#ignore the 18 seconds of pure silence at the start it's so i can arrange easier

[leothelilpotato]

HOLY SHIT THIS WAS A STRUGGLE. I'm sorry if this sounds like utter shit, your local idiot decided to ditch the music sheet and try doing it by ear.

[dracosathenaeum]

Try | D.M.

Summary: Arranged marriages don't always work.

Warnings: mentions of sex, cheating, alcohol, violence, pregnancy, murder/suicide (touched upon briefly in one sentence) 

this is kinda a dark towards the end, reader is very self deprecating so only read if comfortable with all things mentioned xx

Word Count: 1.4k

 #A/N: I HAVE AGED UP ALL CHARACTER FOR THE PURPOSE OF THIS FIC. (fun fact: half of my year group were professional drinkers by 13 and had lost their virginities by 15, UK schools are something else I tell you)

You don’t love him.

He doesn’t even try to.

You had known who Draco would be to you by the time you were old enough to form thoughts. It wasn’t something your parents had ever tried to hide, nor was it something the either of you particularly held opinions for. It was your duty as a pureblood witch; that much had been drilled into you the second you had come out of your mother’s womb, knowing Draco would’ve been through the same had been little solace.

You had spent the years up until your 18th birthday getting along with each other for your family’s sake, a civil understanding between the two of you, but neither of you fully acknowledging what the other meant to them. You had tried. Once. He had looked at you with murder in his eyes and you had never tried again.

The summer before 7th year however, you had shared a bed every night. Protection charms were cast so that you remained pure of course, but they weren’t ever even really needed; you had both been in the same bed, but the distance between you had never been greater. You would both climb into bed, you facing one way, him reading a book until his eyes got heavy and turned to face the opposite way of you. You both pretended as though the other did not exist, something that would become a habit in the years to come.

//

He was always gone. The first 6 years of Hogwarts you had seen him constantly; you shared the same group of friends after all. They all knew of the betrothal too, no one daring to bring it up infront of the two of you, but you knew they gossiped behind your back. These ‘friends’ of yours were simply pureblooded heirs who would do anything to tear you away from Draco so they could dig their claws into his family fortune. And they were welcome to, you never once stopped their advances on him; no that was his own doing.

For years you had thought that had meant he had respect for your arrangement, for you, but in 7th year you had started finding him with random girls in hallways, skirts bunched up at their waists as he mouthed at their necks. Both too indulged in pleasure to even notice you standing just a mere few metres away. It didn’t matter that they didn’t see you, your face didn’t betray your emotions, you were above that after all.

It hurt at first; not the jealousy kind of hurt; more of the my-arranged-fiancé-who-I-have-no-feelings-for-is-shagging-other-girls kind of hurt.

You didn’t love him, and he sure as hell didn’t love you. Perhaps you were just too naive to think a snake could have an ounce of loyalty in them. That would be the last time you would put faith in him; something you had found rather useful in preventing further unnecessary feelings.

You had spent the next day’s inside of your own head; debating on whether this would be your ticket out of the marriage, or simply be a thorn in your back. You had found him with 6 other girls over the course of a week, all being fucked into oblivion that they hadn’t even noticed you.

Draco had though.

He had seen you the last 3 times, perhaps he had seen you all along, only acknowledging your presence the last few occasions.

Eyes holding their gaze on you as he continued to rock his hips into the girl against him, a smirk on his face. He had wanted you to find him. He had wanted to hurt you. Your expression did not falter once, you held onto his gaze, waited until he was bored of trying to break you and broke eye contact himself.

You had wanted to retaliate; you even went as far as crawling into Theo’s bed after a Slytherin party that had ended with everyone being too drunk to think. But even when you were 7 shots of firewhiskey in, you couldn’t bring yourself to give yourself to someone you didn’t love. Thinking back on it now, you wondered if you even would’ve been able to, given the protective blood charm your father had placed on you to protect your worth.

