had a lot of fun documenting my line editing journey in my line edit with me vid I posted a while back (which you can watch HERE), so I decided to make this a series on here. I actually intended to start this series back in August, and wrote the intro, but never posted it because I couldn't find a pun for the series title, lol. (I do it for the puns. Pretty happy with this strokes shoutout from You Only Live Once aha.) Two days ago, I wrote up a list of puns based off song titles, and @sssoto​ and @sarahkelsiwrites​ helped me narrow it down to You Only Line Once. Hope you enjoy this new endeavor!

I haven't talked about this all that often, but yessss, I have now started line-edits on my second novel, FOSTERED (which I talk about a lot, lol). I wrote this book when I was 13, and after watching @sarahkelsiwrites​ line edit in her Shrink Line Edit series, decided to take this on. I’m documenting my (very slow) progress on MyWriteClub as well. My goal was actually to get these edits done by the third of February, but at the pace I’m going, am totally going to have to scale that due date up.

I’ve actually re-written a scene from FOSTERED twice just for fun, and I always enjoyed the idea of possibly cleaning up the prose so it was an easier read. I haven’t read this book the full way through since I wrote it three entire years ago. Probably because the prose isn’t all that great, and while I’ve been able to move past that in recent months, I lose motivation after a while, and always stop reading at the same place. So that’s a bit of an explanation as to why I’m doing this exactly (still not publishing these books tho lol).

This has actually been my side project for the last couple weeks, but since life has = chaos the past while, I’m only now launching this thing. Regardless, I hope this journey will be fun (but expect lots of angst because that’s basically all I do when I line edit).

Also a quick disclaimer: *I’m line-editing this book, yes, to improve readability, but this isn't a re-write. My edits will continue to preserve the vibe and writing style of the original draft, so keep that in mind! Depending on the passage, rewrites may be involved (*cough* looking *cough* at *cough* Foster’s *cough* dialogue *cough*), but it’s sort of a selective process (not how I line edit for current shtuff, by the way, thought I’d put that out there).

Onto the shtuff:

Today’s goal: So this actually was my goal two days ago since I’m writing this for that session, but the goal was to (unrealistically, as I admitted) finish edits on chapter 6. If you missed my vid on line editing, I do two rounds of edits, the first pass, then the final cleanup. The first pass takes a very long time, so after I’m done that, I move onto the next chapter, edit that the final time, then edit the previous chapter a second time, etc, etc. Yesterday’s session was for chapter six’s first pass.

What I actually line-edited: I completed the first scene of six, as well as half of the last scene, so not too shabby, since I did make the goal at like 1AM.

Total chapter count: 4 edited in full, chapters 5 and 6 awaiting final pass

Total page count: 25

Updated word count: 89 008 in comparison to the original 88 000

The overall scope: Editing went rather well? The beginning was rusty because I had to remould some very stilted dialogue/fix some pacing issues, but I think the chapter has improved quite a bit. I cut a looooot of things in this chapter, as opposed to adding, which was a nice change, lol.

Music or nahhh: I don't believe so!

How much I angsted on a scale from 1-10: Not all that much. I’d say a 5 at most for the worst of it which was the very beginning of the chapter. I call this a win.

Song title that describes line-editing session: (stole this from my outlannis updates but this question is one of my faves to answer ha) You’re Good by The Narwhals. I felt pretty determined and collected, which was a very nice change, haha.

Favourite chapter edited thus far and why: I would still say it’s chapter one. I like the edits I've made on later chapters, but there’s something about the first chapter that I wouldn't mind reading again. I think I fleshed out Reeve’s voice a lot more in chapter one and made her sound a lot less monotonous which is cool, and I think with the edits, it’s a much better opening. Which is great, because chapter one hasn't really been a favourite!

Excerpt:

(as mentioned before, this is totally still not going to be perfect by any means. this one is pretty neutral/is a good example of what a clean up would look like!)

