#also i might be ace but for this man i would do anything amen

[beanghostprincess]

It's so funny to see everyone in this fandom simping for either Sanji or Zoro when canonically the one with more rizz is quite definitely Usopp. The first thing Kaya says is that she wants to see Usopp. She laughs at his jokes kicking her feet, blushing, giggling. He has her down bad, guys. And it's not only the rizz, this guy has the biggest heart in the world. Kaya is better than me because I would be a stuttering, blushing mess around this guy.

[iveneverbeenmorestressedinmylife]

Για το ask game Edgeworth και Ανδρέας

Miles Edgeworth 💅

First impression: OH I SHOULD GET INTO ACE ATTORNEY IMMEDIATELY THIS MAN IS GOING TO RUIN ME.

Impression now: I was one hundred percent correct in my assumptions. He did in fact ruin me. This man has the range honestly. He is kind. He is an asshole. He is traumatised. He has every subtype of daddy issues known to man. He is a bitchy gay queen. He is aroace-spec (to me). He is autistic. He has NO idea what to do with himself when he is not in a courtroom. He is insane. Ive seen it. I enjoy it. Amen.

Favourite moment: "thanks to you i am saddled with unnecessary.... feelings....". Everything about turnabout goodbyes. The talk with Franziska at the end of aa2. The talk with phoenix after the earthquake in aa3. I could literally never pick Just One moment sorry.

Idea for a story: ... I've brainstormed two (2) aus that involve Edgeworth with two different mutuals. The first one is the Eurovision au where vk just sends miles to represent germany in Eurovision and the second one is the ace attorney/παρά πέντε crossover me and @alalumin have been driving ourselves insane over. Out of the two, the first one is the most fleshed out but the second one i might actually sit down and write for one day. Thats about all the concrete story ideas ive had for this man so far dkskks. Everything else is just a jumble of vague angsty daydreams.

Unpopular opinion: hmmm a lot of people tend to ignore the fact that he was canonically suicidal after aa1 so i suppose that could count as an unpopular opinion? Like if he wasn't actually suicidal, the note meant that he straight up faked his death which makes him an even bigger asshole that he usually is, which in turn makes phoenix's misdirected anger and blame seem a lot more justified? Also a lot of people tend to ignore the fact that phoenix would NOT handle Edgeworth admitting that he meant the note literally well. And honestly im not really blaming anyone here. Their aa2 dynamic is sooo complex, Edgeworth hurt the people that cared about him by hurting himself and not all of them are ready to forgive him immediately and thats fine. I just wish more people would explore this whole thing instead of oversimplifying it yknow?

Favourite relationship: narumitsu obvs but honestly? The Franziska and Miles fucked up sibling relationship means the world to me, its like a really really really close second.

Favourite headcanon: does it actually count as a headcanon if its strongly supported by canon? Idk but he definitely avoids elevators as much as he can and considering that his office is in the twelfth fucking floor the man walks up a lot of flights of stairs. He must have thighs of steel skkskaka. Also i like to think that at some point after the investigation games he went to therapy and he finally (!) got some help for that unmedicated and undiagnosed canon ptsd hes been drowning in since he was nine years old. Also he got Pess because i love her. Maybe she is trained as a service dog. He would love her with all his heart and her death would kickstart a major depressive episode because god knows this man can't handle grief but in the end he could get over it. Maybe even get a second dog or learn how to deal with loss in a less self destructive way. Also i don't think he would ever be able to fully enjoy Christmas? Like sure his fathers death doesn't hurt as much anymore but i like to think that the nightmares rear their ugly head during the Christmas season. Sure, he IS doing better but some things never really go away. He can hang out at the prosecutors office or Wright anything agency Christmas parties without feeling utterly miserable but he doesn't enjoy the holidays as much as everyone else. Some people don't understand why or think thats its just another aspect of his charming personality but the people who do are sympathetic about it.

Ανδρέας Καλογήρου 🔪

First impression: γουαου ποιός είναι αυτός ο μαλάκας λολ. Ειλικρινά νομίζω την πρώτη φορά που είδα το παρά πέντε δεν με ένοιαζε πολύ σαν χαρακτήρας.

Impression now: κοίτα. Έχεις δει το μπλογκ μου. Ξέρεις πως νιώθω για αυτόν τον άνθρωπο. Ο Ανδρέας έχει θεματάρες. Έχει παγιδεύσει τον εαυτό του σε μια θέση στην οποία είναι και θύμα και θύτης και από την οποία δεν έχει τρόπο ή ιδιαίτερη θέληση να βγει. Κατά την διάρκεια του σόου πηγαίνει από την αδιαφορία για τους ανθρώπους που σκοτώνει, στην εμμονή με το να πιάσει τους πέντε και μόνο όταν τον συλλαμβάνουν και όλα τελειώνουν συνηδειτοποιεί πόσο μάταια ήταν όλα αυτά και πόσες ζωές έχει καταστρέψει συμπεριλαμβανομένης και της δικής του. Επίσης ο άνθρωπος είναι μούναρος 😔😔.

Favourite moment: το τηλεφώνημα στον Σπύρο στο φινάλε με στοιχειώνει τα βράδια.

Idea for a story: πέρα από το ο Σπύρος επισκέπτεται τον Ανδρέα στη φυλακή fic που βρίσκεται αυτή τη στιγμή στο wip hell μου έχει καρφωθεί στο μυαλό εκείνη η ατάκα που ο Παυρινός αποκαλεί τον Νίκο πρεζόνι και το τι μπορεί να υπονοεί για το Ανδρέας/Νίκος μπακστορι. Επίσης εκείνο το όνειρο που είχα δει ότι έχει κόρη και redemption arc, angst fic για την γενική κακομεταχείριση που τρώει από τον Παυρινό, το Ανδρέας/Νίκος καφενείο au το οποίο κάποιος πρέπει να γράψει σας εκλιπαρώ και το προαναφερόμενο ace attorney/παρά πέντε crossover στο οποίο εμφανίζεται ως μάρτυρας στην δίκη της Αγγέλας. Το πόσα από αυτά θα καταλήξω όντως να γράψω ποτέ είναι πολύ αμφιλεγόμενο τβχ αλλά το γεγονός είναι ότι μου τριβελίζουν συνέχεια το μυαλό.

Unpopular opinion: δεν ξέρω είμαστε στο παρά πέντε φάντομ, είμαστε δέκα άτομα όλα κι όλα κάθε άποψη μετράει για unpopular κσκσκσ. Αλλά απλά και μόνο για να πω κάτι. Νομίζω όντως προσπάθησε να αγαπήσει τη Ζάνα. Ο γάμος τους ήταν ότι πιο hand in unlovable hand και σφάζονταν όλη μέρα αλλά προσπάθησε να φτιάξει τη ζωή του στην αρχή τουλάχιστον, εξού και ο ευτυχισμένος χετεροσεξουαλ γάμος. Στο μυαλό μου ήταν από αυτά τα ζευγάρια που έχουν ημερομηνία λήξης και το ήξεραν και οι δύο. Μετά έπεσε στα βαθιά με τις δουλειές με τον Παυρινό και πήρανε επιτέλους διαζύγιο. Επίσης δεν νομίζω ότι με τον Νίκο τα έχουνε, έχουνε. Νομίζω έχουν μια ελαφρώς fucked up relationship όπου δεν επικοινωνούν τίποτα εβερ, απλά πηδιουνται περιστασιακά on and off και μετά απλά πηγαίνουν και τα φτιάχνουν με άλλους. Τουλάχιστον στην αρχή. Τώρα αν μετά το τέλος της σειράς βγουν ποτέ από την φυλακή θέλω να πιστεύω ότι θα μπορούσαν να φτιάξουν λίγο τη ζωή τους αλλά αν δεν βγουν ποτέ. Well. Πώς νιώθεις όταν συνηδειτοποιείς ότι αγαπούσες τον καλύτερο σου φίλο χρόνια τώρα αλλά δεν έκανες ποτέ τίποτα για αυτό επειδή απλά δεν τολμούσες να αλλάξεις τίποτα στην μοναδική σταθερή σχέση που σου είχε απομείνει στη ζωή σου και ταυτόχρονα ήσουν πολύ απασχολημένος να σκοτώνεις κόσμο; Πώς νιώθεις όταν συνηδειτοποιείς ότι τώρα μπορεί να είναι πια πολύ αργά; Γενικά head full many thoughts.

Favourite relationship: Νίκος/Ανδρέας δαγκωτό.

Favourite headcanon: ναιιι δεν νομίζω ότι αυτός ο άνθρωπος είχε καλά παιδικά χρόνια. Ή καλό πατέρα. Ο Παυρινός κυριολεκτικά του πετάει πράγματα και αυτός ο καημένος σκύβει να τα πιάσει 😔 babyboy έχεις τραύμα. Η μάνα του είναι νεκρή (ναι κυριολεκτικά αναφέρεται έτσι throwaway σε ένα επεισόδιο και δεν το έχω ξεχάσει ποτέ) και επιλέγω να πιστεύω ότι την σκότωσε ο πατέρας του. Μισεί τον πατέρα του και κατά βάθος μισεί και το γεγονός ότι μεγαλώνοντας έχει γίνει σχεδόν ακριβώς σαν αυτόν. Ξεκίνησε να καπνίζει στο γυμνάσιο. Επίσης δεν πιστεύω ότι τελείωσε ποτέ το λύκειο.

[italoniponic]

Could i request hcs of trey, jack, sebek and jamil taking care of their sick s/o who is too stubborn to rest and insistes that theyre fine?

𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲'𝐬 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 - 𝐖𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭

| Notes: Hi, anon!

My character limit is 3 and since Trey was requested two more times, I decided to not put him here. But you can request him another time if you want to! It’s just to me faster to write, yk? 

But to compensate: I can see him being the type to make soup or hot beverages to make you more warm. Maybe serve it on bed with that special little table (idk what people call it in english) to put on top of you so you can eat and drink properly. Such a caring man!

Also… it’s my first time doing this kind of reader so I hope it is a little bit close to what you wanted to read. Sometimes I don’t stay still when I’m sick so I tried to imagine what they would try to say to me and added to that, the fact that sometimes people really get moody when they’re sick. I just wanted to say that. 

Thanks for the request <3 |

Jack Howl, Sebek Zigvolt, Jamil Viper x sick g!n reader / still a crush / fluff / use of "you" pronouns

Cherry's Harvesting 🍒 Masterlist

You Need to Calm Down... Seriously

It was the second period when Jack and Epel passed by you in the hallway. Ace and Deuce were chatting about amenities, Grim on the shoulder of the latter and you were walking tired behind them, quite slowly. Jack immediately worried about your condition. You didn't look good. The next instant, you felt a strong dizziness and almost fell to the ground. All your friends panicked;

Jack held you back and regained his cool, he said that he would take you to the infirmary because you were clearly burning with fever. And he got it right. It was recommended to you to stay there receiving the necessary care, despite your various protests that it was nothing so serious and you had things to do;

“Everything will be fine, don't worry. You need to rest now,” Jack said. He promised to write down your classes and help you with the necessary homework. You were still not very satisfied with the situation. You didn't want them to take care of you like a child, but Jack's gaze was too firm for you to try to argue otherwise;

Since then, your days have boiled down to getting plenty of sleep and receiving visits from friends. Especially Jack. He brought class notes as promised and checked out things you might need: more water in the glass at the table beside you, a light snack to fill your belly, a warm drink, a more softer pillow. Anything. No matter how much you said it wasn't necessary, Jack would go there and do it;

You ended up forcing him to explain the classes subjects taught to you and let you do your own homework. But ultimately, nothing went as planned. You slept in the middle of every book Jack read aloud, his tone comfortable enough to make you relax and your conscious — affected by fever fatigue — simply let yourself sleep like a rock;

Taking advantage of those moments that you really rested, Jack smiled as he watched you. You looked lovely and adorable when you slept and all your stubbornness and denial that you weren't sick was strangely endearing. Or maybe it was how much he really liked you;

From a certain point, Jack perfectly understood your reasons. He also didn't like people trying to take care of him, pampering him as if he were still a little puppy, and he knew he was doing the exact same thing to you. He just wanted you to recover soon. Unfortunately, he had no time to torture himself with the possible hypocrisy of the situation. The sooner you got well, the better;

As for your homework, Jack would leave notes in your notebook to correct the wrong answers. Who is crazy enough to study when they are sick? You, apparently;

At one point, you two had another discussion about your health state. You were starting to get better and already wanted to leave the infirmary, but Jack insisted — having heard the nurse's recommendations — that you should stay a few more days there. You, stubborn, annoyed and in a bad mood, told him to stop taking care of you;

“I'm taking care of you because I care about you!,” Jack admitted aloud. That took you by surprise. All the time in those last few days, he wouldn’t say right away why he was visiting you all the time, making sure you were okay but... that was such a heartfelt statement that you ended up going back to bed, aware of his effort to help you recover. Jack's ears were flattened for quite a while, stupidly embarrassed. He tried to change the subject and changed the water in your glass;

“Thank you, Jack,” you said to him, sincerely. Jack extended the glass back to you, not staring you in the eye. That's what he does, you didn't have to treat it like a big deal. But it was. You made a promise to yourself that when you got better, you were going to make Jack a pear compote to thank him;

Sebek wasn't one to keep noticing other people, but as he was getting into terms about whether he liked you or not, his gaze ended up looking out for your human figure. That's when he found you and realized that something was very odd about you. Your walk was slow, your eyes were tired and you were coughing a lot;

“So that's the curse that humans call fever!,” Sebek noted to himself. Because of the mixing of fairy and human genes, he had ten times more immune resistance than a normal human. However, Sebek has seen Silver get the flu and fever a few times during childhood and — unless Lilia made your dinner last night — that's what you had;

“NINGEN!,” Sebek's voice sounded so loud in your ears that you thought you had hit your head on a bell by mistake. Again. You were surprised to find that he noticed right in a second that you were sick but, stubbornly, you insisted that everything was fine and you were going to class. Naively, you thought you would convince him like this;

Before you could take another step, Sebek picked you up in his arms and escorted you towards the infirmary — after remembering that the dusty, decrepit building they gave you as a dormitory was not going to help your immune system at all. Humans! Always so annoyingly fragile!;

When you asked Sebek about what he was doing, his answer was blunt: “You must recover soon, otherwise you can contaminate the Young Master!”. Which... was half-true. Sebek wanted you to get better but a mere flu wouldn't affect Malleus at all. Unless you sneezed at him, which would just be kind of gross. Sebek was just as stubborn as you were. If you weren't going to admit that you were feeling sick, he wasn't going to admit that he just wanted to help you;

Leaving you — endlessly protesting — in the hands of the competent school health authorities, Sebek arrived late at class and ended up being distracted from the subjects taught that day, wondering what would help your health improve. He sought solutions from his first-year friends, receiving several touching stories about their childhoods and how they were cared by their parents when they were sick;

You received several visits from Sebek and, at each one, he would hand you a chicken soup — that he was learning the necessary techniques from Jamil and Trey to make it perfect — and other things, such as a comfortable pillow and clean pillowcase, interesting books to read and magazines. He looked like a rigid and annoyingly competent nurse;

You both discussed a lot about your physical state. You saying you were better off and didn't have to stand there, holed up with nothing to do, and Sebek insisting that you should rest and regain your strength. “Lilia-sama says that the best knight is the one who can give 100% of his best to the Young Master! And you're not at your best.”;

“If you're so worried about Malleus, why don't you stand next to him and leave me alone?”, you asked. “Because my most crucial mission now is to protect you!”, Sebek answered honestly. He couldn't help it. It cost him every part of his pride and the times he made little of humans to answer that. You were shocked. After all this time... he was finally assuming he wanted to protect you;

You still tested Sebek's patience a little by wanting to help him make your bed and throw away at the trash can the water bottles he bought for you — he was really investing higs allowance on you, huh? But it was just your way of doing things. You didn't want to cause any inconvenience to anyone. However, sometimes, we must let ourselves be cared for and helped by others;

“At least, you're starting to get the hang of chicken soup,” you complimented him one night. Sebek smiled proudly, glad that his efforts were being appreciated. “The Young Master is waiting for you, so get better soon,” he said. But you suspected that, in fact, this wish came from Sebek Zigvolt himself.

Jamil was surprised not to see you in the company of Ace and Deuce that day. Even more curious was to see you leaving Sam's shop with what seemed to be medicine in your pocket, but your step was slow and tired, different from the usual. Taking a deep breath, Jamil resolved to confirm his suspicions. If it was nothing, he would let you turn around on your own;

Jamil approached as if he wanted nothing and pretended to dust off a leaf of your hair, promptly checking the temperature of your forehead. You had nowhere to run away, especially with your heavy eyes. He became worried about your high temperature and insisted on taking you to the infirmary, even with your constant protests;

He was right: you were sick. If Jamil were you, he would also try to solve the malaise with basic medicine, but if you were to wander around school trying to act normally, you would only get worse. He left you in the care of the nurse and straightened your blanket, keeping you lying down no matter how many times you insisted on getting up;

“Rest”, was his order. Jamil's gaze was serious and direct, impossible to contradict. You could only snort, frustrated, and turn around in bed. Jamil went ahead with his original schedule, but was still a little worried about you. When news began to spread about your sickness, Kalim went to personally ask Jamil to take care of you the same way he took care of him when he had the flu;

Jamil didn’t know why he was so surprised by the request. Or the synchrony of Kalim's kindness and his own concern. He would be by your side so maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Kalim also said that he would afford anything you needed, he would buy a luxurious bed and the most expensive pillow in the world for you to rest “ultra-super-comfortably”;

But you were in such an ill mood and opinion about people knowing you were sick and preventing you from continuing your day despite the fatigue that Jamil had to advise Kalim not to do any of that. Use of money, yes. But pampering you might not be the best idea. He didn't know what was wrong with you. Anyone would like to be pampered by a rich guy like Kalim but, maybe you didn’t like to get so much attention. It could be something deeper. Anyway, one hour he would know;

When you woke up a short time later, you found yourself being Jamil's “new master” until you got better. It was a loose comment Floyd made before Jamil kicked the octatrio off of you so you could rest in peace. Neither you nor he really liked the comment — although not was not made with that much of ill intent despite being Floyd;

But essentially it was the truth. Jamil did everything for you. Light and warm foods full of natural nutrients, competent change of sheets without you even noticing, water always clean, crystal clear and at room temperature so as not to irritate your throat, and things like that. Always helpful, always at service.

However, you didn't give in about what you wanted to do. You thought it would be easy to convince Jamil that you were okay to go back to school, but from the look he gave you at times, you should realize the obvious. Taking care of a house as full as the Asim's, it was nothing new for Jamil to take care of stubborn and energetic children. By Jafar’s twisted-beards, he cared for Kalim almost his entire life. Jamil was able to handle anything!

“If you keep insisting on these things and get worse because of self-neglect, a lot of people are going to get sad for you,” he once argued. “You too?,” it wasn't your intention to ask that, but you ended up spilling it. Jamil was silent for a moment, relieved to be with his back to you and that his embarrassed face was not visible. Yes, he was worried about you too;

“Just be patient, okay?,” Jamil said at last. But you felt there was something more to it. That night, you heard Jamil sing for the first time. It was a simple lullaby narrating the misadventures of the parrot belonging to the Sorcerer of the Sands, but calm and docile in Jamil's voice. He smiled as he watched you sleep peacefully, wishing you fast recovery. One had to admit: just as you were being stubborn in accepting rest, he was also being stubborn in accepting his own feelings. But maybe you two would admit these things sooner or later.