You had been in hysterics, not over Draco, but upon the realisation of how powerless you were that you couldn’t even hurt someone back that didn’t so much as care about you. You were trapped, this would be how you would feel for the rest of your life and you couldn’t as much as rebel even when only betrothed. You knew that once you were officially married there would be no way out, but you still couldn’t do it. You couldn’t betray your bloodline, and its traditions that had been grounded into you from the moment you were born.

You were pathetic. Harry Potter defeated Voldemort as a baby, yet you at 18 couldn’t do so much as make your own life choices.

Theo Notts did what anyone else would’ve done and dragged your fiancé in to quell your sobs. In hindsight, dragging in Draco whilst his fiance was naked and sobbing in another guy’s bed probably wasn’t his greatest idea as Draco had punched him clean across the face, his pale skin turning an angry red.

A turning point was what you let yourself believe as he held you for the first time. You had spent more time alone that night then than you had ever done (awake anyways). For the first time in 17/18 years he had willingly stayed in your company for more than 2 seconds. He had let you sob into his neck until they turned into quiet hiccups and eventually soft snores. He had fallen asleep with you and woken you up with a cup of tea, a tense but somewhat comfortable silence between the two of you.

Naive. Stupid. Ignorant.

One moment of weakness could never have changed years’ worth of indifference, perhaps even hatred.

Nothing had changed. And why would it?

Sure he no longer pretended as though you didn’t exist (although the both of you pretended that night hadn’t) but he was still finding a different witch to fuck each night. You never saw them again, but you knew. Everyone did.

That had been 3 years ago.

Nothing had changed in that time.

Well; other than the wedding band on your left hand.

He would still see other women; you just hadn’t caught him. He would never bring them home and risk the wrath of his parents after all. He wouldn’t dare risk anything that could harm his reputation.

No, you just smelt their sickly-sweet perfume on him after he crawled back into your shared bed at ungodly hours.

You would dispose of their hairs left on his clothes before the house elves found out and reported it to his parents. You would make excuses as for why he was late to important gatherings and doctors’ appointments. You kept up the image of happy wife so that they wouldn’t know of your misery and label you both as a failure to the bloodlines you held the futures of.

You would always wake just as he climbed back into bed, he had as much consideration for his wife as he had for house elves.

It was the same every night. You would pretend to be asleep, wait for his tell-tale change in breathes before you turned to hover over him, knife in hand, unsure of who to kill; yourself, your precious husband or the both of you.

But every night you would place the knife back in your nightstand, turn over, and fall asleep again; and let the day repeat itself.

You had tried to love him. But Draco Malfoy was impossible to love.

That was how it had been for the first 3 years of marriage.

It had changed just a few weeks ago.

Now, he would still come back, just not as late as before, but still covered in perfume that would make you instantly nauseous. You would still feign sleep but this time, he would press a hand to your stomach before turning over and falling asleep. You still had the knife in your bedside drawer, you just hadn’t reached for it again.

Draco Malfoy was still impossible to love, but the child inside of you wasn’t.