BEFORE (ft. a surplus amount of exclamation marks):

“Harrison come on! That’s not true! C’mon don’t think like that. If you weren’t here we’d all be dead right now! Do you not remember that little three trick you pulled with Red. Now don’t tell me shit that it was your fault in the first place because if you hadn’t told Red about me blah, blah, blah! You saved our lives regardless! Whether it was caused by a negative decision or not! So stop complaining! Just stop! I’m sick of hearing this because I really don’t like it when you talk about yourself like that!” I snap back, folding my arms over my chest. When he grabs me into a hug, I don’t flinch away, I return the favour.

“So, will you stop it then?” I murmur.

“I’ll try. Thanks Reeve.” He mumbles then has disappeared to the other side, leaving me in the darkness. Yes, there is no light, no sun to warm me. But on the inside, I’m as sunny as ever, my glow revoking every negative thought that has brought me down.

AFTER (ft. a considerable decrease in exclamation marks):

“That’s not true.” My voice is more frantic than I expect. Desperate for him to understand that the mistakes we’ve both made in the last couple days have hurt, but don’t define us. “Don’t think like that, alright? If you weren’t here, we’d all be dead right now. Do you not remember that little three trick you pulled with Red? You saved our lives regardless.” I bite my lip. “I know it’ll take some time, but I think we’re working on whatever this is.” 

When he hugs me, I’m surprised, but return the favour anyway. He’s warm, despite the cool air moulded around us, smells like leather and ground coffee.

I’m not sure how long we stand there like that. But it’s enough time to solidify the lump in my throat, push the stupid feeling of missing something higher and higher in my stomach.

Eventually, he lets go, leaves me in the darkness. There is no light, no sun to warm me. But on the inside, I’m bright, my glow bringing me fresh hope for a new beginning.

she like a lowkey glo up I aint mad. droppin that classic harrisonboiii description tho yasss

So that’s it for this update! I hope you enjoyed seeing how exactly I go about cleaning a few paragraphs up! When I note more dramatic changes, I’ll definitely post about them in an update. :) For now, hope to see you in the next one!

--Rachel

[thelasthundredmiles]

February 15th, 1971

What can I say about this moment, this second in my existence?

At this very second, I am lying across a dirty unmade day-bed in a dark little efficiency apartment in Washington, D.C.’s Dupont Circle area. There is trash scattered across the floor. Dishes are sitting in the kitchen sink that has been there since October 7th. A draft is hitting my face and back from the window. A combination of vague, distant traffic noises and music garbled from a hi-fi somewhere in the building seem to move gently across the room. My radio, humming and almost inaudible is on the table at the head of the bed. A sports broadcast is being whispered to me-- methodically, efficiently. It is dark, a cloudy, gray dark outside my window. A plane is roaring, rumbling through the night sky.

I am very much alone in the universe all of a sudden. It is a matter of distress of late that my life seems to have become an almost amusing little game called: “TRY TO FILL YOUR LONELY LIFE” It’s quite a bizarre little game-- and quite tiring. The rules are quite simple. To begin the game a player must first either realize or accept the realizations that, when stripped bare, his meager, mean little existence on earth is nothing more than a hollow shell-- and he is being dragged headlong, like a foaming animal wide-eyed to slaughter-- toward a dark, gaping slaughter-house void in the night. Sensing the threatening insanity of the surrounding reality one is ready to begin playing.  

First one begins to spend money as quickly as possible. Players often times buy lots of new clothes and they “go out” on the town quite often, spending money as though it were useless. One drinks considerably and loses point if he fails to avoid reality whenever at all possible-- such as a free evening. When confronted with such a situation the player generally chooses one of the popular alternatives-- one “goes out” with friends and laughs desperately all evening-- or one drinks to the point of oblivion-- or one uses drugs to the point of mental oblivions. Of course, there are variations on all three choices and one can readily see the possibility of “mixing and matching” then. The one primary object of this game is never never allow yourself to be alone with yourself. This only brings on that silly old superstition, depression, and fear. Incidentally, that's how one loses the game-- when he fails to avoid himself. 

I am overcome at times with what appears to me to be the basic hollowness of my life. I sometimes feel so terribly in need of love and need.

This is wrong.     

One must be totally contained and self-sustained before one can reach out. Before one can seek out the warmth of earth existence one must settle his long past due bill with the universe that force, that life-- that God within himself. 