[myonepiece]

Hey can i have a headcanon with sanji, law, zoro and ace x reader crying after first time sex because it's hurt too much?? Thx I love your writings <3

s/o cries during s*x because it hurts

w/ sanji, law, zoro, and ace (i'll go over the limit for ace 😔)

TW

warnings: i don't know what to call it actually but just painful sex and not in the good way, nsfw

i don't know you could cry out of something other than pleasure from this man,,

he pays very close attention to your reactions because he wants to know what makes you feel good as well as what makes you feel bad

so he notices right away when your tears aren't from pleasure but from pain, and he immediately frezes, he doesn't pull out right away though because he's worried that would hurt if he did it too abruptly

"darling? what's wrong? where does it hurt?"

he'll ask what happened and where you're hurting, before telling you he's going to pull out (like 'i'm going to pull out now, okay?")

once he's out he sits up and pulls you up a bit to lean against his chest, he whispers apologies over and over again while he kisses your cheeks and carefully wipes away your tears

poor man will probably tear up himself

needless to say he falls asleep far too late and pampers you more than usual for the next week, and he's not as hyper with his sexual comments or anything around that topic, it's really unusual

similar to sanji, law pays very close attention to your reactions and body language, though it tends to be more for making sure he's not hurting you

he can get quite rough sometimes, and he gets a little into it, like closing his eyes, but when he hears your sniffle which somehow reaches him over your whines and his grunts and all that nasty sinner shit (amen) he stops and stares down at you

your face is turned away so he carefully turns it towards him and instantly slides himself out, he hurries to turn on the lamp and lights (while buttnaked i might add)

he'll do a full on examination asking you where it hurts and taking a little peak to make sure it's nothing bad, he ends up grabbing a warm cloth and placing it on your area while he runs a bath

he's fairly hesitant to do anything beyond making out for the next day or maybe two, if not that then he's extremely gentle and makes sure to listen a little closer just in case your sounds aren't from pleasure

he goes pretty hard most of the time, and unlike the two men above, he doesn't always pay the most attention to whether or not you're enjoying it- only because he's to lost in his own pleasure most of the time

once he realized you're hurting, he slows down a bit to make sure, then he full on freaks out and pulls out before reaching out and cupping your face

"w-what happened?!"

you kinda got to help him with what to do (he doesn't even know where the clit is smh)

if you tell him to get a wet cloth then he will (and i'm pretty sure the bathrooms are outside of the rooms on the ship so he may or may not run out nude, or just throw on his shorts and scare whoever is out there

once he has the cloth on your down there parts, and the water, he'll wait quietly until you ask him to snuggle, and he will definitely snuggle with you

he's very against sex for the next few days, like scolding you if you try to initiate it and reminding you of what happened, but he also buys you flowers at the next village because he's a sweety pie

he's sort of like zoro in the situation where he's a little too lost in his own pleasure, except he actually asks every few minutes if you're okay

when he hears you say no it takes a minute to register but then he stop and stumbles while trying to pull out

honestly i'm contemplating saying he'll go get marco

he won't even need you to tell him anything, he'll rush off and run around the ship grabbing a hot cloth, a water, some food, and a random collection of pill bottles from the infirmary

he finds the painkillers/tylenol/benadryl or whatever and gives you some, and then he puts the cloth on and gives you a snack and then curls up beside you feeding you the rest of the food (taking some for himself aswell obvi)

the sweet man looks like a kicked puppy the whole time and will not hesitate to cuddle with his hand down there with strictly innocent intents as you use it as a heating pad

((honestly tho he may or may not have asked one of the crew members for advice as he ran around the ship)) ((and mostly cried a tiny bit as he did so))

[araniladin]

The One Bed Trope is Happening

She hung in the air, framed by the moon. Team RWBY and their friends all looked up in shock.

Ruby’s mouth hit the floor, not believing what she was seeing. That red hair, the green dress, it couldn’t be.

She landed with a heavy thunk, turning towards the other huntresses and huntsmen. Her eyes focused on Ruby and widen in surprise and excitement.

Ruby’s heart started to beat faster. It couldn’t be. “Penny?”

“Sal-” she said, crouching low.

Panic settled in Ruby.

“-U-”

“Oh no no.” Ruby looked left and right, but there was nowhere to run.

“-tations!” A flash of green fire and she closed the distance.

Ruby managed to engage her Aura right as Penny impacted her. She was pretty sure the tackle hug only bruised her ribs instead of breaking them.

“It's such a pleasure to see you again!” Penny said. She held onto Ruby’s hand after helping her to her feet.

“Penny...I thought...I thought you died.” Ruby wiped tears from her eyes.

“I mean, technically she did,” Pietro said, walking up to them. “But we found her core intact when Amenity Arena finally arrived here.”

“I’m as good as new!” Penny said.

“And no more accidental shredding,” Pietro said. Penny knocked on her head with a fist, a metallic drum sound. They both laughed.

“That is…” Weiss started.

“...surprisingly wholesome,” Blake finished, both of them smiling.

“That sounds like Penny,” Yang added, joining in on watching her sister reunite with Penny.

“We have so much to catch up on,” Penny said, pulling Ruby into a hug. “I cannot wait!”

In the distance, another alarm sounds.

“It looks like it has to wait.” Still holding onto Ruby, Penny launched them both into the sky.

Ruby, trained huntress and master of aerial combat, wrapped her arms and legs around Penny.

“Meet us back at the house!” Pietro called out after them. Penny turned around in the air to snap off a salute before flying away.

“Penny,” Ruby asked as they flew through the city. “Are you sure this is okay?”

“Everything will be fine.” Penny patted Ruby’s head. “I’m the protector of the city. Plus with you here, I have backup.”

Ruby bit her lip. “I’m not licensed, and it seems like Atlas is pretty strict on that kind of stuff.”

“Oh,” Penny said, sad before perking up. “Don’t worry about it!” She hiccupped.

That made Ruby worry more.

As they cross over a section of the city bathed in red light, Ruby saw the Grimm.

“Do you know what a speedball special is?” Ruby asked, judging the distance between the Grimm and them.

Penny’s eyes faded for a second before brightening. “I do now! Let’s do it!”

Braking in the air, Penny lifted Ruby over her head. Snapping out Crescent Rose, Ruby prepped herself for the throw. “NOW!”

Spinning forward to build up momentum, Penny launched Ruby at the Grimm.

Her impact sent the tiger-like Grimm into the air. Penny’s lasers flashed out and turned them into little specs of evil dust.

Knowing that Penny held air superiorty and had awesome lasers, Ruby tossed the Grimm into the air.

Ruby set them up, Penny knocked them down. No other partner Ruby worked with synchronized as well as Penny did. 

Soon the area was clear of Grimm and Penny landed next to Ruby.

“That was so much fun!” Penny hugged Ruby, and Ruby worried if her ribs would ever be the same.

Suddenly, Penny let Ruby go and grabbed a cable out of the air. It wrapped around her arm, but did nothing to imped the robot girl.

“Halt! You are in violation of Atlas law!” A tall, very handsome man jumped down, landing in front of Ruby and Penny. Behind him, four other people jumped down. One carried an odd gun, most likey where the bolos came from. They all wore matching uniforms, blue, white and red of Atlas special operations.

“We are not!” Penny said, pulling the bolos from her arm and placing it on the ground. “You know who I am, Commander Ebi.”

“I have no idea who she is,” Commander Ebi said, pointing at Ruby. “We cannot have unauthorized weapon use in our city.”

“She’s my partner,” Penny said, taking Ruby’s hand and standing between her and the spec ops team.

Commander Ebi frowned, pulling out his scroll. “Is she licenced to hunt in Atlas?”

The glow in Penny’s eyes faded again, dull for a second before coming back. “Yes!” She hiccuped. “Her name is Ruby Rose.”

The scroll in his hand flashed up a picture of Ruby, from back before the fall of Beacon. He peered at the date of licencing, but e couldn’t find anything wrong with it.

“My apologies, Miss Polendona and Miss Rose.” Commander Ebi tucked his scroll away. “This is not the only case we need to investigate, have a good evening.” The ops team leaped into the buildings and disappeared into the night.

“What was that?” Ruby asked.

“The Ace Ops, General Ironwood’s elite police force,” Penny reached down to take Ruby’s hand again. She leaned into her. “They are nice people, but my father says they are doing the wrong thing for the right reason. He says it’s okay if I bend the rules.”

“Wait, what do you mean, bend the rules?” Ruby said. “Wait, did you hack his scroll to tell him I was a licensed huntress?”

Penny blushed, grinding her toe into the pavement. “I didn’t hack his scroll…”

“Oh, good,” Ruby said, sighing in relief.

“I hacked the Atlas licensing servers and backdated you into the system.”

“PENNY! That’s illegal!” Ruby looked around, panicking. If they found out she was illegally licensed, she would go to jail and never speak to Ironwood.

“I know, but it was for a good cause!” Penny shrunk down. “They would have taken you to Atlas, and processed you, and I wouldn’t be able to see again for six to eight weeks, if they didn’t deport you for being a non native huntress in Mantle.”

“Penny…” Ruby leaned into the other woman, conflicted.

Penny pressed her forhead against Ruby’s. “I’m sorry for lying, Ruby.”

She shook her head. “I’m not upset you lied, I’m just not sure how to feel about all this.”

“Well, mabye we should also go check on your team, I believe they might be the second task Commander Ebi was referring to.” Penny looked back the way they came. “Although my father says they are in the safe house and thus are safe.”

Ruby shot up. “Oh no! Yes, let’s go!” She turned to start running before stopping. “Can… can we fly there?”

“YES!” Penny said.

“Just, do you have another way of carrying me?”

Penny nodded, and picked Ruby up bridal style. “Let’s go!”

Ruby was pretty sure Penny took the scenic route back, not that she complained. Penny assured her team was safe, the Ace Ops were off making sure that some miners didn’t strike, and Penny could fly. It was one of the coolest things Ruby ever did.

That and it was Penny. Since the Fall of Beacon, she always felt anxious, felt that she could do more. That everything was horrible and she couldn’t do anything about it. But seeing Penny again, she felt that hope again.

That and a few other feelings. The blush across her face was from the cold and not being so close to Penny again.

The safe house turned out to be deep in the slums, another clinic run by Peitro. Penny landed on the roof, although still carrying Ruby. She paused at the door, puzzled at finding her hands occupied. Ruby noticed that Penny’s face was very red, and she wondered how an android would suffer from the cold. 

“Uh, Penny, want to put me down?” Ruby asked, although she didn’t, not really.

“No,” Penny said. “But I think I have to.” She dropped Ruby to her feet. This time, Ruby grabbed her hand as they entered.

In the kitchen, Nora and Ren cooked. Jaune had wondered off to the room he was sharing with the rest of his team. Maria, Peitro, and Oscar conversed at the table.

“Is there anywhere I might be able to change or freshen up a bit?” Ruby asked.

“Your team took a room down the hall,” Maria said. “Although Weiss went to try contacting her sister again. Blake and Yang should be in there.”

Peitro glanced at Ruby and Penny holding hands and smiled.

Leading Ruby to the room Maria said Team RWBY staked out, Penny burst in.

Blake straddled Yang, kissing her as she pinned her to the bed. They both looked up at the interruption before Blake hissed.

“I am so sorry!” Penny pulled the door closed and pushed Ruby into the hallway.

“Well, my room should be free, want to use that?” Penny asked.

“I think it might be safer for me to just stay the night there,” Ruby said, pulling out her scroll. “And someone should warn Weiss.” She shot off a short text.

“YES!” Penny hugged Ruby. “Although it’s not really my room, since my actual room is up in Atlas, but my father always let me have the highest room in the building. Come on!”

Up the stairs they travelled again, but Ruby didn’t care. Penny’s excitement bled over to her.

“Welcome to my-” Penny opened the door before slamming it shut. “Wait, it’s messy, let me clean it up.” She hiccuped before disappearing into the room

Ruby blinked. What she had peeked, the room looked spartan, two beds and a shared dresser drawer.

The unmistakable sound of an old window opening added to the confusion. The scraping sound of someone shoving something heavy across the floor, grunts as they lifted said heavy object before the unmistakable sound of something falling out the window. There was a loud crash, and Ruby heard Weiss yelling.

“What the fuck?! Is that a bed?! What is going on up there?!”

“Sorry Weiss!” Penny yelled back, and the sound of Weiss yelling back quieted as the window shut.

“Come on in!” Penny said, opening the door.

The room now had one bed, a dresser drawer, and the dusty trail of one person flinging the other bed out of the window.

“Penny…” Ruby said, unsure what to say.

“Sorry there is only one bed, but I’m sure we can manage.” She hiccuped and Ruby wondered which part of what she said was a lie.

Smiling, Ruby reached out and hugged Penny. “I am so glad you’re back.”

Penny wrapped her arms around Ruby, and did not crush her ribs this time. “I’ve missed you so much.”

Tear stains appeared on Penny’s top and Ruby realized it was her. She squeezed her friend harder, and didn’t let the tears stop.

Penny cradled her as Ruby cried. All the feelings of the past year, it broke. Ruby wasn’t sure how long she cried, but Penny hugged her, whispered encouragement into her ear, and mostly just made sure Ruby felt safe.

Sitting up, Ruby wiped the snot off her face. “Do you know where the bathroom is? I..I just want to clean my face and put on some clean clothes.”

Penny placed Ruby on the bed, and grabbed a large shirt out of the dresser drawers. “Will this work? The bathroom is just down the hall.” Looking down. “And I can get another bed, if you don’t want to share…”

Taking the shirt, Ruby kissed Penny’s cheek. “I think it would be splendid to share a bed with you. Although I’m big spoon.”

They both laughed and Ruby went to clean up. She changed, brushed her teeth with the stuff on hand, and went back.

Penny had turned off the lights, although the city glowed through the window. Penny had also changed into a sleeping shirt. She grinned at Ruby. “How you feeling?”

Ruby walked over, tilted Penny’s chin up, and kissed her. “Much better, and very tired. Thank you.”

Penny blushed, but did not pull away. “Than lets get some you some sleep.”

“Wait, are you not going to sleep?” Ruby frowned.

“I’m an android. I’ll just shut down for a bit.” She laid on the bed, scooting over so Ruby could spoon her. “And don’t worry, I’ll make sure you aren’t cold.”

“Oh, okay,” Ruby said, unsure but willing to do it. She laid behind Penny, hugging her to her chest. The android was surprisingly warm, and Ruby let it drag her into sleep.

Till Weiss kicked open the door. “Fucking Blake and Yang, they should hang a sock-” She stopped seeing, first only one bed, and two, Ruby and Penny sharing the other one.

“...are you two going to be fucking?”

Ruby blinked, and Penny shook her head.

“Good, move over, I’m tired.”

“Uh….” Ruby and Penny shared a look, but Weiss laid down behind Ruby.

She nuzzled into Ruby and was soon asleep. Ruby, trapped between the two of them smirked and just went with it.

“Tomorrow, I’m the middle spoon,” Penny said, and the other two giggled.

[dailyaudiobible]

04/04/2019 DAB Transcript

Deuteronomy 26:1-27:26, Luke 10:38-11:13, Psalms 76:1-12, Proverbs 12:15-17

Today is the 4th day of April. Welcome to the Daily Audio Bible. I am Brian. It’s great to be here with you and just settle in and let the word of God be spoken over us and into our lives. What a joy, what a pleasure to come around the global campfire together with you. So, we’re reading from the Christian Standard Bible this week and we are kinda rounding the corner on the book of Deuteronomy and that will conclude the Torah. We’re not there, we’ve got a few days to go but we are rounding the corner and we’ll finish up within the next week. So, let's dive. We’ll be reading Deuteronomy chapters 26 and 27 today. And again, from the Christian Standard Bible this week okay.

Commentary:

So, in the gospel of Luke today, we encounter this little brief story about Mary and Martha and we know from other gospels and other stories, Mary and Martha were sisters of Lazarus who was a friend of Jesus, and who has a story of his own in the Scriptures, but in this story, we have a well-worn visual, right? Martha is working and she's busy serving and doing all the things that need to be done all around Jesus while Mary is sitting at his feet and listening to Him. And, so, the lesson that we can glean from this is apparent, right? All of our frantic activity and all of our motion and all of our addiction to the motion, even if it is in service to God and his people, this flurry of activity, isn't the thing that's going to draw us closer to Jesus, it's actually being with Jesus. When we live our lives it seems at times, from crisis to crisis and activity to activity, and it's just a continual perpetual motion and God is kind of whipped into that and off we go, when Jesus…Jesus speaks some things that we can remember here. “You are worried and upset about many things, but one thing is necessary. Mary made the right choice and it won’t be taken away from her.” So, let's remember that today as we go into the chaos of every day, of all of the unknowns of every day, and all of the flurry of activity and all of the obligations and responsibilities. You are worried and upset about many things, but one thing is necessary and that one thing is to sit at Jesus feet to actually be with Him. And if we think, “well maybe He doesn't even want to be with me” He goes on to tell us, “look you who are evil know how to give good things to your children, do you not think that your Father knows how to take care of you. So ask and it will be given, seek and you will find, knock and the door will be opened to you.” And we have to ask ourselves, how much of our flurry of activity even if it's on behalf of God is asking seeking or knocking because it fundamentally boils down to what we after here? What are we hoping for? What we trying to achieve? What is the goal here? If the goal is that God is an add-on, an upgrade to our lives, our ace in the hole to take care of the problems as they come then we’re going to find that to be lacking. If we understand that we are invited into life with God, that’s different. And if we ask and we seek and we knock we will find what we’re looking for or in the words of Jesus, “if you then who are evil know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will the heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to those who ask Him?”

Prayer:

Father, we are asking, Holy Spirit come, well up from within us that we might sense Your presence and Your guidance and Your leadership and Your comfort in our lives that is always available but usually we’re so frantically busy that we’re not even aware. Come Holy Spirit, let us slow down, slow the whole thing down and see that You are present in leading us forward. We ask this in Your mighty name, the name of Jesus, the name above every name. Amen.

Announcements:

dailyaudiobible.com is the website, its home base, its where you find out what's going on around here. So, be sure to stay tuned and stay connected.

The Daily Audio Bible shop is available at dailyaudiobible.com. Resources are available there to help you take the journey deeper and further. So, be sure to check that out.

If you want to partner with the Daily Audio Bible, you can do that at dailyaudiobible.com. There is a link on the homepage. I thank you humbly and profoundly for your partnership. If you’re using the Daily Audio Bible app, you can press the Give button in the upper right-hand corner or, if you prefer, the mailing address is PO Box 1996 Spring Hill Tennessee 37174.

And, as always, if you have a prayer request or comment, 877-942-4253 is the number to dial. There are a couple of other numbers you can dial depending on where you are in the world. If you're in the UK, 44-20-3608-8078 and if you are in Australia 61-3-8820-5459 is the number to dial.

And that's it for today. I'm Brian I love you and I'll be waiting for you here tomorrow.