After thoughts/headcanon continuation 

TAGLIST: @bbeauttyybbx @pipppaaaaalouisee @theslytherinprincessworld @fangirl-3d2y @tttyrus @scriptingslytherin @justmimithings @purpleskymalfoy @minigigglybabi @505weasleys @secretaccshh @obbrssession @whatwoulddracodo @thatoneniceslytherin @thehumanistsdiary @mariah-can-dream @futureofanthropology @ccabian @tobarmaidswhodontcount @dray-cookies  @xuckduck @dreamyginny @dracofeltonmalfoy @lord-byron @inglourious-imagines @audreythehufflepuff @beiahadid @moonlightorbit @imonlyherecauseimbored @dracosgoodgirl @dreaming-about-fanfictions @goldensatine @avengers-end-me @sad-bitch-h0ur @zhangyixingxing1 @yourenotafailureoverall @pastelpuffbar @miso-tang @pixiedustsupplyco @harry-and-draco-loves @tsukibaby @dracoswhore007 @hogwartslut @mischiefisbeingmanaged @raylovessarcasm @drxcomvlfx @dracosballs @standingandstaring @its-chickenwing-450 @iamproudtobeaslytherin @mischiefisbeingmanaged @pxroxide-prinxcesss @slytherinxraven @jinnbie @lunalovegoodsgirlfriend @Utzelh8 @gloryekaterina @capkatie @jquick-18 @imcedricdiggorys @osterfieldnholland @explxsion @big-galaxy-chaos @malfoycrave @softlyqoos @krazykendraisnotinsane @minsuuwu @lumlfy @mllzhxrrs44 @weasleyis0urking @slytherinwh0re @gwlvr @m3ssytrash @aubreyanna02 @akaaaaashiiii @carrobrumbrum @dracoswift @bitchybeatle @samnblack @dumspirospero-1​ @dracomalfoyswifeee​ @fuckingdraco @myshaahmad77 @you-sunshine @little_me204 @lipstickandloveletters @pillowjj @meipotter​

[peterbabytt]

StarkerFestivals // Summer Bingo // Royal AU

synopsis: prince peter parker, 19, is set to marry princess morgan stark, 17, in an arranged marriage... it's not his fault her father is so devilishly handsome...

words: 1,525

warnings: light swearing

!!everyone featured in this fanfiction is 18+ unless specifically stated otherwise!!

i hope you enjoy 💓 feedback/constructive criticism is and always will be accepted, but hate will always be blocked

(by proceeding, you understand and accept the warnings previously provided)

    “Your Majesty,” Peter lifted his gaze to the door of the library. Michelle, a young servant in the castle, was standing in the doorway. Lifting the edge of her skirt ever so delicately, she curtsied before Peter and his mother. “Your Highness.” Peter cringed. He knew she was being respectful, polite, professional before the queen, but as the two of them? Peter insisted she use his name, as he had a distaste for the formal tone.

    “The Royal Family has arrived.” Oh, good... and here, Peter was hoping they had been run off the road on their way over. Peter glanced at his mother to gauge her reaction. Her features were soft and delicate, but he knew those eyes all too well. In her own mind, she had already debated how to cancel tonight’s dinner a thousand ways over, all with varying degrees of severity.

    “Yes, thank you, Michelle. We will join you in the foyer in a moment.” She beamed. Michelle—MJ—nodded, curtsied once more, then turned to leave the library. The moment she was out of earshot, Mary turned to her son. “It’s not like we’ve had this planned for months already. You’d think, for the sake of the kingdoms, they’d be punctual.”

    “Easy, mother…” He tried, resting a bookmark between the pages of his book before rising, stepping towards his mother, and offering his arm to her. “You’re too tense. I’m sure there’s… a decent explanation.” For their own sake, there’d better be.

    They walked at an easy pace, a pace much slower than Peter was used to, and yet, even after arriving in the foyer, the two still had to await the arrival of their royal guests. And Mary was growing even more impatient as each second dawdled on by. Peter, on the other hand, had a grin resting gently over his features. Tonight was already off to… an interesting start, and if it continued in any similar manner, he knew his mother would call off the arrangement.

    A part of the boy felt guilty for wanting this dinner to go awry, but was it really so wrong to just… not be ready? Everything seemed to be moving so quickly. He had only turned 19 a week ago, and he still felt as though he had yet to meet his own self. Sure, he had a bit of a grasp on who he thought he was, what he thought he liked, and who, for that matter… but even so, many things had changed throughout the span of a year.

    He’d met who he thought was the love of his life, even despite the fact he knew his parents would never approve. In that moment, in the desperation to just be himself, he had prepared to lose everything he’d ever known, all for a chance—not even a guarantee—simply a chance to finally know who he was. He took a leap of faith and prayed to stick the landing. But he stumbled. And that terrified him—he had been so sure of himself...