I am trying to settle that payment. 

One consciousness must be sacrificed to the other. 

[ciathyzareposts]

Game 112: Sherlock Holmes: Consulting Detective Vol. II – Introduction (1992)

Written by Joe Pranevich

The blurb on the back of the box tells us, “What they said about Sherlock I, you’ll say about Sherlock II.” I am fairly certain that there have never been truer words in advertising because that is exactly how I feel opening up Sherlock Holmes: Consulting Detective Vol. II. It’s cliche to say that everything old is new again, but it seems especially true in this case as we are introduced to three new cases for Mr. Holmes and his trusty companions to solve, all taken from the original tabletop game.

In the history of video games, this seems fairly rare. Most sequels– but certainly not all– adjust something in the follow ups. The Ultima games were famous for never re-using an engine in their main numbered games. In the adventure space, Sierra and LucasArts reused their engines, but rarely had sequels that used exactly the same engine. Even when they did, they made significant changes in the gameplay. (I’m tempted to say that King’s Quest II may be an exception.) The early Wizardry sequels were more like expansion packs than new games and maybe that is the right way to think about this one. It is “Volume II” rather than “II”, after all. Is that such a bad thing? We’ll just have to see.

My guess is the butler. Or rather, three separate butlers.

It’s been a couple of years since I reviewed the previous game, but I do not have much to add to the history of ICOM and Sherlock Holmes that I already covered there. 1991 saw ICOM, long a pioneer in computer adventures, branch out into the console space with two action games for TurboGrafx systems. In 1992, they continued to mine this new (for them) industry with one of my favorite games for the SNES: Road Runner’s Death Valley Rally. I admit that I haven’t played this game since I was a teen and I could have rose-colored glasses, but at a time when I was anti-Sonic because of my Nintendo bias, this game was a welcome expansion of that formula using characters that I was familiar with. Who wants to play a game about a strange hedgehog and his ring-collecting habit? Sherlock Holmes Vol. II would be ICOM’s only adventure in 1992, although, I’m still not convinced this is an “adventure” game. At this point, they may have already been working on Dracula Unleashed, a somewhat more traditional adventure using the same video-clip engine. We’ll take a look at that game next year. Of course, this game comes on the heels of another Sherlock Holmes game that blew the lid off of what we could expect from the character in an adventure format. I’m going to try to judge this on its merits, but after Lost Files, I may be disappointed.

Not surprisingly, this game was developed by the same crew as the previous one. Ken Torolla was the director, with Laurie RoseBauman as the scriptwriter and Kathy Tootelian as the lead designer. All three of them will return for the next and final sequel before going their separate ways. We’ll look at their future activities next time.

Remember this?

Since this is not a typical adventure game, I should remind you about how this game plays. In short, we will have three cases. Each case will have a brief introductory movie and then drop us off at the main investigation interface. Holmes and Watson can then visit anyone they like in the London Directory (the “D” icon, above), presumably clued in from things said in the video. We need to take good notes because we’ll have to use the evidence that we find in each following video to clue us into others until we assemble the facts of the case for the judge. The game itself is not stateful (except that you cannot talk to the judge until the game knows you have enough info to solve the case), but the directory includes hundreds of names and we have to weave together a web from the clues that we have to discover the clues that we need.

In addition to the case-specific characters, Holmes has other resources at his disposal including the Baker Street Irregulars as well as a team of (occasionally unwilling) “assistants” ranging from Lestrade and other experts at Scotland Yard, newspaper reporters, a lawyer, the Chief Medical Examiner, plus a library and a Hall of Records. Although the game does not have a time limit, you are given a score based on the number of false leads or unnecessary paths you go down; the higher your score the worse you did. You can send the Irregulars to interview people instead of Holmes and Watson to save time, but then you miss out on the videos and often important clues. I mostly ignored the time limit because I like to explore and find all of the content. You can play as you like!

Unbiased journalism!