Community Prayer and Praise:

hi this is Kiki from Arizona. This is my first time calling. I’d like to ask for a prayer request for my husband. We’ve been married from just over 26 years. We both have some disabilities. He is not Christian, he’s agnostic. He has a very rare muscular dystrophy and he fell this last year and broke his leg very badly and it’s very hard for me because he had to go into surgery and to think that if something happened to him that he would not be in heaven. And I’ve prayed for a very long time that he’d become a Christian and I’ve been listening to the Daily Audio Bible since February and caught up all through January and I just thought if I called in, the more the merrier for praying for him. So, would you please pray for my husband, his name is Bob and also for his muscular dystrophy that it never get any worse than it is now. He’s had it for 12 years. That would sure be a blessing. It’s similar to ALS but not as fast progression. And my other prayer request would be for a friend I know that lives in Long Island and she’s also on disability. She’s had cancer several times. Her sister’s selling the house that she lives in with her daughter and her grandson and her daughter’s boyfriend and another woman who’s on disability and she was __ Social Security and she has no idea where she’s gonna live, her daughter and her boyfriend, and grandson are going to move into his parents. And for $500 a month in New York she has no idea. So, if you can help and pray for her and also that her cancer doesn’t come back, I greatly appreciate that. So, thank you very much and Brian I thank you for what you’re doing. It’s really made a difference in my life already…

Good morning Daily Audio Bible family, this is Terry from upstate New York, first time calling in, year and a half listener, just loving this community. I’m calling for a woman whose name I couldn’t quite make out but she was from the Pacific Northwest. This is April 1st that I heard her message. She said she was involved with a man of God that was not her husband. I just want to talk to her and speak to her heart about this because I have been on the wrong side of that type of thing. I’ve been the husband who my wife left for a supposed man of God, which was devastating to my children and myself, still is. I would question whether a man of God is a man of God if he is pursuing a married woman. I’m just reminding you that the heart is desperately wicked and deceitful, and I understand your emotions because I’ve seen my wife at the same thing, but the devastation left behind is not worth it. You asked for God’s will. It’s pretty clear in God’s will what the covenant of marriage is and I urge you to seek out Scripture on God’s will. I don’t have time to go into it all. And just know this, that the author of confusion is the devil and you said you were confused. So, please, just dive into the Scripture on the subject. I’m praying for you because I understand the emotion behind it all but it…knowing what God’s will on it, it is that you honor your vows and pray for your marriage and seek out people that will pray with you for that. So, I’d have to say, I know the devastation for being on your husband’s side of it…

Good morning family, it’s Monday morning, April the 1st and I heard a call from a sister who is being tempted right now by godly man and I just want to say thank you sister for being so open and honest and just calling in for prayer. And, so, I wanted to pray for you. Father God, I come to You in Jesus’ name Lord and I come on behalf of our sister Lord who just showed her heart to us God and was transparent to us and to You God that she is in a temptation right now God and we know that that is from the enemy Lord God and we know Father God that You are able God to strengthen her and show her way out of this Father. God I lift her up to You and I just pray Lord that You would be her husband right now God while You are doing that work in her earthly husband while she’s waiting for him to be transformed God by You God, that You would be the husband that she needs Father, that she would fall more deeply in love with You Father God and she would not look outside of a relationship with her earthly husband and with You for anything else God. What she is missing, what she is longing for God, that You would come and fill that void that’s in her heart right now Father. God, I know that You know all her needs Father. You know God the deepest places of her heart and I just ask that You would go there and bring healing and restoration Father and just help her Lord as she falls more in love with You God that she can see her husband from Your eyes and just be praying for him for his transformation Father. And Lord I just lift up all marriages that the enemy’s coming against, that You would bring healing and restoration Father. There was a man called Oscar who called for his marriage and there’s been others God and just restoration…

Good morning Daily Audio Bible family community, this is Ann from Charlotte North Carolina. I’m very thankful for all of you for Brian and Jill and the ministry and everybody that calls in and I wanted to ask for prayer about the 10th commandment, which I have been very convicted about lately about the sin of coveting. It’s a sin that really made the apostle Paul realize that he wasn’t the perfect pharisee that he thought he was, that he failed obeying the law in the area of coveting. And the Holy Spirit is opening my eyes to how infested I can so easily be with this sin of coveting, meaning wishing that I had what someone else has and it can be anything, everything, literally anything that they have or are or have achieved or…it’s just astonishing how easy it is for me to covet and I want so to be free of this sin and I know that the answer is contentment in a relationship with Jesus Christ and I just want to prayer for that and I imagine there’s others of you that have a similar struggle in looking at anything and at others and they have or are and wishing you could be that way or have that or whatever…it’s just endless what it can be. And, so, it robs us of being…

[anonthenullifier]

The Synthezoid's New Clothes

Gift for: Anya aka @atendrilofscarlet

From: Your SVSS co-host aka @anonthenullifier

AO3 Link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/13090083

Message: This gift is to thank you for 1. being a wonderful person and 2. putting on the SV Secret Santa. Because you always host these events,  you never get to participate, and so here is your gift. It’s not quite the same as an anonymous person making it for you, but hopefully you don’t mind that too much :D I know you only requested the baby carrier, but when you mentioned our holy trinity of Vision’s clothing, it became a challenge to incorporate them all into one story. I hope I’ve succeeded at this and also that you don’t die of Vision-clothing-induced overload. Merry Christmas! 

To everyone else, I sincerely hope you enjoy this!

Written for the Scarlet Vision Secret Santa 2017

Wanda had never given much thought to the development of style, at least nothing beyond a vague awareness of it in her own life. At some point in time she purposely sought out darker colors, tested out the way different types of necklaces fell and how certain metals felt on her fingers, listening to the sound they’d make clicking against a mug as she wrapped her hand around the ceramic curves. But then it became more or less unconscious, her body drawn to burgundies and scarlets, sometimes wearing army green for a touch of lightness, and black dresses were always far more enticing than pastels. But she had her entire life to form these habits, which is why it is so intriguing to watch this man - she thinks that’s the best term - who is barely a month old attempt a lifelong journey in a matter of weeks.

It started with snarky comments by Stark (unsurprisingly) about how Vision, a name she has only recently grown accustomed to using without hesitating on the syllables, is always ready for battle, his teal and red bodysuit donned no matter what he’s doing: reading, watching tv, training, cooking (the correct terminology here would be burning down the kitchen but he calls it cooking), or going for a walk. Wanda, much to her own seething annoyance, agrees with the gist of Stark’s comments, curious about the man’s lack of a wardrobe. She’s unsure if he actually has clothes or even if he needs them, his current attire materialized out of nowhere minutes after his creation. Yet she also recognizes the unease on his face when Stark, followed by the others, pester him, the confusion that pulls his serious mouth down whenever they point out his inhumanness by way of informing him he is doing something “weird,” and it causes a surprising tightening in her in chest, one that feels an awful lot like protectiveness. Why she needs to protect this god-like man, she hasn’t decided, but she has always allowed her emotions to guide her and so she forms a plan.

“Vision?” One of the certified “weird” things he often does is float in corners, golden cape billowing despite the lack of wind, a regalness to his contemplation that always makes her think of monks in quiet gardens.

He swivels towards her, a tiny, millisecond long uptick to his mouth that could be described as a smile. “Miss Maximoff. How are you?”

The Miss Maximoff has been addressed before, a gentle yet clearly too subtle suggestion that most teammates use first names, but that, she determines, is an issue for another time. “I’m,” the answer is awful, Pietro’s loss a constant, heart numbing fog, but she tries to answer in the moment, a recommendation from Sam as a means to begin functioning in day to day life, “okay. You?”

“Oh,” he seems surprised every time she inquires about him, and she can’t help but wonder if anyone else ever participates in niceties with him. “I am quite well, thank you.”

As with most of their interactions, they fall into silence quickly, Vision rarely pushing her for more unless she indicates, usually through follow-up questions, that she is amenable to keep talking (this is not to be confused with his inability to recognize when it is and is not okay to phase into her room with questions). So Wanda breathes in, twisting her fingers together as she thinks about how to broach the topic with him. “I’ve heard Tony commenting on your clothes.” Vision is quite skilled at hiding his emotions (her teammates have a betting pool going on if he has emotions, but Wanda has felt his mind and she knows the answer) yet he is unable to hide the tensing of his shoulders or the slightly frantic twist of his electric blue irises. “You don’t have to change, if you like this,” she waves her hand, indicating the heroic apparel, “then wear it. But, um, if you,” this plan was ill-plotted, or so she realizes now as she fumbles for what exactly she wants to suggest, “want to test out some different styles, I’m happy to give you my opinion.”

The man stares at her, the intensity sparking the air between them with tiny puffs of heat, her own hands growing restless as she waits for a response. Then he frowns, head dipping as he studies his crimson hands, the corner of his golden cape pinched between his thumb and index finger. “I would,” he scrunches the material between the pads of his fingers before slowly tilting his chin up just enough to make eye contact with her once more, “like that, very much.”

“Good.”

“Where do you suggest we start?”

The already tenuous plan did not actually reach the point of his agreeing, leaving Wanda to improvise. “I say start with copying from other people, try something different each day until you find what you like.” Her own style grew from playing dress-up with her mother’s clothes, playing with her hats and belts, finding that she favored boots over heels and dresses over skirts, so who’s to say it won’t work for Vision.

Another upturn of his lips settles the idea, an appreciative nod confirming he has understood her suggestion, and then, apparently deeming the conversation done, he phases away, a “Have a good day, Miss Maximoff,” hovering in the air where his body once did.

The next week is unusual, entertaining, but also a bit painful to watch. Vision starts with Stark, walking into breakfast on his first day of experimenting wearing an AC/DC t-shirt and jeans. Wanda instantly knows it is not right for him and suspects he can feel it as well, his steps not nearly as confident as usual, his shoulders turning in just enough to give him a general air of self-consciousness. The wrongness of his clothing is cemented when Rhodes looks the man up and down, “Did you raid Tony’s closet?

Day two, at the guidance of Wanda, he tests out Steve’s more neutral look, a gray short-sleeved t-shirt with khaki pants and a leather jacket. This goes over slightly better, no snide comments from any teammates, and Wanda has to admit, only to herself, that the clothes do nicely accentuate Vision’s body, though she’s not sure why that was the first thing she noticed. But Vision seems unimpressed. So next he tries Sam, an even more relaxed version of Steve, yet not quite the I-don’t-care-what-anyone-says level of Tony. Wanda immediately shakes her head no, an action met with Vision’s concurring nod.

It’s on the fourth night, as he’s sitting on the couch in a suit reminiscent of the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents that work in the control room (a look that is almost right but just a touch too formal), that she first realizes she never considered if he might actually have a notion of what he likes. They are all spread out on the couches, Nat having the honor of selecting the movie for the evening, telling everyone it was time they watched some classics, not Steve-level classics, but close. Cary Grant - well John Robbie in the movie - is eating breakfast, wearing a baby blue sweater over a multi-colored turtleneck, and she can feel Vision shift next to her, lean forward enough to scrutinize  the screen with squinted eyes. Sam patrols talking during movies (despite being one of the bigger culprits) but Wanda decides to risk it. “You okay?”

Vision glances over at her, a rare enthusiasm twirling his irises as he says, “I like his sweater.”

“Try it out tomorrow,” she studies the man on the screen in an attempt to visualize the outfit on Vision, consider how baby blue would go with his skin tone, “but maybe a darker color.”

When he strolls into breakfast the next day, stride finally returning to its usual confidence, Wanda chokes on her tea. The gray trousers combined with the navy sweater are enthralling. How they ever thought anything else would match his personality, embody him as a person, is beyond her, because this is most definitely him . Wanda swallows her tea, coupling her thumbs-up with a congratulatory smile.

From then on Vision has two distinct looks, the sweater and slacks combination and the heroic body suit and cape, both representative of him as a person, but different enough to highlight he is more than just an Avenger. It is also enough to silence any snarky dissention from Stark, and has a fascinating effect on Vision. The otherworldliness is still there, always brimming below the surface, evident whenever his head pops through the wall of her room or he frightens Rhodes by materializing just behind him in the kitchen, or when he shifts from his sweater to his uniform in front of everyone as if this is the most common mode of getting dressed, yet it is tempered. Which, now that Wanda considers it, as she stares across the Monopoly board at the casual crossing of his legs, perhaps it is not Vision who has changed but her own perception of him, a thought that is equal parts curiosity and guilt.  “Wanda?”

The clothing is not the only change, a closeness forming between them, one she never anticipated and yet finds her heart racing whenever he walks into a room, or when they spar in training and she bests him, resulting in an encouragingly proud smile that always flips her stomach. Mostly, however, she notices it in moments like these, her first name comfortable on his tongue, a friendly question rotating with the gears of his eyes that transports her several hours before when her cheek was pressed to the soft cashmere of his sweater as they read on the couch. “Yeah, Vizh?”

“It is your turn,” she starts to answer, but is silenced by a deceptively innocent smirk on his face, “though you are about to enter my corridor of doom.”

Laughter has been difficult since Pietro’s death and yet she finds herself giddy at so many of the dry, carefully chosen words from the man across from her. “Hey, you can’t steal my term.” The corridor of doom, as Wanda calls it in moments of blissful victory, is when one person owns every single property in one stretch of the board, which, unfortunately, he has managed to do quite well in this game.

“Oh, my apologies.”

“You should be sorry.”

Months ago he’d have sulked, a minuscule hunch of his shoulders that only she would have noticed, but currently his lips are cocked into a disarmingly confident arc. “I will henceforth endeavor to desist from utilizing your trademarked terminology.”

“Good.” Wanda blames her next comment on how relaxed she is in this moment, the guard she so carefully constructs around everyone else falling over anytime he so much as breathes near her. “You know Vizh,” her eyes roam along the crisp lines of the collar of the button-up shirt he always wears under the silken threads of his navy sweater, and then down to her ripped leggings and tattered hem, “you always make me feel so underdressed.”

His skin bunches around the Mindstone, thoughts careening around her statement, small flares of disquieted concern spiking from his mind, palpable to her even without direct connection of her powers. “I have never considered you underdressed.”  

The genuineness of his confession mixing with an odd, unreadable dilation of his pupil causes her to falter and wish she could take it back. “It’s not a bad thing, just,” the explanation is far weaker than she anticipated, the last of her reasoning coming out in what she hopes is a nonchalant, even tone, “an observation.”

Wanda realizes she should have anticipated what her comment would do, his traditional dressy attire remaining for meetings, press junkets, their weekly coffee adventure (Nat calls it a date, a term Wanda denies if only because she can’t stand the slightly patronizing way the spy winks whenever she sees them together), and any outings where the public or paparazzi might appear, but on lazy days in the compound, the sweater becomes a navy thermal. The dress pants stay, something Wanda is quite thankful for as she finds herself admiring the impeccable fit of his pants more and more, but the thermal is less formal, still a touch refined, but she no longer feels out of place cooking next to him or curled up on the couch reading.

He is actually wearing this thermal the first time she kisses him, what starts as a peck to his cheek slowly moving to his lips, the wide-eyed, ensnared expression on his face encouraging her to steal another and then another, stopping only when Natasha coughs from the corner of the common space. But it is when he is wearing his usual sweater that she first learns how to phase away his clothing, taking control of the Mindstone in a moment of passion, hands running along the lines of vibranium that flow with his muscles, discovering that a brush of her fingertip to the points where his skin fuses with the metal leads to a shiver and a hurried, uncontrolled intake of air. Where discovering the wardrobe that personified him was enjoyable, Wanda finds herself far more intoxicated by the process of removing each layer of his carefully constructed appearance, drowning herself in the way his body responds to her own, the feel of his skin to hers, much different than the cashmere or the knitted thermal, a fascinating and inexplicably breathtaking experience to feel the contrast between the cool vibranium and his warm skin.

Once he comes to accept her adoration of his body as genuine, internalizing it to mean he is not hideously inhuman, understanding that she desires him exactly the way he was made, his clothing starts to morph. Short sleeves in the summer that highlight his arms, in the fall sometimes he forgoes the collared shirt under his sweater, allowing the branches of vibranium to be on fully display, he even, after her hundredth (give or take) time admiring his calves, wore shorts for one of their vacations. This doesn’t mean he is completely comfortable in all things, an adorable prudishness instilled in him over certain articles of clothing.

“Wanda this is truly ridiculous.”

The statement is incredibly true but Wanda refuses to give in, body bouncing on the mattress as she waits for him to finally leave the bathroom. “That’s what you said about the speedo, Vizh, and you’ve come around to that.”

This is a lie, even on their honeymoon, when they had the entire island to themselves, it still took an unnecessary amount of encouragement for him to walk on the beach, tiny teal swimsuit providing barely any coverage of his glorious body. “I most certainly have not come around to the speedo.”

Wanda rolls her eyes, fingers clasped and cheeks starting to hurt from the broad smile on her face, “Come on, you know it won’t be on for long.”  A sigh resonates in the bathroom, bouncing off the walls until it has enough force to exit the tiny crack under the door and reach Wanda’s ears. Slowly, reluctantly, and painfully he opens the door, immediately covering his face with his hands, as if that will be useful in stopping her gaze. “Oh yeah, that,” the pain in her cheeks intensifies as her lips rise to their apex, eyes taking in the tiny red shorts lined with white fur and the matching hat on his head, “is absolutely ridiculous.” To be fair, he did lose a bet, foolishly believing she couldn’t beat Sam in a pirozhki eating contest, and, in entering said bet he did agree, again, foolishly, to willingly wear whatever holiday attire she chose. Even though Christmas is not her traditional choice, she felt a bit less sacrilegious ordering a sexy Santa outfit than a sexy dreidel. Despite his discomfort, Wanda is not one to allow a victory to go to waste. “You can take it off once you give me your best Santa impression.”

His hands leave his face, eyes widened in abject horror at the suggestion, a slight shake of his head preceding his slow steps back into the bathroom, “That was neither explicitly nor implicitly stated in the deal.”

“Maximoff,” the use of his newest nickname briefly breaks through his unease, mouth lifting into a small smile as he bends his thumb to play with the vibranium wedding ring adorning his finger. “You know you’re ridiculously sexy, right?” Wanda pushes her palms into the fluffy duvet beneath her, casually approaching him with a purposefully exaggerated sashay.

“So you insist.”

When Wanda reaches him she places her hand just above the shorts and then walks her fingers up his stomach at an achingly leisurely pace, her eyes never leaving his own, tracking his defiance as it wilts, grinning the second his eyelids close as she reaches his sternum. “You are right about one thing.”

The response is an unarticulated “Hmm?”

“This,” she reaches up to snatch the hat from his head, tossing it to the side, “is not the best look for you.”

As the years progress, there is a slow, almost imperceptible evolution of his (and her, if she’s being honest) clothing, one that she had been warned about from Clint. The week before their wedding he had pulled her aside, explained how she should relish the honeymoon phase of a relationship but also remember that it never lasts, that at some point the excitement and giddiness even out. Even though she wholeheartedly denied his assertion, it did turn out to be true, though it does not equate to the myth that the romance is lost, simply that in growing closer and far more comfortable with each other, things shift, what once seemed the pinnacle of romanticism gives way to an understanding that some nights Vision willingly doing the dishes after an Avengers’ party is just as sensual as him surprising her with a room full of candles. Both, in their own way, are clear signs of his continued love. This translates to their clothing as well, particularly once they buy their own house. When living at the compound, casual meant still being fully dressed and presentable, now every morning Wanda has the pleasure of watching Vision walk around in sweatpants, shirt sometimes manifesting depending on his mood. He even ditches the loafers at the door, phasing away the shoes so he can traverse the house in argyle socks, occasionally in the summer he even goes barefoot. One day, though she has never been able to convince the rest of the team of this, he even wore jeans and a t-shirt, but he quickly determined that might be too casual, even for him. Yet none of these changes fully encompass this new portion of their lives as much as her current situation.

Wanda had been assigned an undercover mission, probing the newly rumored formation of a Hydra-esque underground corporation in Sokovia. It was supposed to be a two week ordeal, but she and Bucky managed to not only identify the threat but neutralize it in just over a week. Typically she would inform Vision of the change in plans, but Bucky, in his own recently realized streak of romanticism in his pursuit of Natasha, convinced her that it would be quite charming to surprise her husband.

With the utmost care, Wanda had used her powers to silently open the door, ducking out of any potential sightlines just in case he was near the front of the house. There was no Hello or Wanda? , no surprise phasing of his body out of the floor, Mindstone charged and ready, and so Wanda gingerly reaches out with her powers, just enough to assess roughly where he is located but never actually touching him since he is always attuned to her presence in his thoughts. Based on her intel, he seems to be in the living room, which is thankfully sectioned off by a wall.

Wanda enters the house, shutting the door just as quietly as she opened it, and then stops, head tilting to the side as she listens to the sultry, smooth flow of saxophones and trumpets. She utilizes the coverage of the music, slipping off her shoes before walking any further, and creeps along the wall, leaning forward enough to peer around the corner, unable to stop her smile as she takes in Vision’s bare feet propped up on the armrest of the couch and the shine of vibranium from his head on the other armrest.

Channeling the advice of Natasha, Wanda crouches low, pausing every three steps to reassess her target, happily noting he has not moved at all since she spotted him. After a painstaking crawl through the room, she finally reaches the couch, breathing in to calm herself and then standing on the exhale with an enthusiastic, “Maximoff!”