    Peter leapt from his bed, running a shaky hand through his mess of curls. He felt his skin prick with goosebumps, but from the cold or the fear, he hadn’t yet figured out. MJ was still on his bed, but she was now sitting upright, watching him with concerned eyes.

    “Are you okay?” Peter couldn’t bring himself to form an answer. His cheeks flushed with embarrassment, so he hid his face in his hands, took a moment to gather his thoughts, gather his breath… then, finally, sat back down on the edge of his bed. MJ scooted closer to the prince, resting a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Peter?” It was then that he realized he hadn’t yet answered her question.

    “I’m sorry, I… I can’t.” He trembled as he spoke, so MJ reached for the undershirt he had discarded only moments ago. He took it, but made no move to put it back on just yet.

    “Peter, look at me,” MJ’s voice was soft, soothing, unoffended. He obeyed, and the hand that rested on his shoulder moved to cup his cheek. “It’s okay. This is a big step. We don’t have to do this tonight.”

    “It’s not that…” The words tasted bitter on his tongue, and it took all the strength in his body not to vomit.

    “You can tell me, sweetheart… what is it?” The look in her eyes showed nothing but sympathy, nothing but love… how had he let himself get this far? If he had known from the beginning, he shouldn’t have brought her to his bedroom… shouldn’t have promised her something he could never give her… was it selfish?

    “I love you, I do, just… not the way I thought I did.” The instant the words fell from his mouth, he wanted to reel them all back in, to ignore everything his mind was begging him to do—set everything aside and just give in. But he couldn’t bear the idea of lying to his best friend. To himself, he could live with… but MJ deserved so much better. “I’m sorry, that sounded… harsh.”

    “It did, yea,” her tone was playful, but the smile never met her eyes. She was hurting, but she would never admit it.

    “You deserve so much better than this…”

    “Peter, there’s nobody else I want… I want you. I want to be with you. I want to make this work, and I know it’ll be hard, but I want to do whatever we can to make this work.” He tried to ignore the tears welling up in his eyes.

    “I can’t lie to you, too.” A thick silence fell between them. “I’m sorry. I shouldn���t have let it come this far.”

    “Peter, whatever you’re trying to get at, I’m not understanding.”

    “I’m—”

    “Her Majesty and His Royal Highness,” An unfamiliar voice drew Peter from his thoughts, and he had to force his eyes to focus. He hadn’t even noticed the gates had opened and the royals had been led inside. He glanced briefly at his mother to ensure she hadn’t noticed his trance, then adjusted his posture before—oh… holy shit…

    The king that stood before him was easily not the king he had imagined. He pictured the man to be far less… sweet heavens and all things holy, was there even a word to describe this man other than purely beautiful?

    He wore a deep blue suit that had been tailored oh-so perfectly for his frame, and his hair had been styled in a delicate wave. He begged himself not to reach out and card his fingers through it—it’d be a shame, afterall, to disturb such beauty. His beard was expertly shaped, sharp and clear edges defining his even sharper jawline. Peter couldn’t help but imagine how that very beard would feel between—

    “I present His Majesty, King Stark—” The queen extended her hand, and he accepted it in his own, raising it gently to his lips for a kiss. Peter was enthralled—hypnotized by their curvature.

    “It is indeed a pleasure to meet you, King Stark,” his mother spoke, and Peter nearly bounced on the balls of his feet, eager to hear the king’s voice.

    “The pleasure is all mine, Your Majesty,” Peter felt faint. “And please, forgive my informality, but call me Tony.” He turned to face Peter next, and he was almost certain, this time, that he would faint. He’d have absolutely no shame in it, either.

    Tony, with a smile, extended his own hand to Peter, and it took every fibre in his being to keep his own from trembling as their palms connected. God, even his hands were sexy. Rough skin, calloused fingers, a warm embrace. Had he died? Was this Heaven?