The final and most indispensable piece of evidence (as well as a nice “feelie”) is a set of newspapers that are included with the package. These are required to solve the cases, plus add plenty of period-appropriate color. They are not quite copy protection because there are browsable electronic copies in the game itself, but reading them that way is an exercise in frustration. In this case, the game came with 17-pages of articles with dates ranging from February 6, 1888 to June 10, 1890. I counted last time and there are nearly 300 mini-articles across the entire feature so reading them all is difficult, and yet they were absolutely required for the cases that we had to solve. Often clues weren’t just in the current day’s paper, but also in previous issues. One surprise is that the paper this time is identical to the previous in every obvious way, although I didn’t do an article-by-article comparison. This is likely because the papers were taken from the tabletop version of the game, but it does add to the sense of deja vu that you feel while setting down to play for the first time. It really is the same game over again.

With all that out of the way, it is time to guess the score. The previous game scored 59 and I have a feeling that this one could end up in the same range. Since you will probably want to guess that, I’ll add a twist and hope that Ilmari doesn’t kill me: no one can guess 59, but if the score happens to come out as that (and I promise not to cheat), then everyone wins! We’ll give out CAPs to everyone that guesses a score, any score, if the final turns out to be 59. To help you make a more informed guess, I can also tell you ICOM’s previous scores: Deja Vu (45), Uninvited (30), Shadowgate (35), Deja Vu II (33), and Consulting Detective (59). This works out to an average of 40 points. Good luck and good guessing!

One personal note: Due to an exceptional non-blogging workload, my time is limited for the next several months. I call this “Trickster’s Curse” because no sooner did I catch up to him than I’ll pulled away. I am going to try to power through it and cover this game, although there may be some delays and we may end up starting some of the 1993 games before I’m done. With luck, I will be back to blogging full strength before Christmas. I already have two Missed Classics played in various states of being drafted so I desperately want to get back into writing, but real life will be interfering for a little while. I apologize.

Two lions are better than one!

Note Regarding Spoilers and Companion Assist Points: There’s a set of rules regarding spoilers and companion assist points. Please read it here before making any comments that could be considered a spoiler in any way. The short of it is that no CAPs will be given for hints or spoilers given in advance of me requiring one. As this is an introduction post, it’s an opportunity for readers to bet 10 CAPs (only if they already have them) that I won’t be able to solve a puzzle without putting in an official Request for Assistance: remember to use ROT13 for betting. If you get it right, you will be rewarded with 20 CAPs in return. It’s also your chance to predict what the final rating will be for the game. Voters can predict whatever score they want, regardless of whether someone else has already chosen it. All correct (or nearest) votes will go into a draw.

source http://reposts.ciathyza.com/game-112-sherlock-holmes-consulting-detective-vol-ii-introduction-1992/

[junker-town]

Never, ever, ever fight Charles Oakley. Unless...

There’s only a few unlikely scenarios that would warrant throwing hands with Oak.

Charles Oakley was arrested at Madison Square Garden in the first quarter of the Knicks-Clippers game for yelling at James Dolan and then fighting security.

Another angle of Charles Oakley's meltdown at the Garden. (via @ischafer) http://pic.twitter.com/hTASO5okzX

— SLAM Magazine (@SLAMonline) February 9, 2017

Oakley is well-known as a terrifying man, in the sense that he could probably beat up God if he wanted to. During his NBA career, he was a feared enforcer who got into a multitude of fights.

Charles Oakley vs. Everyone (1989) #FreeOakley http://pic.twitter.com/92GXdHbHzS

— The Schmozone (@schmozone) February 9, 2017

After his arrest, I wondered if there’s ever a situation that would call for someone to engage Oakley willingly, and how desperate it has to be for a human being to make such a bad decision. Here’s what I came up with:

You come home from work and the gym. You’ve spent the last two hours doing one or two reps at a machine before spending the rest of the time on your phone, so obviously you’re tired. You go to turn on the lights only to find out that the bulb went out. “Centennial Light, my ass,” you mumble.

And that’s when you notice a very large figure seated in your living room chair.

Before you can ask who he is and what he’s doing in your house, he addresses you.

“I’ve been expecting you,” he says. He sounds like Carmelo Anthony, so you reply, “wait, Carmelo Anthony?”