Vision tenses, pupils dilating as the gears in his eyes spin at a breakneck pace before he slowly blinks, lowering the book in his hands to lay on his chest. “Wanda?” Her name is a tad shaky coming from his lips, the aftereffects of her successful surprise clear and satisfying, but that all fades once she actually looks at him.

“I knew it!” One of their wedding gifts, years ago, had been a matching set of plush, heavenly soft embroidered (Mr. and Mrs. Maximoff, respectively) bathrobes. Vision’s response had been polite yet dismissive, pointing out that he had explained to Tony the uselessness of buying him clothing since he could simply manipulate his molecules to wear anything, but he still, to humor both her and Tony, tried it on. He would even join her in wearing it whenever she decided to have a day of relaxation, an action she always assumed was his way of appeasing her, but now she knows the truth. “All this time, you actually do enjoy wearing it.”

Vision’s eyes have not calmed, an unnecessary swallow conveying his discomfort at being caught as he sits up, his entire body, minus his head and bare legs, completely devoured by the fluffy white robe. If ever a sight could be the considered the epitome of absolute comfort, it would this. “I believe,“ slowly he sits up, irises settling into their usual soothing rhythm, "I always agreed with your assessment that they are,” his fingers run appreciatively along the edge of the robe, “quite luxurious.”

“They are.” Her husband starts to stand, probably with the intent to greet her, but Wanda holds out a hand, “No, stay there, I’ll be right back.” His acquiescence to her command leads to one of her favorite memories, an evening alternating between lounging and slow dancing barefoot in robes far too expensive to think about, drinking wine, and listening to jazz.

For the most part, Vision's wardrobe has since remained fairly static, some small changes are occasionally introduced based on the fashion of the times such as his (thankfully) brief phase of sweater vests or the summer he almost exclusively wore polos, khaki shorts, and boat shoes. But his preferred clothing choice never strayed too much, still favoring his sweater and slacks combination, the veritable essence of his being. Recently, however, he has started to accessorize, well, Wanda smiles as she watches him, just one accessory and it is not a fashionable option. It was about six months into being parents that they discovered Tommy’s love of being strapped into the baby carrier, but, much to Vision’s surprise and Wanda’s mild heartbreak, Tommy only calmed down if he was snuggled against Vision. Which is how they’ve ended up in this moment,  Vision’s sweater obscured by heather-colored straps and buckles wrapped around his body, his right hand placed firmly under Tommy’s bottom, and his left hand alternating between gesticulating his side of the conversation and soothingly running along the sprouts of white hair sticking up from their son’s head.

Wanda shifts slightly in her seat, transferring Billy from her left to her right arm, eyes never leaving her husband and son. The plan for the twin’s first birthday was to allow the boys to be passed around, spend time with their crazy aunts and uncles, even Tony, though the animatronic Iron Man toy he gifted the boys is a bit unsettling. But plans rarely ever work, particularly with children, and even more so when Tony is involved.

Five minutes earlier, Tommy, who recently learned how to walk with the assistance of a box that was waiting to be recycled, had journeyed over to the bright, glittery presents and tempting puffs of tissue paper. The motion-sensored Iron Man doll recognized the movement, Tony’s voice coming from the doll with an I am Iron Man! as the toy raised its hand and shot a plastic rocket into the living room a believable booming sound effect. Tommy, quite rationally, freaked out, falling to the ground with fat tears rolling down his little cheeks. Tony and then Steve and then Natasha, followed by an overconfident combination of Clint, Scott, and a giraffe rattle tried to calm the boy down, but the only real solution was clear. Vision met Wanda’s eyes, a resolute nod confirming the plan before he phased upstairs, falling back through the ceiling seconds later with the baby carrier in hand. Frantically he worked through the process, looping the straps around his body and fastening the ridiculous amounts of  buckles, and then slid Tommy into the harness, easing him gently forward to lay against his chest. The crying ceased in seconds, replaced by a contented babble.

Wanda smiles as she watches Vision break from his conversation with Pepper, Tommy rousing in anger at something, and bend his neck just enough to place a soothing kiss to the top of their son’s head, instantly quieting him. It is a big difference from where Vision was a month into his life, but Wanda has loved him through it all, cherished the tiny changes and the evolution of his being, but she knows, even with all of the memories and all the outfits, nothing compares to who he is now. He’s still a hero, never changing his uniform or the godly billowing cape, but he is also just a man, one of indescribable power and compassion, standing near the refreshment table in black slacks and a questionable mint-colored sweater with navy chevrons, with their son strapped to his chest.

[banditchika]

maki seina has the worst meet-cute of the year

a short drabble based on this

“Wait, wait, hold up--please!” Seina gasps, hurtling down the street with her bags banging against her aching back. This heatwave is killing her; every breath she takes feels damp and hot, as if she were inhaling through a wet towel, and her shirt’s soaked through with sweat. The bus belches out a cloud of black exhaust, and Seina coughs as she runs into it, the heat of the smoke searing at her shins. 

She leaps into the bus, tripping up the steps with muttered curses. The bus driver raises an unimpressed eyebrow.

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” Seina says, grinning sheepishly. She deposits a few grimy coins into the till and slides past clumps of passengers to find her seat. It’s packed in the bus; there isn’t a seat in sight, and in her sweaty, stinky state, Seina doesn’t feel like squeezing in-between people to hang onto the handlebars. Seina… isn’t sure she can even reach the handlebars, actually!

The bus lurches forward, and Seina spies a gap that looks big enough to cram her stuff into. It’s like a gift from heaven, and Seina is delighted--as long as her things are safe, she doesn’t care where she stands!

Seina staggers past another passenger and hurriedly wedges herself into the space, depositing her bags behind her. She slumps against the side of the bus--the metal is cool against her heated skin, but the sensation just makes the sweat drenching her hair and clothes feel even more gross. Seina’s gonna file a complaint with Mother Nature. She’s gonna fight Mother Nature.

Still, Seina is hot and sticky, so she’ll take it. The new construction site she’s helping out at is pretty far from her apartment, which usually isn’t not a problem, but oh God, this heat wave. It’s murder. Brutal. Seina doesn’t think she’s sweat so much in her entire life, and she’s been doing heavy labor since she was big enough to carry a plank of wood.

At least it’s there’s some AC in the bus, although having so many people packed into it kinda makes the vehicle feel stuffy regardless. Seina sighs, shoving her clumped up bangs out of her face. Man, she just wants a shower...

Someone touches her shoulder. Seina jerks and squares up on instinct, hands balled into fists as she whirls around.  

“Oh, excuse me…” The hand that touched Seina is attached to a freckled arm, which is in turn connected to a sweet-faced girl with the softest, kindest eyes Seina has ever seen. Her hair is a pale brown, like stained wood, and tied up into a pretty braid that loops around her head like a crown. The world seems to hold its breath, time freezing for one perfect second as Seina takes the stranger in. This person might just be The Most Beautiful Girl in the World--no, strike that maybe, she’s definitely The Most Beautiful Girl in the World!.

Seina’s kind of in awe. Her hands go slack and drop to her sides, and despite the AC, she might be sweating even more now.

Damn! Of all the days to meet someone like this! Seina’s a disgusting, messy sweat troll wrapped up in worn, stained overalls and The Most Beautiful Girl in the World is pristine in a white sundress and the sunlight’s catching in her hair and Seina can see motes of dust in the sunbeams, which of course gather around her like glitter surrounding a fairy tail princess and---

Uggghhhh. Uuuuuuguuuuuuuuh.

Seina is… having a moment.

The Most Beautiful Girl in the World stares back at her, a worried crinkle between her brows. Seina sucks in a loud, desperate breath, and mutters something that might be a ‘yes?’ in one language or another.

“It’s very hot out today, isn’t it?” The Most Beautiful Girl in the World offers. “You don't look very well, and I was wondering if you needed to sit down...?”

“I--! Uh, no, nope! I’m fine!” Seina swipes her hair from her face, grinning as widely as she can. Oh, shit--probably a bad move. She might look super creepy right now.

She tries to save herself. “I’ve been, uh, drinking lots of water, and besides! I only look scrawny, but I’m actually really tough!” Seina flexes, cupping the round ball of her bicep with her other hand.

The Most Beautiful Girl in the World blinks slowly, gaze drifting from Seina’s face to her arm, and then back again.

Seina’s smile feels strained. Why did she do that.

The Most Beautiful Girl in the World, proving herself to also be the Kindest Girl in the World, saves Seina from melting into a puddle of awkward goo. She fishes around in her bag, and Seina takes a break from her embarrassment to admire the way her hair falls over her shoulders, the way the sunlight glances through the bus’s windows make it look like the girl is sparkling.

The Most Beautiful Girl in the World finds what she's looking for. “Here,” she says, holding out a folded handkerchief with an encouraging smile. “At least take this. You must be feeling a little grungy, right?”  

Seina stares dumbly at the little square cloth. It's got a little purple flower embroidered on the corner. Super cute. If Seina had seen it in the mall, she'd totally buy it.

But she's not at a mall. No, the Most Beautiful Girl in the World is holding out this handkerchief for her, a really gross sweat gremlin, who's been staring for an inappropriately long time, and Seina’s mind kicks back into gear at that realization.

“N-No, I couldn't possibly--” Seina fumbles at the breast of her overalls, trying to dry her clammy hands on the denim. She finds her own crumpled handkerchief shoved in the very corners of her pocket. “I, I’ve got my own, it's nice of you to offer, but I shouldn't--”

Seina pulls out the handkerchief, gray with dust and grime and dried sweat, and offers it up to the Most Beautiful Girl in the World with a desperate smile. She doesn't seem very impressed. If anything, she looks even more worried.

Seina ends up taking the handkerchief just to wipe that look off of the girl’s face. She manages to mumble a ‘thank you’ and drops her gaze to the floor, praying that the Most Beautiful Girl in the World won’t remember her when she leaves the bus. Seina’s cheeks burn like she used a welding torch without a mask. She spends the rest of the ride imagining those gentle eyes hot on her neck, then scolding herself for thinking that the Most Beautiful Girl in the World would bother to look at stinky Seina with anything more than pity--especially after an introduction like that! It’s almost a relief when the bus creaks to a halt at Seina’s stop. She makes a beeline for the door and barely even cares who she hits with her bag on the way out; Seina will always regret making a fool of herself in front of the Most Beautiful Girl in the World, but at least she can’t make it worse when she’s in the confines of her own home.

The heat hits her like a wall and Seina staggers at the curb, holding up a hand against the sun’s merciless glare. Her bag swings and clocks her right in the cheek. Traitor! “Umm…” a gentle, hesitant voice says. A very familiar voice. Seina turns very slowly and finds that she hasn’t left the Most Beautiful Girl in the World behind after all. The girl smiles. “Are you alright?”

“Y-Yep, totally fine! I’m tough.” Seina instinctively raises her arm, but remembers halfway through the motion how well her last attempt at flexing went. She lowers it sheepishly.

“Well then, I’m glad.” The Most Beautiful Girl in the World dips her head, and Seina returns in kind before scurrying away. Oh jeez, she hadn’t known they’d get off at the same stop! She would have prepared her heart, and what scraps of dignity she has left, if she had!

But she shouldn’t be so surprised. Seina’s apartment complex sits right in the middle of a college town and all the amenities that come with it. The Most Beautiful Girl in the World might be making a trip to the shopping plaza just a block away, or visiting a friend in one of the brick apartments lining the streets, or any number of things. College towns are hive of activity, but that’s one of the things that drew Seina to this neighborhood in the first place. There’s always something to do and plenty of construction and buildings rising up from the ground. Lots of work to be found for an enterprising girl, and lots of play to be had for a tired worker.

Seina presses the button at the traffic light. Her complex beckons from across the street, a spot of white against the brick of the apartments around it. The Most Beautiful Girl in the World perches on the curb. They exchange an awkward smile. The girl is sweating too, but on her it’s downright attractive. Seina, on the other hand, is pretty sure that she looks like she just stepped out of a shower.

The traffic light chirps and they cross the street as one. Seina’s getting a little anxious now. The Most Beautiful Girl in the World is going to make a turn any time now, she’s sure. Or she’ll keep going past the gate of Seina’s complex, and Seina will probably never see her again except in dreams, and though that’s a sad thought at least she won’t make a fool of herself anymore! Seina has to cling to that thought, or she’ll melt into a goopy puddle of embarrassment and nerves right then and there.

Seina turns. The Most Beautiful Girl in the World Turns. Seina pulls out her keys. The Most Beautiful Girl in the World sticks her hand into her purse.

They reach for the gate at the same time, and a tiny little part of Seina combusts when the realization clicks.

“Oh.”

“Ah.”

Seina can’t think of anything to say as The Most Beautiful Girl in the World pulls away, though she’s pretty sure that every cell--no, every atom of her is screaming at the loss. Seina watches the girl’s mouth work, before it settles into a sweet, sweet smile. A tiny miracle.

“I didn’t know you were one of my neighbors.” Neighbors. Neighbors! The Most Beautiful Girl in the World bows as Seina tries to wrap her head around that. “My name is Aihara Miki. It’s nice to meet you at last!”

[gudlyf]

Confirmation [Short Story]

[Edited original photo by Elviss Bitans]

I will never forget the sound Evil made when it died in the Baxter’s house one night in the fall of 1982.

—

The basement of the rectory of St. Ambrose had that smell. The one that appears to be common amongst cellars of houses of the Lord. Of decades-old candle wax and spent wicks, mold-imbued books. Of rotted flowers and palm reeds. That smell. I’d once thought it unique to our chosen parish at the time. It’s not. And any time I happened upon it in some other basement, sometimes in another church, I’d be reminded of CCD.

Some people call it Catechism. I suppose it could have been called Sunday School, except in our town it was held on Tuesday nights. Tuesday School? Not the same ring to it, I’d say. So, CCD. Sounds like some kind of mental condition, now that I think of it. Apropos, if you don’t mind me saying so.

Needless to say, I did not look forward to Tuesday nights.

The last year of CCD for me was centered around preparing for Confirmation. I won’t get into the details of that for you non-Catholics, and to be quite honest I can’t remember what to tell you about it anyway. I suppose it was to “confirm” one’s faith in God and the church. Confirm beliefs. Confirm that you bought the whole damn thing. One of “them.” One of the flock. For me it served only as confirmation that, following that fall, my Tuesday nights henceforth would carry with it only the aroma of glorious, sweet freedom. Thank you God, Hallelujah, Rama-Lama-Ding-Dong, Amen.

Father Jacobs, the presiding priest at the time, did not conduct CCD at St. Ambrose. The old guy would show up from time to time, sure, when he wasn’t busy doing God-knows-what on a Tuesday evening. Probably better off pulling numbered letters out of a bingo cage, really. But for the most part it was just us ten kids and Mr. Baxter.

Of all the teachers I had for CCD throughout the years, Mr. Baxter won the prize for being, shall we say, the most devout. This includes the likes of Sister Estelle, a decrepit, miserable thing harkening from the days of when my own mother attended Catholic school in a neighboring town. No lie, Sister Estelle — or Sister Est-Hell, as we called her — carried a yard stick along her back like a rifle on a cattle rancher. I’ve learned since then that it served more as a bullshit deterrent than anything else. God save the poor soul warranting its unsheathing. Thankfully, I never bore witness to it.

Warren Baxter’s boys, Mark and Jason, attended this particular CCD class along with me and seven others our age. They were homeschooled, so I can’t say any of us knew much about them beyond the walls of that basement, and that the poor bastards had their dad as a teacher. Not just Tuesday nights, but every fucking day. Mr. Baxter sorta reminded me of Christopher Cross. Y’know, “Sailing” and “Ride Like the Wind”? Not to mention he carried a beaten acoustic guitar with him anytime I saw him. He certainly wasn’t an old guy, but he sure had what I guess you could say was an old way of thinking when it came to the education of religion. He had a habit of taking it upon himself to detour from the illustrated Jesus textbooks and remind us of all the things that could make up a mortal sin. You might think that means killing, stealing, raping — that sort of thing. No. He’d remind us weekly that masturbating was a mortal sin that was a sure ticket to Hell. Even thinking about jerking off. It was like you might as well give Satan himself a handy, because, son, it’s just like knocking on his door with that hand.

I guess Mrs. Baxter was a sure help of keeping her husband Heaven-worthy, at least before their divorce.

Mr. Baxter was a parishioner at the church, but he also sang and played guitar at Sunday mass. Considering the limited source material, he wasn't half bad. I’d been taking guitar lessons at the time and knew he wasn’t just some two-bit hack. He played for us a couple of nights at class, which was a welcome reprieve from mundane bible verse analysis, even if it wasn’t exactly Clapton we were listening to. The man dug music; no question of that. And on the second-to-last class of the year, he took it to a new level.

The record player sat in the center of the largest table. Not an odd sight, really. We’d listened to hymns and such before, and even been forced to — dear God — sing along to them. But there was something very different about it this time. Something special. When my eyes caught it, I couldn’t restrain myself.

“Zeppelin!”

Paul Morley, my best friend at the time, saw it too. Led Zeppelin IV, its unmistakable album cover featuring that painting of an old man lugging a bundle of sticks, sat among a few recognizable others. AC/DC’s Highway to Hell. Queen’s The Game. Classics today — purely defining, then. A few kids started in with “Stairway to Heaven” before Mr. Baxter shut them down.

“And she’s buy-uy-ing a-”

“Sit down, everyone. Yes, I’m going to play some of these — just a little. But then I have an important story for you.”

He slipped Led Zeppelin IV out of its sleeve and placed it onto the turntable. Man, I thought, this is gonna be great. I prepared myself for the sweet sounds of Robert Plant, belting out his “Hey hey, mama,” rolling into Jimmy Page on the ax and Bonham on skins. It was already playing in my head.

Instead, we got something else entirely.

Mr. Baxter turned on the player and moved the needle up a bit onto the platter. He put it down a few times, giving us a little tease here and there of what we could have — should have — been listening to in entirety. He finally got to ‘Stairway to Heaven’ and let it play. Sweet release.

About midway through the song, he turned the player off. What is this, another lesson about not beating off? I thought. To 14-year-old me, it may as well have been.

“Now, listen to this.”

We all knew what was going to happen. Playing “Stairway” backwards wasn’t new. And then it all became painfully clear. Zeppelin. AC/DC. Queen? I hadn’t heard about that one yet. But most of us knew of the supposed hidden messages within the latter two, and now Mr. Baxter was going to play them. Here. In the basement of a church.

He spun the record counter-clockwise, slowly, by hand. Eventually he got to the money shot, where Plant’s voice seems to sing out the words “my sweet Satan,” along with some other things that don’t sound so Heavenly when you over-analyze the shit out of them.

But for the playing record, the room was silent. I don’t think we quite knew what to make of it. Mr. Baxter — a guy who’d preached that the simple pleasures of alone time in a long, hot shower was sinful — was playing verses about the Devil. In the Lord’s house! What was next, a Ouija board?

Once he was through with Zeppelin, he went onto Highway to Hell. The album cover alone should have burst into flames the moment it entered the parking lot, but he played it just the same. For a few minutes, singer Bon Scott became Scott Bon. Or maybe it’s Ttocs Nob. You’re supposed to hear something like “my name is Lucifer” somewhere in that backmasked garbage, but all I heard was blasphemy to some wholesome, British-borne rock and roll.

Queen was an interesting one. Played backwards, the lyrics “another one bites the dust” becomes “it’s fun to smoke marijuana.” Oh great, so now that’s evil too? My older brother’s days were numbered.

Mr. Baxter let the chuckles and high-fives among us slide and stopped the turntable.

“Alright. Why did I play these for you tonight?”

I dunno, to thank Jesus these classes are almost over, I thought.

Paula Spencer spoke up. “Because they talk about the Devil…?”

“Not exactly.”