    “—and Her Royal Highness, Princess Morgan.” A beautiful, beautiful young woman with features to match her father’s. She wore a lovely black dress with a slight v in its neck, and her hair hung in delicate curls by her shoulders. Peter could easily admit that she was, indeed, effortlessly gorgeous. He only wished he could hold some sort of attraction to her rather than to her father…

    It was customary that both families dine together before a decision on an arranged marriage was made, and Peter thought he would never again be so thankful for customs or traditions in his life, for this particular custom meant his assigned seat at the dinner table was right beside Sir Stark himself. The idea of it, at least to Peter’s own understanding, was that the prince would dine beside the opposing king so the two could get to know one another and bond before the father of the princess could make a decision on the marriage. And then, of course, the same way around for the princess and the opposing queen. Then again, of course, this could also just be a blessing in Peter’s favor.

     It wasn’t until Peter felt a knee bump into his own underneath the table that he realized this was definitely a blessing in his favor. Now, of course, it could have been an accident, so, naturally, he brushed it off as one… the first time.

~~~~~

tags: @longlivestarker @starkeristheendgame @katzenbaby1 @starkerbee​

i had more i wanted to do with this one, but i couldn't find an ending that satisfied me lol i might do more with this later, i'll probably work on it a bit more, and repost later, but for now, here's this 💕

happy pride month 💓

[thatfanficstuff]

The Light in my Darkness - 7

Pairing: Clint Barton x Reader

Warnings: language (duh), unexpected smut, not naked smut but still...18+ only please.

A/N: Holy hell. Hello unexpected chapter. Sorry it was delayed but it’s worth it. and nearly 2800 words so enjoy!

***

When Scott pulled up in front of the diner, you placed a hand on Clint’s arm to stop him before he got out. “You should know that this is my family in a way. They are more than a little overprotective and it kind of shifted into super mode when I quit. More because I told them my new boyfriend wanted me to focus on school which he was paying for. Just thought I should warn you.”

His lips twitched and something mischievous twinkled in his eyes. “Don’t be a creeper. Got it.”

You rolled your eyes and shoved him. He laughed as he climbed out and offered you hand. You let him help you out of the car but were surprised when he wrapped an arm around your waist to keep you close to him. As you neared the door, you planted your feet, suddenly terrified. “Maybe we should go somewhere else.”

Clint stopped and looked down at you with a furrow in his brow. After a moment, he said, “Why did you bring me here, Y/N?”

“Because you’ll love their food,” you answered with no hesitation. “And because I don’t want them thinking you’re going to lock me up in a closet or something.”

“Both are perfectly valid reasons for this visit, so relax. Besides, I’m starving so let’s go, Y/L/N.”

With that he put more pressure on your hip and pulled you along with him to the door. Once the bell announced your presence, escape was no longer an option. Curtis looked up at the sound, grinning when he saw you. The smile faded as his gaze shifted from you to Clint.

His oldest son Matt was wiping down the counter and turned to follow his dad’s glare. His own expression was soon an exact mirror of Curtis’s. You weren’t about to let them even start. “Maria, tell your men to quit scowling at my date.”

“Y/N? What are you doing here, baby?” came the woman’s familiar voice, immediately putting you at ease. When she emerged from the kitchen her smile slipped for less than half a second before it was firmly back in place. She snapped her dish towel at both men as she passed by. “Back to work, you two.”

She pulled you into a hug. “It is so good to see you.”

You laughed as you hugged her back. “You literally saw me two days ago.”

She huffed. “It’s different now. There used to be a schedule so I knew exactly how long it would be between seeing you. Now, who knows?” Her hands moved through the air in an exaggerated gesture and you shook your head. “And who’s this?” She smiled at Clint as though she hadn’t been pointedly avoiding him up until that point.