He darts up. “No, I’m not Carmelo Anthony! I’m…” and then there’s an awkward silence between the two of you as he tries to think of a codename. “Nevermind who I am! The point is that I have your wife and kids and the only way that you’re getting them back is if you bring me Phil Jackson’s ‘Book of Zen’ before midnight. Otherwise...”

Immediately you have a lot of questions, like “what is going on?” and “why that book?” and of course, “what wife and kids?”

He says that once he has that book, Phil Jackson will be powerless and he can defeat him. He tells you that the book is in Jackson’s office in Madison Square Garden and that it’s being guarded day and night by Charles Oakley. You will have to defeat him in hand to hand combat to get it.

“Charles Oakley?,” you ask incredulously. “You’re crazy, I’m not doing that. He once took someone’s baby out of a man’s hands before he slapped him.”

The shadowy figure then tells you that if you don’t complete the mission, you’ll never save your parents, which is odd because he supposedly had your wife and kids; but before you can gather more, he’s gone. Just like Carmelo Anthony to disappear when you need him.

Anyways, you get in your car and begin driving to Madison Square Garden. It suddenly starts snowing hard, which is odd considering that climate change is a Chinese hoax. As you contemplate this at a stop light, a bewildered man rambling about a unicorn runs right past your car. You look closer and notice that the man looks just like a disheveled Derrick Rose. Whatever, there’s not time for that. Your parents and/or wife and kids need you.

Photo by Scott Halleran/Getty Images

Rose’s game has resembled a homeless man’s

When you arrive at MSG, Joakim Noah is there waiting for you. He tells you that before you can get to Oakley, you will need to defeat him and a few others.

“I’m sworn to defend Phil Jackson at any cost,” he says. “It’s written in my $72 million contract.”

He slowly lunges at you, but before he can reach you, his body breaks down and disintegrates into dust. Somehow he manages to miss a layup in the process.

You run into three people next. They all look alike. You really can’t tell them apart. They start beating you up. Badly. I mean elbows and everything. It’s awful actually, you’re not even fighting back. Then it hits you—not just their boots to your face, but who they are and how to defeat them. They are the Plumlee brothers and you need to point out which one is Marshall for it to end. Emboldened, you pull out your phone and hold it up in the air. A video of Blake Griffin continuously posterizing Marshall starts playing and you notice one of them wince at the sight. To him you whisper, “Cody Zeller is better than you’ll ever be.”

A tear rolls down his eye, and Marshall collapses into the arms of his brothers, who take him away.

Getty Images

Knicks owner James Dolan has turned his team into a laughingstock.

It’s almost midnight now and you run towards Jackson’s office. Two James Dolans appear in your path. They speak in unison: “One of us always lies and the other always tells the truth. Before you can go inside and face Charles Oakley, you must point out which one of us is the liar and which one is honest based on our following declarations.”

The first says: “The Knicks will be relevant in five years.”

The second says: “The Knicks will be relevant in ten years.”

You think about the current job that Phil Jackson regime, about the Linsanity period, the Mike Woodson era, the collapse of the Amar’e Stoudemire and Anthony duo, Mike D’Antoni and J.R. Smith, their attempt at wooing LeBron James, losing by 50 points to Dallas, selecting Jordan Hill 8th in the draft, Isiah Thomas as President and the fact they haven’t won a championship since 1973. It’s a trick question.

“The Knicks will never be relevant again,” you proclaim. “They will hit a new rock bottom every year.”

The Dolans nod to each other and smile. They open the door.

Inside you see the gray but still very large and intimidating Oakley. Like, he’s pretty big. He’s scary as hell. As you go to explain to him that you need the book to save your parents and the wife and kids you never knew you had, he grabs you by the neck, lifts you off the ground with one arm and slaps you continuously with the other hand until you pass out from the pain.

You wake up outside on the ground. A large, bald man is standing over you. As your senses come to you, you realize that it’s Charles Barkley. “There’s never a time where you should try to fight Oakley. Leave that man alone,” he says. He starts laughing derisively, calls you turrible and walks off.