We all looked at each other, clueless. That wasn’t it? Besides Freddie Mercury soloing in reverse about weed, what else was there? And I was sure as shit stinks that Baxter had his fair share of ganja in his days. Hell, at that moment, I was thinking he’d smoked a bowl before class.

“A couple of reasons. First, it’s to make you aware. The things your generation is listening to — on the radio, on records, and tapes — are deceiving you into falling out of love with God.”

“But on the radio, it’s not backwards,” Paul said.

“I don’t even have a record player,” said someone else.

Mr. Baxter shook his head, in that these-clueless-kids sort of way.

“It’s doesn’t matter. You heard it for yourself. It’s still there. And the Devil — he hid it there.”

We learned years ago: you don’t groan at a teacher in CCD. But the restraint in the room was palpable.

“So … Robert Plant … is Satan?” I asked.

“No. He’s just one of many instruments.”

“Like a guitar?” Randal asked. Now that let loose a volley.

“Alright, quiet down. Not like that, no, Randal. I mean they serve the anti-Christ. Though they may not know it. But, because we can play this … music this way, the Devil’s tricks are revealed. And they are in all of the music you’re listening to. All the rock and roll, all the heavy metal. It’s there, and he is trying to use it to deceive you into falling out of grace with God.”

“So … what are we supposed to do?” I asked.

“Stop listening to it. Forwards. Backwards. On the radio, or at home. These are all the new instruments of Evil. And you should shun them just as you would any other mortal sin you’ve learned about in this class. You’ll think you have control over what you believe until it’s too late, and you stop coming to mass. You stop loving Jesus and God and everything else that will bring you to everlasting life in Heaven.”

Well, I was going to Hell. Before he’d finished his bummer of a diatribe, I’d started to think that if everlasting life in Satan’s parlor meant a lot more Zeppelin, Rush, and everything that was candy to my ears, I might just be okay with that.

“The second reason I played these for you — and this is very, very important. You listening?”

Most of us nodded.

“Never — and I mean never — do this on your own. I know it’s tempting — a fun trick to show your friends. But do not do it. I played this here, because we’re safe in God’s house. But at home, or anywhere else, you are not. And the Devil does not like when his tricks are revealed. And he will let you know.”

“How?” Paul asked.

Mr. Baxter pulled out a chair, sat down and leaned in. “I’ll tell you how. Because it happened to me. Mark and Jason can tell you — they were there.”

All eyes were on the two Baxter kids. Their eyes told us that either they were mortified or terrified. After what their father had to say, I’d go with the latter.

“A night a few months ago, Mark was playing one of these records in the cellar at home. I told him what I told you, many times before — none of that music. The work of the Devil. Sins against God. But he couldn't help himself. That’s how it works: You let him in, and he won’t let go.

“So I decided to show him what was hidden in those songs. I did the same thing I did here tonight. I stopped the record, and slowly I began to play it in reverse. And those same, hidden messages were revealed.

“And then … he walked right through the room.”

“Who?” someone asked.

“The Devil,” Jason whispered. In the ensuing silence, you could hear a guitar pick drop.

Mr. Baxter nodded. “He did. A dark figure. Dressed in the darkest cloak I'd ever seen, he passed into the room. No face, just nothingness. Tears were streaming down our faces. We couldn’t move. He glided closer to us, and we still could not move. He stopped just ten feet away from us, and he pointed, right at me. And in a voice I’ll never, ever forget he said …”

He let the sentence hang in the air. This was some real campfire-story shit, and I’m betting I wasn’t alone in hankering for some roast marshmallows right about then. What a showman.

“… ‘No’.”

No? That was it? Not “come with me, you’re going to hell” or “turn it up, man?” I say that now, but to be quite honest with you, I was shitting bricks.

I’d been taught for years every manner of how the grip of evil might drag me down into a fiery pit of doom. You bet your ass I was saying the rosary every night and had a small shrine to Virgin Mary in the corner of my bedroom. Now I was learning that this Satan fella came in a physical form like the Grim-fucking-Reaper if you pissed him off.

I glanced over at the Baxter kids. My look said “this shit real?” Their look was “this shit real.” That did it. After an extra lap around the beads before bed that night, sleeplessness would be unavoidable.

—

The following Sunday morning, I was once again packed hip-to-hip between my mother and brother within our usual pew at St. Ambrose. The usual congregation was there, including Mr. Baxter on guitar, and front-man Father Jacobs. Paul, a four-years-running altar boy, was on the bells with Mark Baxter.

I hadn’t forgotten the story Mr. Baxter told earlier that week. How could he just continue on like that, seeing what he saw? Or worse, what load of horse shit he fed to a mess of God-fearing — and now, for certain, Devil-fearing — kids? I wasn’t sure what was worse: That he went so far as to convince his own boys to play along so convincingly, or that they actually did see something that night.

Paul caught up with me in the parking lot, as the adults meandered around shaking hands with one another and secretly hoping they’d get home in time for football.

“What’s up?”

I shrugged. I had nothing.

“Hey, I talked to Mark earlier. About what his dad said.”

“What, about masturbating?”

He pushed me. Hard. I guess I deserved it.

“That Devil shit.”

“Paul! We’re still at church!” Paul’s mother hissed from somewhere in the crowd. That woman could hear a hummingbird fart in a bison stampede.

“It’s the parking lot, Mom! God, relax.”

If I’d talked to either of my parents the way Paul did, all the prayers in the world wouldn’t protect be from the sure evil that would ensue. The Devil would walk right in and applaud. But Paul’s exposure to the dictionary from Hell came from none other than his own mother’s mouth, and with certain regularity. I became fluent in the language by the time I was eight, from weekly summer sleepovers at the Morley house.

“He still swears it’s true.”

“You make him swear to God?”

Paul laughed. “No. But he’s not changing his story. Said a big person in a cloak sorta floated into the room, and then back out again.”

“What did he sound like?”

“I dunno. I didn’t ask him. Probably like ‘STOP THAT SHIT NOW!’”

His impression sounded more like Froggy from The Little Rascals than some dark being from the netherworld. Come to think of it, that would be pretty terrifying. Would someone please get that poor boy a cough drop, for God’s sake?

“Paul!”

“Sorry, Ma. I tried it, y’know. The record thing. Nothing happened. It’s a bunch of buuuuull shit.”

“Well, duh, yeah. You thought it was real? Creepy story, but no way is that gonna really happen. He was just trying to scare us. Don’t you think we’d hear of it happening to someone else already? I did it at my cousin’s house a few months ago.”

“What happened?”

I gave him a look that told him that his stupid question was going forever unanswered.

Paul pointed to the parking lot behind me. “Look, there he is.”

Mark Baxter was still clothed in his altar-boy whites, carrying his father’s guitar case to their station wagon. Paul gave me a nudge and started in his direction.

“Hey. Mark.”

Mark was a quiet kid, but not shy. More of a rebellious sort, I guess you could say. If he’d been in traditional school like the rest of us, no doubt he’d be one of the “cool kids” who took no shit from anyone and gave a pile of it to the teachers. There were few occasions you’d see him without bruises or a black eye, a sure sign he hadn’t backed down from trouble. It was that attitude that made the story he was holding onto so compelling.

“What’s up? Hey Keith.”

I held up a hand in greeting.

“Swear to God that story is true,” Paul said. The equivalent of a religious double-dog dare.

Mark shut the rear door and leaned against it.

“I’m not doing that. You know I won’t do that.”

“So it’s a bunch of buuuuull-”

“I don’t care if you won’t take my word for it. It’s what I saw.”

“How come it never happened to Keith? He said he did it at his cousin’s house, and nobody creepy came drifting through the room. Except maybe his Aunt Helen. Sorry Keith, she’s, like, a witch or something.”

Mark shrugged. “I guess you’re lucky. Maybe it’s the house.”

Paul seemed to back down at that. Then the wheels started to turn.

“Let’s do a sleep-over, then,” he said.

“A … sleep-over? What are we, ten?”

“Well then just have us over at night. Your dad’s got the records already. We just play them in the same room, on the same record player. If the Devil doesn’t show up, then it’s a bunch of crap.”

Mark’s cool demeanor warmed at that. “My father really doesn’t like people over. And it’s not a bunch of crap.”

“I wanna see for myself. So do you, right, Keith?”

I did my best to hide my real answer to that one. Instead, Mark did the honors.

“No. You don’t. And I don’t either.”

“Psssh. B.S. Whatever.”

Paul turned and walked away. I gave another silent wave to Mark before taking off as well.

—

I was only just getting ready for bed when something rapped against my bedroom window. It was early, but it was a school night, and I knew just who it was.

I opened the window to Paul’s shit-eating grin.

“Let’s go.”

“Now? Where? It’s a school night, man.”

“Baxter’s.”

“What, Mark wants us over? I thought his dad wouldn’t let us.”

“We’re just gonna go visit. Come on.”

I shut the window in his face. Paul kept right on talking.

“If you don’t come out now, I’ll go knock on your parents’ window and tell them you called me over.”

I flung the window back open.

“No you wouldn’t. And they’re not even in bed anyway.”

“Fine, then I’ll go knock on the door.”

He wasn’t bluffing. He’d done this to me before, and my folks fell for his Eddie Haskell routine every single time, hook line and sinker. As usual, Paul was going to get his way. I, as usual, was not.

—

The Baxter house was walking-distance away, but since Paul had his bike with him, I took mine as well. There’s something about walking while someone rides circles around you that feels a bit degrading.

We threw our bikes onto the Baxter’s lawn. I headed for the front door, but Paul started around the back.

“Where are you going?” I said.

“Mark’s window.”

“Jesus Christ! He doesn’t know we’re coming?”

“Nah. You heard him. He wasn’t gonna have us over. So we’ll just come over.”

I really should have made for my bike and headed back home. I started to weigh the punishment I’d get from my parents due to Paul’s threats against Mr. Baxter’s wrath, should we knock on the wrong window. Once I got home, Paul would make good on what he said, I’d be grounded for a week — and more — and the process would repeat until he got his way. I thought it better to see it through and put an end to Paul’s obsession right then.

None of the shades were drawn in the Baxter’s single-story ranch, and we found Mark hanging out in one of the rooms alone with its door shut. The lights were on and he was laying in bed, sort of huddled in a ball, back to the window. He was still clothed and clearly not sleeping. I tried to convince Paul otherwise.

“He’s sleeping. Let’s go.”

Paul ignored me and gave the window a knock.

Mark sprang up from the bed and turned to the door.

“I- I’m just praying, Dad. I promise.”

Paul knocked again. Mark stiffened, snapped around, and was greeted by Paul’s smart-assed wave. My look said, “I know. I’m sorry. What can ya do, it’s Paul.”

The window unlocked and opened.

“What are you doing here?”

Mark licked at a cut below his lip, and his face was sunburn-red. Always meeting trouble.

“Man. Who’d you fight this time? Did you finally fight Felix?”

“Maybe I’ll fight you for coming here knocking on my window. What do you want?”

“Play us the records.”

“Go play them yourself.”

“We wanna see what you saw. Come on.”

“You really don’t.”

“Just let us in. If you don’t, I’ll just go knock on the door and tell your dad you called us over.”

Right from the Morley playbook.

“No! Just … Fine. Meet me at the back by the bulkhead.”

Mark lowered the window. Paul was already on his way to the back of the house, but I watched Mark push his bedroom door open carefully, looking around before edging himself into the hallway, and pushed the door shut without a sound.

The bulkhead was a rusty, two-door entryway set into the house’s foundation. A few minutes passed before the inside latch was screeched open like a prison lock, and one of its doors creaked open. I could barely make out a person standing in the dark. I sure as Hell hoped it was Mark. Paul nudged me ahead of him. Either his night sight was better than mine and he was sure of who it was, or he just as blind and I was his shield.

“Get in,” Mark whispered.

The bulkhead led into concrete-floored basement, pitch black but for a crack of faint light from beneath a closed door. The smell of mildew and machine oil was unmistakably workshop-ian. I confirmed this when I bumped into what I figured was a long workbench. A few tools clattered onto wood and clanged against the floor.

“Shhh! My dad’s room is right above here.”

“Where’s Jason?” I asked.

“He’s staying with my mom.”

Mark opened the door into a finished part of the basement. All was dark but for a single lamp on an end table against a torn couch. Grey berber carpeting covered the floor from wall-to-wall, stained in the corners with water damage. French drains were always an afterthought back then, and not one easily or cheaply rectified. An old pool table took up the place of honor, consuming most of the room. Against one wall a Radio-Shack-brand Realistic stereo. Of course, it had a turntable.

Mark shut the door behind us as quietly as he had his bedroom door.

“We’re under the living room here. We should be okay.”

Paul already had the turntable cover off and was flipping through the sleeved albums stacked vertically beneath it.

“Which one did you play when you saw that thing?”

Mark hurried over and pushed Paul aside.

“Get out of there! My dad has them all organized. He’ll kill me if we mess it up.”

Marked pulled an album from the shelf and looked at its cover. Admiring it? Fearing it? One couldn’t tell.

“This one.”

“In this room, right?” Paul asked.

Mark nodded.

“Where did he come from?”

Mark pointed to an opening without a door. “The laundry room.”

“At my house, that’s where my dad keeps his booze,” I said.

“Are you sure it wasn’t just your mom?” Paul said.

“What? No! My parents are divorced, stupid.”

“So maybe it was your mom.”

Mark said nothing, but the seething in his posture was palpable. At that moment, I felt sorry for both of them.

Mark eased the platter out from the sleeve and placed it on the turntable, then turned the receiver on. He grabbed the needle and halted before placing it down.

“I don’t think you want me to play this backwards. It ruins the record, anyway.”

“No, we want you to play disco so we can dance,” Paul said. “Just play it. I want to see the Devil you said you saw.”

I finally spoke up. “But what if-”

“But what if what?” Paul snapped. “We see him and he tells us ‘no’ again? So what. Then we know and we won’t do it again.”

Mark looked back at us both, then placed the needle down. He seemed to know just where it had to go.

“This can play the record backwards on its own. I don’t need to do it by hand.”

He flipped a lever on the turntable and stepped far away, eyes not leaving that laundry room door. At first, seconds of silence, but for the popping and crackle of worn vinyl, then the speakers came to life. Sure enough, the words of Robert Plant from Led Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven” began to blast in reverse. I was caught off-guard at how loud it was, on account of Mark’s fear of alerting his father to the goings on. It caught Mark by surprise as well.

“Shit!”

Mark stumbled to the stereo. Someone stood in the doorway to the dark laundry room.

Mark froze. We all did. Satan had come. And then he spoke.

“What did I tell you.”

We said nothing. I felt the urge to run, but my legs were no better than bowling balls on Twizzler sticks. Paul backed up and was stopped short by the pool table. The record kept on playing.

“What. Did. I. Tell. You!”

Mark spoke. “N- No?”

“No! Nobody over! Nobody!”

Mr. Baxter stepped into the room. He was seething. He was nothing like I’d seen him before. And he was clearly loaded.

“And are you … are you playing that again?! After what happened last time?!”

“Dad? I … I’m sorry. They just showed up. I didn’t know-”

“Shut up! You two, get out of here the way you came!”

Through this all, the record continued to play, but all I could hear was Mr. Baxter’s rage.

“And you! Get over here!”

Paul and I turned tail and blasted through the door into the workshop. Paul shut the door behind him.

“Holy shit! His dad is … he’s crazy! Let’s get the hell outta here!”

For once I was willing to following Paul’s lead. As the bulkhead lock slid open, I heard Mr. Baxter’s anger turn up to eleven, while Robert Plant carried on.

“How many lessons do I need to teach you, Mark?! Another one?! And another?! I guess it’s time for one more! Come here!”

Mark started to cry. “No, Dad. Please.”

I couldn’t move. I knew that plea all too well. To leave, or stand idly by, knowing what was sure to come next, would be as damaging as what that bastard was about to do.

“What are you doing? Let’s go!” Paul said, and then flew out into the yard.

I turned and opened the basement door. Mr. Baxter had Mark pinned against the wall by the stereo, his arm cocked back with a fist. The record skipped. I’d say it was comically timed to my entrance, but the situation was anything but.

I’ve carried on a lot about how strange Mr. Baxter was. How he seemed to thrive on using the fear of damnation as a demented teaching tool, to kids who had been taught throughout their lives that Hell was no place to wind up. Throughout lessons failing in everything but illustrating the absurdity of it all, he had been kind. He had been patient and good. A seemingly willing volunteer to God. In that moment, the fog had lifted. Like with the ridiculous things he preached, he had fully veiled the truth of himself.

Mr. Baxter’s head snapped in my direction.

“I thought I told you to-”

My mouth opened, but nothing came out. My breath caught in my chest. My eyes were no longer looking at Mr. Baxter or Mark. The anger that had blazing within them turned to absolute terror, trained on the open laundry room door.

The being floated into the room.

Mr. Baxter dropped his arm and flattened himself against the wall next to his son. The record played on.

Tattered dark brown robes draped over what was mostly human-shaped, drifting about it within a nonexistent wind. Swirls of debris and filth floated within the gaps of the cloth. Though they could have been flies, as the sounds of Led Zeppelin seemed drowned out by a skittering, hissing sound that bordered on radio static. There was no face, no real body parts at all. Just a thing. I would say it stood about seven feet tall, but that wouldn’t be quite accurate. Because the best I could tell, it was floating. The thing drifted closer to the Baxters. Mark continued to cry. Mr. Baxter looked as though he might start. Neither one said a word.

A long piece of the thing’s robe lifted, as though carried by an arm that wasn’t there, pointing, at the abusive wretch against the wall. It spoke.

“NO.”

Mr. Baxter broke down and slid to the floor. His mouth moved the words of “Our Father,” though I couldn’t hear him over the hissing, the music, and the throbbing in my head.

Mark didn’t follow suit. Instead, he ran over and stood beside me.

“NO,” it hissed again.

“Please.”

“NO.”

“No. I know. I know,” Mr. Baxter whimpered. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I know you said no. I won’t do it again. I won’t do it again. I won’t!”

“COME.”

The specs floating within the swirl of robes darted to where Mr. Baxter lay huddled on the floor. There was no music, only the sound of what had begun to consume Mark’s father within a cloud of black, black which became solid, almost gelatinous and liquid. He screamed as the mass took over the man’s shape, writhing on the floor in what appeared to be pure agony.

The screams became grotesque, muffled gurgles before ceasing as abruptly as the thing had appeared in the laundry room doorway. Mark turned his face away. I still couldn’t move at all.

I have no idea how much time had passed before what had overcome Mr. Baxter once again became a cloud of airborne debris. On the floor, only another stain to match those in the corners of the room, filling the room with the odor of stale urine. As though called back to their master, they drifted to where the robed thing hovered, wafting about it as they’d done before.

It didn’t go back into the laundry room. Instead, it was just gone. Just as was the music. Just as was Warren Baxter.

—

Outside, I wasn’t at all surprised to see Paul and his bike long gone. I’d been inside with Mark for a long while after what had happened. He was a raw mess, as anyone would be. I helped him give a call to his mother, who lived about an hour away. I stayed for about that long before walking my bike home — I was in no condition to ride.

“I’ll say he just left me here,” Mark said. “Nobody would believe me if I told them what really happened.”

“What about his car?”

“He walks a lot. Usually to the bar down the street. They’ll believe that. I know Mom will.”

I could tell you I was terrified, walking that stretch of road alone late at night, after what I’d seen. In truth, I was relieved. For so long I was told of mortal sins I thought frivolous as being the true path to Hell. That simple “impure thoughts” would destine me to a horrible eternity only a young, teenage boy could imagine. How could such things measure in defiance of all that is good to the monstrous acts of murder, or of rape, or of beating one’s own child? There was a comfort in knowing that once the Devil truly is in someone, he comes looking for that piece of him to take home.

—

My house was in complete darkness. I threw my bicycle into the garage and entered through the back door, into the kitchen. At that hour, I was sure everyone was asleep.

“Where’ve you been?” It was my father. The son of a bitch was standing in the doorway from the basement, in the dark. Ice cubes tinkled from his highball glass.

“I … was just putting my bike away.”

“No. You were out. All night.”

“Dad, I-”

“Get in your room.”

There was no point in carrying on. I did as he said and shut the door behind me.

It was a school night, but I wasn’t about ready to sleep. Sleep, I knew, wouldn’t come at all. Not after the Baxter’s. Not after Dad. It would be another day of looking tired, looking terrible. All under the guise of looking tough.

“What are you doing?” I heard my mother ask from down the hall. “What time is it?”

“Your son. I’m getting my belt.”

“Steven, no…”

I turned on the small stereo in my room. Led Zeppelin IV was already mounted on the turntable, affectionately played countless times in the past as I fought to sleep through a shroud of tears and pain.

I placed the needle down, and as the door to my room opened, I began to turn it counter-clockwise by hand.

[stephenaltrogge-blog]

Recently I wrote about 3 of God’s attributes, his Sovereignty, Wisdom and Love. Knowing and meditating on these attributes of God produces peace and joy in our lives. As A.W. Pink says:

“The foundation of all true knowledge of God must be a clear mental apprehension of His perfections as revealed in Holy Scripture. And unknown God can neither be trusted, served, nor worshipped.” –A.W. Pink*

Knowing God brings us great joy, delight and peace of mind.

The more we know God the more we enjoy him. The more we know God, the more peace we will have in hard times. The more we know him, the more we will fear him, and turn from sin and spare ourselves sin’s consequences.

The more we know God, the more we will trust him. 

Apart from knowing God, we won’t understand sin, its consequences, or how to be free from it. We won’t know what Jesus has done to redeem us from sin.

The more we know God, the more we will want to obey him:

“God is only truly known in the soul as we yield ourselves to Him, submit to His authority, and regulate all of the details of our lives by His holy precepts and Commandments.” –A.W. Pink

We cannot fathom or approach the Lord’s glory as it shines forth but he reveals it to us for our benefit and pleasure and joy. God didn’t need to reveal himself to us, but he is such a wonderful, generous God he revealed himself to us through Scripture and through his Son so we might be filled with his joy. This week I would like to look at 3 of God’s attributes: His Self-existence, his Uniqueness and his Transcendence.

Attribute #4: The Self-Existence of God

In the beginning, God…. GE 1.1

There was a “time” when God was all alone. There was no heaven, no earth, no galaxies, no angels or demons.. There was only God – The Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. He had no beginning. No one else and nothing else exists that was not created by God.

This is mind-boggling. God had no beginning. He always was. We simply can’t grasp this, because everything else in this universe had a beginning. But God had no beginning.

God was completely and infinitely joyful in and of himself. He had no needs. He wasn’t lonely. He wasn’t bored or unfulfilled. He didn’t need our worship. He didn’t create the universe out of any need. He just did it to manifest his glory. All God created added nothing to him in his essential glory. –A.W. Pink

In his self-existence, God didn’t need to create anything. He did it for his own good pleasure.

In him we have obtained an inheritance, having been predestined according to the purpose of him who works all things according to the counsel of his will (Ephesians 1.11)

God does not need anything from us. He doesn’t need our worship. Our worship certainly pleases him but adds nothing to him. He does all things according to his own purpose for his own glory.

“For who has known the mind of the Lord, or who has been his counselor?” “Or who has given a gift to him that he might be repaid?” For from him and through him and to him are all things. To him be glory forever. Amen. Romans 11.34-35

Even our obedience doesn’t profit or add anything to God:

So you also, when you have done all that you were commanded, say, ‘We are unworthy (unprofitable KJV) servants; we have only done what was our duty.’” LK 17.10

God did not need to reveal his glory to his creatures.

“Yet had God so pleased he might have continued alone for all eternity, without making known his glory unto creatures. Whether he should do so or not was determined solely by his own will. He was perfectly blessed in himself before the first creature was called into being.” –A.W. Pink

In Psalm 50 God tells Israel that he doesn’t need their sacrifices. In other words, he gave Israel the law for their benefit, not his.

I will not accept a bull from your house or goats from your folds. For every beast of the forest is mine, the cattle on a thousand hills. I know all the birds of the hills, and all that moves in the field is mine. “If I were hungry, I would not tell you, for the world and its fullness are mine. Do I eat the flesh of bulls or drink the blood of goats? PS 50:9-13

In the book of Acts, Paul told his listeners that God has never needed anything from mankind but gives mankind everything they need:

The God who made the world and everything in it, being Lord of heaven and earth, does not live in temples made by man, nor is he served by human hands, as though he needed anything, since he himself gives to all mankind life and breath and everything. AC 17.24-25

God’s self-existence should lead us to overflowing thankfulness.

He didn’t need to create us, to give us life, to give us this incredible world to live in. But he did as a gift. He didn’t need to save us, especially in light of our rebellion, but he saved us by his grace. Our salvation is a free gift from God. He gives us thanksgiving and worship as gifts to help us enjoy him and delight in him.

Attribute #5: The Uniqueness of God

“Who is like you, O LORD, among the gods? Who is like you, majestic in holiness, awesome in glorious deeds, doing wonders? Ex 15.11

There is no one like our God. He is alone and unique in his glory and majesty. No one, not even the most glorious angels in heaven compare to God in his excellence and majesty. In fact, God is so majestic, so beautiful, so holy, that the seraphim, the highest angels in heaven, who have never sinned, cannot look upon God’s glory but must cover their faces.

In the year that King Uzziah died I saw the Lord sitting upon a throne, high and lifted up; and the train1 of his robe filled the temple. 2 Above him stood the seraphim. Each had six wings: with two he covered his face, and with two he covered his feet, and with two he flew. 3 And one called to another and said: “Holy, holy, holy is the LORD of hosts; the whole earth is full of his glory!”

…there is no one like me in all the earth. EX 15.11

There is no one like God in heaven or earth. Sometimes people think that the devil is the equal and opposite of God, like the dark side of the force. But the devil is a created being. He is more equal to Michael the archangel.

We tend to think of beings on a scale from simplest to complex. For example, one-cell creatures on the bottom, then amoebas, then worms, then insects, then birds, then dogs, then monkees, then man, then angels, then God just a little bit above angels. But God is infinitely greater than anything in his creation. –A.W. Tozer

For I know that the LORD is great, and that our Lord is above all gods. Psalm 135.5

For who in the skies can be compared to the LORD? Who among the heavenly beings is like the LORD, a God greatly to be feared in the council of the holy ones, and awesome above all who are around him? O LORD God of hosts, who is mighty as you are, O LORD, with your faithfulness all around you? Psalm 89.6-8

Our God is like no one else. He is not one among many; he is unique. And our God, who is above all, desires us to be with him, to enjoy his presence and glory, to know him. We couldn’t know him unless he revealed himself to us. And he desires that we seek him and ask him for all our needs. No one can stop him, no one can thwart his plans for our lives or for his church or for the world.

Not only is God unlike any other being, but he is transcendent – infinitely above all his creation.

Attribute #6: The Transcendence of God

To transcend means “to exist above and independent from; to rise above, surpass, succeed.” (Gotquestions.org)

Being transcendent, God is both the unknown and unknowable, yet God continually seeks to reveal Himself to His creation, i.e., the unknown seeks to be known. -gotquestions.org

God is infinitely above and completely separate from his creation.

The LORD is high above all nations, and his glory above the heavens! Who is like the LORD our God, who is seated on high, who looks far down on the heavens and the earth? Psalm 113.4-6

Behold, the nations are like a drop from a bucket, and are accounted as the dust on the scales; Isaiah 40:15

All the nations are as nothing before him, they are accounted by him as less than nothing and emptiness. To whom then will you liken God, or what likeness compare with him? Isaiah 40.17-18

Though God is completely separate from his creation, he is intimately involved in it. He sustains it, governs it, and directs it. Deists believe God made the creation and wound it up like a top and then set it in motion and has been uninvolved ever since. That he created the world, but doesn’t really care or see what is going on. But that is not true.

Whatever the LORD pleases, he does, in heaven and on earth, in the seas and all deeps. He it is who makes the clouds rise at the end of the earth, who makes lightnings for the rain and brings forth the wind from his storehouses. Psalm 135.6-7

God not only directs the weather, but he is Lord over governments, leaders and history itself:

The king’s heart is a stream of water in the hand of the LORD; he turns it wherever he will. Proverbs 21:1

This is why God commands us to pray for our leaders.

First of all, then, I urge that supplications, prayers, intercessions, and thanksgivings be made for all people, for kings and all who are in high positions, that we may lead a peaceful and quiet life, godly and dignified in every way. This is good, and it is pleasing in the sight of God our Savior, who desires all people to be saved and to come to the knowledge of the truth. 1 Timothy 2:1-4

When we are tempted to fear for our nation because of its leaders or to grumble and complain about our leaders, we must remember that God transcends the hearts and plans of men and nations, and is sovereign over them, so we should pray regularly for our leaders and ask God to direct their hearts that we might enjoy peace and the gospel spread.

Isn’t it amazing that this transcendent God “continually seeks to reveal Himself to His creation”?

Isn’t it amazing that he desires that we know him? That Jesus became a man to make the Father known to us? This transcendent God desires for us to know him more than we desire to know him. And he promises that if we seek him he will reveal himself to us.

Our God is self-existent: he needs nothing from us, yet invites us to come and receive himself and all we need from him.

Our God is unique: unlike any other being in the universe. Clothed in unimaginable glory. Yet Jesus became a man to save us that we might become more and more like our God and someday see his unique glory with our eyes.

Our God is transcendent, yet continually seeks to reveal himself to his creation, and has uniquely revealed himself through Jesus Christ. And this transcendent God desires for us to know him intimately and personally.

Again, God’s kindness to reveal himself to us in these ways should lead us to worship and thank him and seek him continually. I hope to examine few more of God’s attributes in future posts. Hope these have been encouraging to you!

*Quotes by A.W. Pink are from his book “The Attributes of God”

The post 3 More Incredible Attributes of God He Has Revealed For Our Joy appeared first on The Blazing Center.

[zeroviraluniverse-blog]

The Oakland A's aren't nearly as boring as you think

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The Oakland A's aren't nearly as boring as you think

MESA, Ariz. — The Houston Astros are baseball’s reigning World Series champions. Shohei Ohtani is sucking up so much attention at Los Angeles Angels‘ camp, Mike Trout can barely get a mention. The Seattle Mariners have three potential Hall of Famers on the roster in Robinson Cano, Felix Hernandez and Ichiro Suzuki. And the Texas Rangers have the makings of a terrific buddy movie if Bartolo Colon and Tim Lincecum — Big Sexy and the Freak — are both on the Opening Day roster.

The Oakland Athletics, the other team in the American League West pecking order, keep plugging away under the same tired narrative. When they’re not part of a grievance filed by the Players Association alleging four teams with hoarding revenue-sharing money, the A’s are on a seemingly endless quest for a new ballpark with modern amenities and adequate plumbing.

From the Cubs’ ace not enough people notice to the AL’s answer to Nolan Arenado, these under-the-radar guys help teams win.

Everyone talks about Tampa and Pittsburgh not spending, but the bigger issue is that neither of them has been good recently at developing players.

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The A’s have finished last in the division for three straight seasons, and they lack the established starting pitching to make the big leap to contention this season. But an improved farm system and an intriguing crop of young major leaguers give them reason to hope.

“It’s incumbent upon us to put together a team good enough for people to talk about,” general manager David Forst said. “We understand that. But I think the guys on the field play with a little chip on their shoulder because of it. There have been times over the last 20 years that it’s worked to our advantage to have that.”

The A’s have traded away Josh Donaldson, Sonny Gray, Yoenis Cespedes and blue-collar hero Stephen Vogt in recent years, and the players on the 25-man roster won’t attract much attention as they pass through hotel lobbies and airport terminals this season. Still, a day at Hohokam Stadium reveals a likeable and close-knit group with some compelling storylines.

Here are five reasons why this year’s Athletics are a lot more interesting than people think:

Oakland is home to baseball’s next great defensive third baseman

Matt Chapman grew up in Lake Forest, California, and played in the same little league with Nolan Arenado. They both went to El Toro High School and played shortstop for the Chargers. When Arenado was a senior, Chapman looked on as a sophomore and learned all about the importance of determination and a strong work ethic.

Is there something in the Lake Forest water that breeds lockdown third-base defenders?

“Maybe our infield was so bad in high school, it seems easy when we’re on good fields,” Chapman said with a laugh. “Don’t quote me on that. My high school coach might kill me.”

How much of a force is Chapman in the field? Ryan Christenson, Oakland’s new bench coach, played with six-time Gold Glove Award winner Eric Chavez, and says he thinks Chapman is better at the hot corner.

An American League evaluator echoes that sentiment, ranking Chapman on a par with Arenado and Manny Machado, the twin gold standards of third-base defensive excellence. The early numbers bear it out: Last year, Chapman contributed a stunning plus-19 defensive runs saved in 84 games with Oakland.

“I’m not saying he’s better than those other guys,” the evaluator said. “But he belongs in the conversation.”

The A’s also rave about Chapman’s leadership skills and “it” factor. He entered the big league clubhouse on June 15 and seemed comfortable from his first at-bat against the Yankees’ Jordan Montgomery.

Chapman asserted himself during a testy encounter with the Angels in September. Los Angeles catcher Juan Graterol was convinced the Oakland hitters were peeking at his signs or getting signs relayed from second base, and he made his displeasure apparent to several hitters. As Chapman settled into the batter’s box, he told Graterol to knock it off, earning an ejection from umpire Mike Everitt and instant respect from his teammates.

“He’s a leader,” Khris Davis told reporters after the game. “He’s a natural at it. He might be a rookie, but one day he’s going to lead the way.”

Chapman’s success as a hitter will hinge on his ability to tighten up his swing, make more consistent contact and hold his own against breaking stuff. He was a .244 hitter in the minors, and he batted .234 and struck out 28.2 percent of the time as a rookie. But he gets the ball in the air, and his confident demeanor suggests he’ll address the deficiencies in his game.

“With every team I’ve been on, I’ve wanted to be a guy that people look at as a leader or say, ‘That guy is doing things the right way. I want to be like him,’ ” Chapman said. “I haven’t dug too much into it. I don’t know if there’s a specific role where somebody gets a thing on their jersey. But I want to be there for anybody on our team, just like I’d expect them to be there for me and help us to be the best, most successful players we can.”

And Rhys Hoskins West

Or maybe Rhys Hoskins is Matt Olson East, and people just don’t know it yet.

In mid-September, the A’s traveled to Philadelphia for a three-game interleague series. At one point, Hoskins reached first base and exchanged salutations with Olson, and the two young sluggers shared some thoughts on their late-season power binges.

In Stephen Piscotty (No. 25) and Matt Olson, the A’s have one of baseball’s most heartwarming stories and one of the game’s most intriguing power threats. Christian Petersen/Getty Images

“He was aware of what I was doing and obviously I was aware of what he was doing,” Olson said. “His name was plastered everywhere. We just talked to each other and he asked if I was getting hounded by the media. I was like, ‘Uhh, honestly, no.’ I feel like nobody knows. It was good. I told him, ‘Stay healthy, keep it up, and good luck the rest of the way.’ ”

Hoskins went on a riveting run with 11 homers in 79 at-bats in August before Olson topped it with 13 long balls in 79 ABs in September. For the season, Olson averaged one homer every 7.88 at-bats — the fourth-best ratio ever for a hitter with at least 200 plate appearances. Only Barry Bonds (in 2001), and Mark McGwire (in 1998 and 2000) have surpassed it.

By the end of the season, Olson had accumulated 24 home runs and 23 singles. Try wrapping your mind around that for a second.

Olson grew up in Lilburn, Georgia, about 40 minutes from Atlanta, and he played on the same youth league fields that spawned Clint Frazier, Austin Meadows and Lucas Sims. An older brother went to Harvard, and Olson was bound for Vanderbilt until the A’s enticed him to sign with a $1.08 million bonus in the 2012 draft. Like his boyhood favorite, Chipper Jones, he opted to jump right into the fray as a teen.

Olson’s setup is a bit unorthodox, with his hands held away from his body. But he has made the necessary adjustments to become less vulnerable to hard stuff on the inner half. The next big item on his agenda is improving upon that .184 batting average in 56 MLB plate appearances vs. lefties. The A’s plan to give Olson as much time as he needs to figure it out.

The A’s are home to the home run trivia answer you never would have guessed

Forst and executive VP Billy Beane pulled off a heist in 2016 when they traded minor leaguers Jake Nottingham and Bubba Derby to Milwaukee for Khris Davis, a young outfielder who was just coming into his power potential. Last year, Davis joined Jimmie Foxx as the second player in Athletics history to record back-to-back 40-homer seasons. Over the past two years, his 85 homers are second to Giancarlo Stanton‘s 86 among MLB hitters.

“You could make a lot of money asking people, ‘Who has the second-most home runs in the big leagues behind Stanton?’ ” an American League scout said.

The power production is doubly impressive because of Davis’ unimposing physical stature. He’s a compact 5-11, 200 pounds, and he generates a lot of power with his hips and a strong lower half. He has hit 45 of those 85 homers at Oakland-Alameda County Coliseum, even though the park is notoriously challenging for sluggers. (Last year, when it ranked as the 11th-most generous home run park in the majors, was a notable exception).

“You could make a lot of money asking people, ‘Who has the second-most home runs in the big leagues behind Stanton?”

A major league scout on Khris Davis’ power production

Davis has struck up a bond with his namesake, Baltimore’s Chris Davis, who has shared some encouraging words with him during casual conversations at first base. The Orioles’ Davis has a $161 million contract, an All-Star Game appearance and two home run titles in his portfolio. His counterpart in Oakland launches homers with regularity and remains anonymous on the national stage.

“I get some ‘his’, and people drop the nickname ‘Crush’ on me,” Davis said. “I’ve been in restaurants in Oakland and people are nice enough to take care of my meal. I truly appreciate the hospitality and the perks like that. It never really happens on the road. You would really have to know baseball to know my face.”

Davis received a pleasant surprise recently when informed that his No. 1 batter similarity score on Baseball-reference.com is Bo Jackson, who was anything but anonymous in his dual-sport career in baseball and the NFL.

“That’s’ awesome,” Davis said. “I had his poster when I was a kid. He was an amazing player.”

They have baseball’s most heartwarming family story

In December, the A’s traded minor leaguers Yairo Munoz and Max Schrock to St. Louis for outfielder Stephen Piscotty, a former first-round draft pick fresh off a down year. Piscotty’s OPS declined to .708 from .800 the previous season, and he hit only nine homers in 401 plate appearances.

Piscotty was understandably distracted by family issues back home in Pleasanton, California. His mother, Gretchen, was diagnosed with amyotrophic lateral sclerosis in May 2017, and her illness weighed on him from afar.

“I feel like there’s been a big weight kind of lifted off my shoulders,” Piscotty said. “ALS is tough. It moves fast, unfortunately — especially the one my mom has. It would have been really hard to go into a season knowing I wasn’t going to come back for eight months. That was pretty hard to swallow. When the trade happened, that was a huge relief.

“I’m gonna be living at home. We’ll have musical chairs with the rooms with my two younger brothers, but yeah, there’s a room open. And that’s where I want to be. At our house right now, there’s always someone there helping us, and I can be one of those people. That’s a great feeling. There’s nothing worse than being far away and wanting to help, and you just can’t be there.”

While Forst, Beane and Cardinals general manager John Mozeliak were all cognizant of the off-field ramifications, the deal made sense for both sides. The Cardinals were comfortable enough with their outfield alignment of Marcell Ozuna, Tommy Pham and Dexter Fowler to move Piscotty and Randal Grichuk over the winter. The A’s, who ranked 25th in the majors with a .704 OPS against left-handed pitching a year ago, get a young outfielder with on-base ability and a contract that keeps him under club control for an affordable $30.5 million through 2022. The A’s previously had Piscotty on their radar when he was at Stanford, playing ball and working toward his degree in atmosphere and energy engineering.

“I talked to Stephen right after we made the trade and I said, ‘Look, this was a baseball trade. We needed a right-handed hitting outfielder, and you fit perfectly for us. That said, I’m thrilled for your family — that you’re able to come home and your mom is able to see you play,’ ” Forst said.

Piscotty, 26, got engaged during the offseason. His fiancée will move into the family home in Pleasanton with him, and she has an apartment in San Francisco where he can slip away for what he calls some occasional “me time.” Piscotty is close enough to home that he has been able to get back to California and see his mom during an off day or two in the Cactus League, and the publicity generated by his story has helped raise more than $20,000 for the ALS Therapy Development Institute.

“The stars definitely aligned,” he said. “I felt good about coming out here and joining this young team. I think we’re going to surprise a lot of people.”

The Little Big Unit is in camp

A.J. Puk wore his hair short as a high schooler in Iowa and at the University of Florida, before deciding to let it ride with a long, red mullet that’s as polarizing as “Moneyball.” Puk says 50 percent of people like it, and the other 50 percent, not so much.

From his frame to his stuff — and that hair — A.J. Puk stands out on the mound with every pitch he throws. Steve Mitchell-USA TODAY Sports

“It’s a lot like ‘Bull Durham,’ ” Forst said. “When you win 20 in the show, you can wear your hair however you want and people think you’re creative.”

The Athletics have a lot riding on Puk. They selected him with the sixth pick in the 2016 draft and signed him to a $4.07 million bonus before sending him on a developmental jaunt across America. In 157 2/3 innings with the Vermont Lake Monsters, Stockton (California) Ports and Midland (Texas) RockHounds, Puk has struck out 224 batters.

Puk grew up a Jon Lester fan and is accustomed to comparisons with Andrew Miller and Chris Sale, tall thin, lefties with unorthodox looks. Melvin acknowledged the five-time Cy Young-award winning elephant in the room this spring when he said a lot of things about Puk remind him of Randy Johnson.

“You can’t help but think that,” Melvin said. “There just aren’t too many guys who look like that. They’re a little bit closer to you when they deliver the ball. They throw hard, the hair, the whole bit. We don’t want A.J. to feel like he has to live up to a comp like that. He has pretty good stuff, though.”

Melvin, who managed Johnson in Arizona in 2007-08, arranged for a one-on-one meeting between the Big Unit and Puk last year. Puk has made significant progress with the help of minor league pitching coordinator Gil Patterson, who introduced him to a hybrid stretch-windup delivery that allows him to maintain his release point and throw strikes with all the pitches in his arsenal.

“I can’t imagine it’s going to be long before he’s an option for us,” Forst said.

If and when Puk joins the big club, his distinctive name and look could make him a rarity on the Athletics’ roster: He might attract enough of a following to snag a free meal someplace other than Oakland.

[jesusvasser]

Mustangs of Future Past: Original Venice Crew and Revology Recreate the GT350

John Morton blips the throttle as he manhandles the Mustang’s large, thin wooden wheel. He sets up the car into the wide, right-hand sweeper traced by small orange cones with the nonchalance of a man who’s turned a car in anger hundreds of thousands of times. We hit the apex, and he pours on the throttle, unleashing all of the V-8’s 289 cubic inches and working over the four-speed manual as we barrel down the short front stretch of the Streets of Willow circuit.

Morton prefers Big Willow, the track next door to Streets at the famed Willow Springs facility about two hours northeast of Los Angeles. It’s easy to understand why. It’s a much faster, longer circuit. It’s where years ago he tested a car just like this and raced a car just like this. A Mustang built in Venice Beach, California, near the shores of the Pacific. A GT350R much like this one.

The new/old car Morton is hustling around Streets might as well be one of the race-prepped Shelby GT350Rs Morton and others like Jerry Titus campaigned at Willow, Riverside, and elsewhere across the country, and men like Peter Brock helped design and the then-17-year-old Jim Marietta wrenched on in 1965. Built by the Original Venice Crew (OVC), this one is close to the real thing but with new independent rear suspension.

Authenticity was a primary goal of the Venice Crew. They decided to offer 36 recreation cars, the same number they built back in the day.

Back at the staging area, our own race ace Andy Pilgrim is about to strap into a GT350 Mustang, built by Revology, that looks very much like the Wimbledon White and Guardsman Blue-striped OVC machine Morton and I are in, only without the roll cage, race seats, and other old-school high-performance flourishes. Instead, the Nappa leather inside is sourced from the same supplier Porsche uses, the floor is swathed in plush wool carpet, and the headliner is done in Alcantara. It has comfortable bucket seats, and a navigation/infotainment system complete with a backup camera. Pilgrim pushes the stop/start button, and its Ford Performance-prepped 5.0-liter Coyote V-8 with 435 horsepower mated to a Tremec T56 close-ratio six-speed manual clears its fuel-injected throat.

Independent day: The “i” in the 98i on the side of the Original Venice Crew’s Mustang GT350R recreation stands for independent suspension

Automotive industry veteran Tom Scarpello, who spent the better part of two decades primarily at Ford and Nissan in various roles including manufacturing and product planning, founded Revology Cars in 2014 out of Orlando, Florida, with the goal of creating a series of Mustangs with modern conveniences while celebrating the past. The approach is resto-mod at its core, but much more than that, Scarpello’s vision as “Chief Revologist” has been to create a company that takes a world-class, assembly-line approach to building cars he learned during his career. The official stamp of Shelby Automobiles and Ford makes Revology all the more legit.

When it comes to being legit, you can’t be much more in Mustang circles than folks like Morton, Brock, and Marietta. These are men who spent their salad days being cajoled, cussed out, and inspired by Carroll Shelby, building cars on a wing and a prayer in Shelby American’s impossibly cramped, 10,000-square-foot shop in Venice.

“When Peter Brock says you should do something, you probably should,”

John Morton imparts some of his immeasurable wisdom to Automobile editor-in-chief Mike Floyd about how the OVC GT350R behaves on the track.

One night during a good round of bench racing, the guys started reminiscing about the three dozen GT350Rs they built back in ’65. Corners were carved. Brock never got a chance to sculpt the front end how he wanted. Then there was the car with the independent rear they never got to finish. It was a huge success at the track, but it could have and should have been better. What if they did it all over again how they really wanted to do it? “What if” became “why the hell not,” and the Original Venice Crew was formed.

The Original Venice Crew’s approach to its GT350R is one of faithful recreation. The only nods to the modernization are to meet new safety rules.

Authenticity was a primary goal of the Venice Crew. They decided to offer 36 recreation cars, the same number they built back in the day, using the same 1965 K-code Mustang they built up (higher spec 289 V-8 and front discs) as the base car. Finding the donor cars hasn’t been easy, but so far they’ve located a couple. OVC, which builds the cars at the Shelby facility in Gardena, California, drops in a reworked version of the 289 pushing about 420 horses with a four-speed Borg Warner manual as the gearbox. Prices start at $250,000, and although that isn’t chicken feed, like Revology they have the official Ford and Shelby backing and a lineage that can’t be manufactured.

Andy Pilgrim hasn’t had a lot of experience with Mustangs, but he quickly got up to speed and had a blast wheeling both models.

Marietta, who wasn’t even out of high school when he scored that fateful job at Shelby, has become the unofficial OVC spokesman, though he’s quick to say it’s a team effort. About seven guys work on a car at any one time, and it takes about four months to complete one. He walks us around OVC’s 98i-coded GT350R and calls out several details. “You see this here,” he says, pointing to the rear fender. “These are hand-flared. They’re a little rough, but that’s the way it was.”

The Revology and OVC teams spent the day bench racing and getting feedback about how their cars were doing out on the circuit.

He shows us the hand-welded plenums fitted over the carb and the gas tank filler in the trunk, and the changes to the front end and rear window that Brock made to the fastback to aid aero and cooling, which helped lead to the use of a smaller radiator. “When Peter Brock says you should do something, you probably should,” Marietta says, breaking into a wry smile.

“You see this here,” pointing to the rear fender. “These are hand-flared. They’re a little rough, but that’s the way it was.”

You can get your OVC Mustang with the solid axle or the aforementioned independent rear. Duane Carling is the man behind the development work of the car’s IRS. It’s a magnificent-looking piece of engineering we saw a couple of weeks before the track day. As the story goes, back in ’65 the team was almost finished developing the IRS car when Shelby pulled resources away to the Daytona Coupe and GT40 projects. The suspension was put on a shelf and forgotten about. It was eventually carted off to longtime Ford racing partner Holman Moody with other assets after Ford ended the Shelby Mustang program in 1969 and later sold to a private owner. Carling tracked down the gentleman who had it and sent him a letter inquiring about it. Miraculously, he shipped what he had out to Carling, who used it to form the basis of the IRS on the car we’re ripping around in at Streets.

Revology takes a daily driver approach to its GT350 and tops it off with world-class interior details. But its Coyote is wild at full howl.

Morton and I pull in, and it’s Pilgrim’s turn to take the Revology GT350 out. Mustangs like this are a rare thing for him to drive, and he hadn’t been in a car quite like it since his days running Pontiac Trans Ams in the mid ’90s. “On track with a solid rear-axle car, you don’t so much dial in a turn with the steering wheel until you’re done with a corner.” Pilgrim says. “It’s more start a chain reaction with a slight amount of steering wheel turn, and then you see where you end up. Fun stuff!”

“It’s more start a chain reaction with a slight amount of steering wheel turn, and then you see where you end up. Fun stuff!”

It took a minute for Pilgrim to get used to the grabby, non-ABS brakes (being far less experienced with such brakes, I would later lock them up coming into Turn 2), and he would have liked a little less power in the hydraulic steering (Revology says that’s doable), but he found the car pulls surprisingly hard to more than 7,000 rpm and sounds great with its Borla track exhaust, the Coyote making mighty thawwwwwacck racket at full chat. He also dug the six-speed. (Automatic is also available.) “The modern Mustang GT six-speed gearbox has a traditional-style gearshift lever and a solid industrial shift action,” he notes. “Forget the current slick Miata and Civic shifts, this is old school.”

Revology indeed makes them to be old-school cool, but new-school chic. Scarpello freely admits the 1966 GT350 recreation Pilgrim and I are delighting in around Streets isn’t a purebred track car, but it more than holds its own on the circuit after some hardcore lapping. It also has plenty of power for its 3,225 pounds, as much power to weight as a Ferrari F430 according to Scarpello. Starting at $189,000, this car and the rest of the Revology Mustang lineup are built using as many off-the-shelf parts as possible, some of which are (gasp!) sourced from General Motors. “The No. 1 goal is to have a car that you can drive every day with all the amenities,” Scarpello says. “It’s like a modern car, and it’s really cool that it looks like something it isn’t.”
Scarpello is busy stacking his team with mainstream auto industry veterans like himself. As a low-volume manufacturer as defined by the Fixing America’s Surface Transportation Act of 2015, Revology has the ability to build and sell brand-new licensed reproduction classic Mustangs as long as the engines are emissions certified. The company can also sell rolling chassis replicas under existing state laws or resto mod an original Mustang to Revology spec. At present it takes about six months to build a car to order, but they’re looking to get that time down as they ramp up production.

Back out on the track, Pilgrim and I take turns jumping in and out of each car, relishing each lap. The OVC GT350R proves to be anything but a fussy museum piece. Each one has a VIN from the donor car, so they are also certified as street legal. But given its heavy, nonpower-steering and race-car setup, the track is where this Mustang should gallop.

“Driving around Streets is quite the workout,” Pilgrim admits. “I was determined to win the battle of wills with this very capable, 2,780-pound animal.

“Once familiar with the handling, I started really working the independent rear suspension, making full use of the sticky vintage race rubber, body roll, pitch, and very willing motor. It was at this point I really started to appreciate it. The fun factor was off the scale.”

Exactly. To be able to uncork the GT350R’s guttural V-8 roar, work its notchy four-speed, push on its massive brakes, feel the heat, and inhale the gas and rubber fumes, was fun beyond measure. And Revology’s mixology of time-machine looks, new model details and craftsmanship, and its fast and fun nature out on the track proved every bit as enthralling.

When we weren’t in the cars, we gathered around the sheetmetal campfire, swapping stories and learning about the OVC and Revology teams. It was one of those days you never want to end. And as I waved goodbye to Marietta and Carling while they loaded 98i onto the trailer, the sun sunk low on the horizon over the desert expanse of Big Willow just like it did in 1965, when John Morton blew by at 160 mph

The post Mustangs of Future Past: Original Venice Crew and Revology Recreate the GT350 appeared first on Automobile Magazine.

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[jd-rush]

Close Encounters

TITLE:  Close Encounters   AUTHOR:  J.D. Rush FANDOM:  Marvel:  Guardians of the Galaxy; Iron Man PAIRING:  Tony Stark/Peter Quill RATING:  NC-17 for M/M sexy times and language. SUMMARY:  Hours after meeting the Guardians, Tony makes good on his promise to Quill.  Sequel to “Units from Heaven”, which can be found here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11102664 WARNINGS:  Spoilers for “Guardians of the Galaxy 2”.  Also, not exactly Team Cap friendly.  Just a head’s up. DISCLAIMER:  All characters belong to Disney, Marvel, Sony, and anyone else who can sue me.  I’m just taking them out for a spin.  I own nothing. AUTHOR’S NOTE:  Thank you to everyone who read my previous story and left such lovely feedback.  This probably isn’t the sequel you were expecting--it’s just a little ‘space boyfriends’ thing to set up the next story.  The Guardians will return.  I promise. AUTHOR’S NOTE 2:  No betas were harmed in the making of this story.  All mistakes are mine.

Tony had to admit that as far as alien invasions went, this one was a lot more fun than his first go round.

“Fuck yeah, that’s it,” he groaned, tossing his head back as he impaled himself once more upon Quill’s cock, going where no Stark had gone before.    

“Fucking perfect,” Quill echoed, bucking up hard, driving in a bit deeper.  “Just like that.”  

“So good,” Tony moaned, clutching at the headboard with both hands to anchor himself as he bounced up and down enthusiastically, undulating his hips, matching the low throbbing bass of the AC/DC song pulsing through the room and the couple writhing on the bed.  “Jesus, fuck!”

“Aw, yeah, keep doing that,” Quill commanded.  “Don’t fucking stop.”

Tony chuckled breathlessly.  “Not. . .planning. . .to. . .” he grunted, grinding his ass into Quill’s lap, wondering if all spacemen were as gifted as Star-Lord.  

Quill gripped Tony’s hips, strong fingers digging in, guiding his movements, quickening the pace.  “Just. . .a. . .bit. . .more. . .”

“So fucking. . .go-o-o-o-d. . .” Tony could barely get the words out.  He was close, so goddamn close!  Bracing himself with his left hand, he wrapped his right around his cock and stroked himself vigorously, gasping with every slick slide.  

Quill moaned at the sight.  “Yeah, like that,” he urged, even as he pumped into Tony, faster and faster.  “So fucking hot.  Do it, Stark.  Do it!”

“Oh, oh. . .god. . .oh. . .fuck. . .!”  Tony’s climax hit him hard and fast, Quill’s just a few seconds behind.  With no strength left, Tony fell forward, crushing Quill into the mattress, both men breathing heavy, sweat clinging to their bodies.   Unnoticed by either of them, the lights dimmed and the music lowered in volume, shifting to some soft, mellow piano jazz.

FRIDAY knew what her boss liked.

As Tony laid pressed to Quill’s warm skin, waiting for his racing heart to slow down, he thought back over the past few hours since the Guardians’ unexpected arrival at the Avengers’ Compound.  Rhodey’s reaction to meeting their long-distance space visitors had surpassed even his high expectations. (“Oh, honey bear!  You should see your face!  Priceless!  FRIDAY, get a shot of it!  That’s gonna be my Christmas card for the next decade, I swear!”)  After a quick round of introductions, he left the still stunned man to sort out the dinner order with the Shawarma Palace (“Just have them send one of everything on the menu.  Actually, make it a double”) while he took his guests on a tour of their new home.

Along the way, they met up with Vision, who was watching a cooking show in the large common room.  After another quick round of introductions, during which he regarded the motley crew with a mixture of curiosity and quiet scrutiny, he bowed his head cordially towards them and stating softly but resolutely, “I sense no malevolence in these individuals,” causing Tony smile in relief.  He had a good feeling about the Guardians, but it was nice to get confirmation, especially since his track record was rather shaky when it came to judging people.  

Not that he was still bitter about what went down in Siberia.  Well, not much at any rate.

Tony’s tour of the Compound showed off all its highlights and amenities, ending with a visit to R & D, where they encountered Bruce Banner.  (“My science bro!” he proudly proclaimed, planting a big, fat kiss to Bruce’s bright red cheek)  After yet another quick round of introductions, Tony gave the group a run-down of the lab’s features.  Rocket’s interest in all his high-tech equipment and projects pleased him immensely, and he freely extended an offer of full access to the lab (“supervised, of course”) for anything that might be needed in their fight against Thanos.  Quill once again warned against that idea but Tony just waved him off.  (“No worries.  It's fine.  How much trouble can he get into anyway?”)

None of the Guardians answered that.

The food, once it arrived, was a hit, as Tony knew it would be.  Bruce and Rhodey joined them because, hey, who doesn’t like shawarma, right?  Conversation was kept light and fun with everyone trying to come up with the most entertaining story to tell (“I am Groot.”  “Yeah, I would have kicked you in the knothole for that, too!”)  Mantis’s excitement at trying a new, exotic dish was charming and contagious, and if Drax looked upon her rather dotingly, no one mentioned it.  

Once dinner was done, Tony powered up the entertainment center.  Everyone enjoyed ‘The Lord of the Rings’ and ‘The Two Towers’, which of course they HAD to watch because Tony had forgotten there weren't any Ents in the first movie. (“Twenty fucking hours of film--how am I supposed to remember all the details?”)  Groot kept jabbering about Treebeard to Dum-E and U, who were whirling around the room, excited to have a new friend.  Bruce and Gamora seemed to hit it off, though it was hard to tell as Banner mostly just stammered and fidgeted--even more so than usual-- while Gamora watched him with curious eyes and a little Mona Lisa smile.  Still, she hadn’t threatened to pull his spleen out and make him eat it, so he was definitely one up on Tony in that department.  

By that point in the evening, things started winding down.  The Guardians had traveled a long way and were tired, so Tony promised they’d watch ‘Return of the King’ the next night, showed everyone to their rooms, then grabbed Quill and dragged him to the master bedroom.

All in all, one of the most entertaining nights Tony could remember having in a long time.

“Well, that was nice,” Quill panted out once he had regained the ability to speak a few minutes later.

“Nice?”  Tony repeated, incredulously.  “NICE?!?  I just rode you for 30 minutes like the winning jockey in the Kentucky Derby and all I get nice?”

Quill gave him an amused grin. “Very nice?” he teased.

“That's it,” Tony grumbled good-naturedly, as he rolled off Quill and flopped onto the mattress beside him.  Oh, he was gonna be feeling that tomorrow morning.  So worth it.  “Next time, YOU do all the work and I’ll just kick back and enjoy it.”  

“So there's going to be a next time?” Quill asked as he removed his condom and tossed it off to the side, hoping it hit a trashcan, but not really caring if it didn’t.  

“Well, yeah, if you want,” Tony replied, grabbing his discarded tank top and clumsily wiping down himself and Quill before dropping it on the floor beside the bed.  “I mean, I thought that was a given.  Mi bed et su bed, or whatever that saying is.  Open invitation, as long as you guys hang around.  Then again, if it was only nice. . .”

“VERY nice,” Quill corrected with a quick kiss to Tony’s left shoulder.  “You put Captain Kirk to shame.  But, um. . .I’ve kinda got a confession to make.”

Tony whipped his head around to face Quill, panic in his eyes.  “Please don’t tell me you’re one of those male aliens that can get pregnant?”

“What?!” Quill might have squeaked.  “No. NO!”

“Thank Christ,” Tony sighed in relief.  “That almost took ten years off my life.”  

“Besides, you were the catcher.  Shouldn’t YOU be the one worried about getting knocked up?” Quill joked.

Tony glared at his bedmate.  “Not funny, Quill.  I’ve read that fanfiction.”

“The what?”

“Nevermind.”  Tony reached down and haphazardly pulled the bedding up over the two of them.  “So what’s this big confession of yours?”

“It‘s just, well, I’m not really an alien.  I mean, I’m half-alien.  I think.  Or I was.”  Quill ran his hand nervously through his hair and huffed an awkward laugh.  “I’m honestly not sure anymore.”

“That sounds complicated.  And intriguing.”  Tony turned onto his side, head propped on his hand.  “Do tell.”

Quill stretched out on his side, mirroring Tony’s position, before explaining,  “I’m originally from Missouri.”

Okay.  That was unexpected.  “You mean the Missouri here on earth?”

“You know of another Missouri?”

“Well, no, but who knows, right?  Big cosmos, lots of planets. . .”

“Never thought of it that way.  But no, I’m talking about plain old earth Missouri. St. Charles, to be exact.  I lived there with my mom when I was a kid.”

“And your dad?”

Quill shrugged.  “He wasn’t around.  Didn’t even know who he was.  Mom used to tell me that he was from the stars.  I thought she was simply being romantic about a one-night stand or something.”

“But she was telling the truth?” Tony guessed.

“Yeah.  We--the Guardians and me-- met up with him a few years ago and he was, um . . .”  Quill flashed a sheepish grin.  “Okay, don’t laugh but he turned out to be a celestial.”

“Why would I laugh at that?” Tony asked, seriously.  

Quill gave him a look.  “I just told you my father was a deity from outer space.  You don’t think that’s weird?”

“I might, if I didn’t have the Asgardian god of thunder on the payroll.  Hey, maybe they know each other.  You should totally invite him to visit the next time Thor’s in town.  THAT’S a guy who knows how to party, let me tell you.  He bought this special home-brewed grog or something with him one time?  I woke up in Vegas wearing a feather and sequined showgirl outfit, I kid you not.”

“Sorry I missed it.”

“Rhodey’s got pictures.  He claims he doesn’t but I know him too well.  I mean, if HE had been the one in that outfit you can bet your sweet ass I’d have pictures of it.  Wow,  I just had a great idea.  Okay, all my ideas are great but. . .I should call Jane Foster.  I’m sure she has a way to contact Thor, a raven or something, and we can get him down for the weekend, give you guys a grand ‘Welcome to Earth’ party.  How long would it take pops to get here?”

“We aren’t really in touch anymore,” Quill said with a grimace.  “He turned out to be kind of a . . .what did you say earlier?  A twatwaffle?”

Tony scoffed.  “I hear ya‘.  Dads, huh?”

“You, too?”  

“Oh, yeah.  King of the Twatwaffles.”

Quill chuckled at that.  “Tell me about it.  I was much better off thinking David Hasselhoff was my father.”  At Tony’s raised eyebrow, he explained, “When I was little, I used to pretend that . . .”

But Tony cut him off, “No, I’m with you.  I wanted my dad to be The Fonz.  Just a laidback gear-head with a black leather jacket, a cool motorcycle and a fuck-you attitude.  Well, I guess Howard got the ‘fuck-you’ attitude right, but he was a total dick about it.”

“You know, I never thought anyone could be 100 percent a dick until I met Ego.”

“Ego?”

“That was my dad’s name.”

“Seriously?!” Tony sniggered.  “Talk about a big flashing neon sign.  Damn, not even Howard was that dickish, though not for lack of trying.”

“I heard Howard Stark was a great man.”

“Didn’t make him a great dad.”

“His son didn’t turn out half bad.”

Tony gave a self-depreciating snort.  “Yeah, that’s just because you don’t know me.”

“I think I do,” Quill replied softly with a small, sad smile, and the sympathetic expression on his handsome face left Tony feeling oddly exposed.

Trying to get off this suddenly serious--and frankly, uncomfortable--topic, Tony did what he did best and used humour to change the subject. “So, am I going to find out how a hot, possibly half-alien guy from The Show Me State ended up guarding the galaxy?” he teased.

Quill hesitated for a moment and Tony thought he‘d refuse, but eventually he said, “It’s kind of a long story.”

“We’ve got all night,” Tony replied, as he ran his hand down Quill’s left arm and stroking along his muscular chest.  “Plus I’m gonna need some time to recover before our next round.”

Quill smirked.  “Ambitious.”

“Well, I’m hoping to improve from nice.   I have a reputation, you know.”

“Very nice,” Quill reminded him, clasping Tony’s roaming hand and brushing a kiss across the knuckles, causing Tony to smile.

“You keep that up, and I’ll just want the Cliff Notes version,” Tony warned with a playful glint in his eye.

Quill kissed the pulse-point of Tony’s wrist.  “I can do that.”

Tony gave a low impressed whistle.  “Oh, you’re good.  I mean, I thought I was good, but you?  I could learn some tricks from you.”

Inching closer, Quill murmured, “My pleasure. . .and yours.

“Fuck me twice.”

Closer.  “If you insist.”

They were so close now Quill could feel Tony’s breath against his lips.  He leaned in for their first proper kiss, only to be stopped by Tony‘s finger pressed to his mouth and a whispered, “Story first.”

Quill pulled away with a rueful grin and a half-shrug.  “You drive a hard bargain, Stark.”

“If you think I’m bad, don’t ever try to negotiate with Strange.  Trust me.  So. . .?”

Quill settled back on his side of the bed, still holding Tony‘s hand.  “So, when I was about eight years old,” he kissed Tony’s palm.  “Shortly after my mom died,” a kiss to Tony’s wrist.  “I was abducted,” lips skimmed Tony’s thumb.  “By a group of space pirates called the Ravagers,” and a final kiss to the back of Tony’s hand before Quill released it.

He recited it matter-of-factly, and didn’t seem overly upset by his revelation, but Tony certainly was.  “Jesus.  Why?”

“Dad hired some them to find me and bring me to him, but when they figured out what an asshole he was, they kept me instead.  It was actually kind of them, I suppose, though I didn’t know that at the time.  I thought they just wanted me around because I could crawl into small spaces to steal things.”

Tony frowned.  “That’s. . .”  There were so many things he wanted to say after the word, but all of them involved a serious amount of f-bombs and vows to hunt down every last Ravager in this universe and make them pay for doing such a thing.

His expression must have spoken volumes because Quill quickly jumped in.  “Hey, it‘s okay.  Happened ages ago.  And really, it wasn’t so bad.  They taught me a trade, right?  And I got to travel around the galaxy.  And their leader, Yondu,” Quill’s voice cracked on the name.  He glanced away from Tony for a moment and took a deep breath before he continued.  “Anyway, so I traveled with them for about 20 years, seeing the stars, perfecting my stealthy skills, making a name for myself. Then, a few years ago, I struck out on my own-- doing odd jobs, whatever paid the most, and that’s how I ended up meeting the other Guardians.  After I stole the Power Gem. . .”

Tony wanted to go back and find out why Quill suddenly looked so sad when he said ‘Yondu’, but sensed it was a probably a sensitive matter that should wait for another time.  Instead, he exclaimed, “Wait a minute.  You STOLE the Power Gem?!”

“Well, I didn’t know what it was at the time,” Quill shot back, defensively.  “Like I said, I was a thief for hire.  It was a job, that’s all.  I did it for the money.  And just so you know, I don’t do that anymore.  I’m totally reformed.”

“I sure as hell hope not.  I like bad boys.”

And just like that, Quill’s impish smirk was back.  “Score one for me.  So, yeah, before I could fence the gem, Gamora tried to steal it from me.  Then Rocket and Groot got involved because they were trying to capture me for a bounty that was on my head.  And so we all ended up getting into a big public fight on Xandar, which resulted in us getting arrested and thrown into prison.  And that’s where Drax tried to kill Gamora but he helped Rocket to break us all out so we took him along and we’ve been together ever since.  Just one big happy dysfunctional family.”  

“And Mantis?”  Tony asked, curiously.

“Dad was keeping her as a pet on his planet, so we rescued her.  Did I mention he was a twatwaffle?”

“Yeah, you did, and I’m starting to think he’s actually got Howard beat in that department, which I didn’t think was possible.”

“And so, that‘s my story.”  Quill chuckled uneasily.  “That must all sound pretty crazy to you, huh?”

“Crazy?”  Tony laughed.  “You want crazy?  Let’s see. . .”  He started counting off on his fingers.  “Parker was bitten by a radioactive spider and can now climb walls using just his fingertips.  Bruce overdosed on gamma radiation during an experiment that went spectacularly wrong and turns into the Unjolly Green Giant when he stubs his big toe.  Our two super soldiers, Bucky and Cap, are nearly 100 years old, although admittedly they spent most of that time as Swanson’s frozen meatloaf dinners.  Oh, and there’s a talking tree and a homicidal Davy Crockett hat sleeping one floor below us.”  He gave Quill a pitying look.  “I hate to break it to you, Star-Lord, but you barely register on the crazy scale.”

“Well, that’s a first.  And what puts you on the crazy scale, Tony?”

“Besides the fact I just had a very dirty close encounter of the third kind?”

Quill’s face split into a big smile that showed off his dimples, and Tony had to physically restrain himself from leaning over and licking them.  “Great movie, but I’m not an alien, remember?”

“Yeah, but you’re half-alien.  That totally counts.  And I’ve never been plowed by a guy from Missouri before, so I can check that off my bucket list.”  

“And, of course, there’s always Gamora, if you’re still interested in the full-on Captain Kirk experience,” Quill pointed out.    

“She’s definitely a looker, but I think I’ve got my hands filled with Captain Hottie,” Tony joked, tapping a finger against Quill’s chest.  “Besides, I don’t poach another guy’s girl.  Okay, I do.  Sometimes.  But not a friend’s girl.  Well, not in a long time anyway.”

“Wait, you think me and Gamora?” Quill gaped.  “Oh, God, no!  Are you kidding?  I’m too attached to Little Star-Lord, thank you very much.  

“I can see why, but I was talking about Banner.”  

Quill shook his head in confusion.  “I don’t get it.”

Tony rolled his eyes.  “You didn’t see the way he was looking at her?”

“Well, yeah, like you said she’s stupid hot.  Anybody with a pulse would notice her, but . . .no, hold on . . .”  Quill trailed off, and looked at Tony who was nodding his head and smirking.  “Really?”

“Yup.”

“No way.”  

Tony’s smirk grew.  “Oh, yeah.”

“You mean tonight, during the movie. . .was he FLIRTING with her?”

“Uh-huh.”    

Quill suddenly burst out laughing.  “But that was so. . . so. . .”

“Painful?  Sad?  Pathetic?  Hilarious?  All the above?”  Tony filled in cheerfully.  “Yeah, our Doctor Banner is a lot of things.  Mr. Smooth isn't one of them.”

“Does he have any idea who she is?”

“Not to worry.  He can take care of himself.  Big green rage monster, remember?  Plus I have a hunch deadly female assassins are kinda his type.”  Tony rolled onto his back with a snort of amusement.  “Oh man, I just had a thought.  Gamora and Black Widow in the same room.”

“Is that gonna be a problem?”

“Let’s just say that maybe you better keep a close eye on Little Star-Lord.”

“I’d rather keep an eye on yours,” Quill leered, running his gaze up and down Tony’s toned body, barely covered by the crumpled sheets.

“Pervert.  I like that in a person.”

“Perverted bad boys.  I’m two for two.”  Quill reached over, trailing his fingers lightly down Tony’s neck and along his collarbone.  Tony watched as his gaze was drawn to the ugly circular scar where the arc reactor once resided, and waited anxiously for the inevitable questions, but was surprised when Quill instead inquired, “So this Black Widow is out with the rest of the Avengers?”

“Yeah, they‘ve been over in Latvia fighting Doctor Doom.  Real piece of work.  Gets a bug up his ass every couple of years, tries to take over the world with his,” Tony made air quotes, “ ‘doom bots‘.  Fucking original, that guy.  The Fantastic Four usually take care of him but since they’re away investigating an incident in the Negative Zone, we got the call instead.  You'll meet them when they get back, I guess.”

“You don't sound excited about that,” Quill observed.

“No, no,” Tony replied quickly--too quickly.  “It’ll be great to have the whole band back together again.”

“Well, THAT sounded convincing,” Quill said, sarcastically.  “What’s going on?”

Oh, he really didn’t want to get into all this.  He was having such a great night--the last thing he wanted was to think about Rogers and Nat and Clint and the rest of Team Backstabbers. . .ahh, Team Cap.  “It’s nothing.  Just. . .we had a bit of a disagreement a while back and things are still a little tense.  Does three years count as ‘a while back’?”

“More than.  Must’ve been a helluva disagreement.”

Oh, no, he really, REALLY didn’t want to get into all this.  Not now.  Not tonight.  Just. . . no.  “Difference of opinion, that’s all,” Tony replied, waving his hand around dismissively.  “Ancient history now.  All water over the bridge and under the dam.”

“I think you have that backwards.”

“I do?”  Tony tried to look innocent; he failed miserably.

Quill gave him a shrewd look.  “And I don’t suppose that this ‘difference of opinion’ has anything to do with why you stayed behind to help that Parker kid with a science project?”

“Wow, beauty AND brains.  I think I’m in trouble.”  As if on cue, FRIDAY announced, ‘Intruder alert!’ and a loud electric crack was heard, followed by a string of very creative --and rather impressive--cursing.  Tony grinned maniacally.  “And it sounds like I’m not the only one.”

Quill had jumped at all the sudden commotion.  “What the hell was that?” he cried out.

“That, I believe, was Rocket trying to break into my lab.  I warned him not to mess around with it.  Those locks would put Fort Knox to shame, and FRIDAY is a very vigilant, and efficient, security guard.”

Quill glared at his bedmate.  “Tony Stark, you just kill my co-pilot?”

“No.  But I bet his tail is a bit singed.”

“Are you nuts!?”

“Seven years later, jury’s still out on that one.”

“That’s only going to encourage him to try again, you know.”

“I hope so.  I need someone besides Parker and Bruce to keep me on my engineering toes.  Can‘t let that asshat, Justin Hammer, get the jump on me.”

Quill just shook his head and sighed dramatically.  “I don’t even want to imagine the mischief you idiots are going to get into.”

“Probably for the best.”

“This must be how Gamora feels all the time.”

“I guess we know who wears the pants on that spaceship.”

“You have no idea, which is too bad, because she looks amazing in a mini-skirt.”  Quill gave Tony a panicked look.  “Don’t tell her I said that.  I like my spleen just where it is.”

“You’re secret is safe with me,” Tony promised.  “You know, for a group of outlaws who met up in prison, you’ve got a pretty awesome team.”

Quill chuckled at that.  “Yeah, I do, but trust me, it’s not all smooth sailing.  We have our ups and downs, and we drive each other crazy sometimes, but that’s what family does, right?  None of us are perfect, and we accept that.  At the end of the day, there’s no one else I’d rather have at my back than those guys.  I trust every one of them with my life.”

“That must be nice.”  No, he absolutely was not still bitter about what went down in Siberia.  Well, not much at any rate.

“Don’t you trust your team?” Quill asked, concerned.

Tony heaved a deep sigh.  “I used to.  Now. . .it’s all messy and complicated and fucked up.”

“Well, that’s family, too,” Quill said, another small, sad smile pulling at his lips.

Again Tony felt that odd sensation of being totally exposed, as if Quill could look inside him and read all his flaws and fears.  Just who was this strange, sexy spaceman from Missouri who seemed to know him so well after such a short time?  And why didn‘t that scare him as much as it probably should?   “Yeah, I suppose it is.”  

“Look, Tony, I don’t know what’s going on with you and the other Avengers, and maybe it’s none of my business, but can I give you some advice?  Whatever this disagreement was, whatever happened in the past, it has to stay there.  We all have things we wish were different, things we have to learn to live with.  We can’t change them--we can only change the future.”  Quill grasped Tony‘s hand once more and gave him an encouraging smile.  “Your team and mine, Tony.  We take on Thanos together, and we win, and we save the universe, and we can all heroes, even if it’s just for one day.”

And even with the seriousness of the situation, Tony couldn’t help but grin at Quill‘s heartfelt speech.  “That album was the first one I ever bought with my own money,” he divulged.  “I wore the grooves out I played it so much.  Dad hated it, which made me love it even more.”  He sighed heavily.  “God, I fucking miss Bowie.”

Quill mouth fell open.  “You got my reference,” he whispered, a hint of awe in his voice.

“You sound surprised.”

“No one ever gets my pop culture references.”

“That definitely won’t be a problem around here,” Tony assured him.  “Strange is positively obnoxious about his knowledge of obscure pop songs.  Parker and Rhodey are in a tie for biggest sci-fi nerd you’ll ever meet.  And though he’ll deny it to his dying breath, Bruce has seen ever rom-com and chick flick ever made.”

“And you?”

Tony replied with a campy, “Honey, you should see me in a crown.”  At Quill’s puzzled expression, he added,  “Okay, ‘Sherlock’ is definitely next on the ‘must-see’ list.”

Quill gave Tony a cocky smirk.  “You know, I think I’m gonna fit in well here.”

Tony flashed Quill a seductive smile as he parted his legs slightly.  “Well, we already know you fit in well here.”

A quirked eyebrow joined Quill‘s cocky smirk.  “Is that so?” he purred, crawling over and on top of Tony, pushing aside the annoying bedding as he moved.  

“Oh, yeah,” Tony sighed, wrapping his right leg around Quill’s hip, his hands resting on Quill‘s broad shoulders.

“So, I told you my story,” Quill murmured, leaning down until his mouth hovered over Tony’s.  “Do I get my kiss now?”

“I think you’ve earned it,” Tony said, raising his head and brushing his lips across Quill’s in the barest hint of a kiss.

“That’s it?”  Quill asked, incredulously.

“You didn’t specify the type of kiss you required,” Tony replied with a smug grin.

Quill took the teasing in stride.  “Well, I was hoping for a bit more. . .”  The rest of the sentence went unspoken as he leaned down again, licking a leisurely stripe along Tony‘s lower lip.

Tony shivered at the contact.  “Mmmm.  Not bad.  But how about. . .?”  Sliding his right hand around the back of Quill’s neck, Tony finally pulled him in for a long, lingering kiss.   Mouth, tongue, lips, fluids.  It was incredible.  Amazing.  Perfect.  And a hundred other superlatives Tony couldn’t possibly think of because all his brain could think was, ‘Fuck, this man can kiss!’

Quill’s hands, meanwhile, were busy skimming along Tony’s hips and slipping under him, coming to rest on the his ass, pulling him closer, crushing their bodies together, and there had to be a word beyond ‘perfect’ in some language, but Tony was too busy losing himself in Quill’s kiss, melting into Quill’s embrace to even care what it might be. There was no question he was going to have serious beard-burn tomorrow morning.

So worth it.

After a minute or so of their tongues becoming intimately acquainted, Quill pulled away, ignoring Tony’s small whimper of disappointment.  Crystal green eyes held Tony’s gaze as he said, “Tony. . .”

“I swear on my Black Sabbath tee-shirt, Quill, if you say this is nice, I‘ll kick you out of this bed.”

“Do you like to dance?”

Tony was thrown momentarily by the odd question, his mind still a bit foggy with his desire to simply continue kissing Quill’s talented mouth, but found enough brain cells to reply, “I love to dance.”

Quill beamed.  Oh, those dimples!  This time Tony didn’t hold back and licked the closest one, which made Quill smile wider.  “Just checking,” he said, before claiming Tony’s lips once more.  

And then there was no more talking for a long, long time.

THE END