“Everyone, this is Clint. Clint this is Maria, Curtis and Matt.”

“And Josh!” came from the direction of the kitchen and your friend stuck his head out to wave.

Clint extended his hand to Maria. She took it but didn’t shake. Instead, she just held it as she looked him over. “And Clint is who exactly?”

“Seriously?” you muttered loud enough for her to shoot a frown in your direction.

“Clint is the man fortunate enough to be dating Y/N,” he said.

“Good answer,” Marie said, finally shaking his hand. She turned to you. “He’s smart and pretty.”

Your face heated and you groaned. “Thanks, Maria.”

She nodded once. “You’re welcome.”

Clint was chuckling and you elbowed him gently in the side. “You wouldn’t by any chance have any enchiladas, would you?” You couldn’t keep the hope from your voice. Maria’s enchiladas were an off-menu specialty so you never knew when they’d be available but they were your absolute favorite food on the planet.

She smiled and turned to head back to the kitchen. “Joshua, eighty-six the enchilada special. Y/N will take the rest.”

“There’s two trays here, ma,” he responded.

Maria pushed through the swinging door. “I know what I said child, don’t argue with me.”

Curtis and Matt watched for another minute before returning to their work. You shook your head and led Clint to your favorite booth. The two of you settled across from each other and you could now see the pure amusement on Clint’s face. “I see why you like them.”

You shrugged. “It started as a job. A lot of people would have only seen a rich kid rebelling against their father. They know money’s not as important family, so they gave me that.”

He leaned back in his seat and tapped a finger on the table. “Has Rumlow met them?”

You turned away from him, briefly, embarrassed by what you were about to tell him. You took a breath and turned back. “He met Curtis and Maria once when he offered them money to fire me.”

Clint’s eyes widened and he licked his lips. “I can imagine how that went over. Of course, Rumlow never was very good at reading a room.”

The corner of your mouth curled up in a grudging smile. “Curtis threatened to punch him in the mouth and Maria chased him out with a spatula.”

He laughed. “I like these people more by the minute.”

Before you could respond, Matt arrived with your food, placing a plate in front of each of you. Your mouth watered at the overfull plate. “Thank you, thank you.”

He nodded before nudging you with his hip so you’d scoot over. You frowned but slid you and your plate over. He sat beside you and stared at your date. When Clint just stared back, Matt pointed at his plate. “Go ahead and try it. I’ll wait.”

Clint’s eyes moved between me and the man next to me as he took a bite. His focus quickly shifted to the food as he hummed in pleasure. “Holy shit.”

“Right?” you asked with a grin, trying to ignore Matt.

“This might be the best thing I’ve ever eaten,” Clint continued his praises.

“How old are you exactly?” Matt asked, suddenly.

“Mattias Jones,” you snapped, which caught the attention of Curtis at the counter.

“I’m just looking out for you, sis.”

“Bullshit. You’re being an ass. It is none of your business or concern how old he is.”

He arched a brow at your tone but wasn’t about to give in so easily. “The hell it isn’t, Y/N. You just up and quit saying your new man is going to take care of everything and you expect us to just accept that?”

“Yes. That’s exactly what I expect.”

He snorted.

“That’s enough, son.” Curtis’s deep voice surprised you and you realized he had moved over to the table while you were yelling at Matt.

“I’m just saying what we’re all thinking.” Your friend’s pointed gaze turned back to you. “Does he make you call him ‘daddy’, too?”

“No. I call him sir,” you replied without missing a beat.

There was moment of suspended silence before Curtis’s deep laughter filled the room. He dropped his hand on Matt’s shoulder. “She got you, boy. Always was quick this one.”

Clint cleared his throat drawing the attention of the three of you. His gaze had darkened considerably and stayed locked on Matt. “I appreciate you looking out for Y/N. But if you insult her again, we’re going to have a problem. Is that understood?” His voice was low and rough.

Matt opened his mouth but Curtis squeezed his shoulder to silence him. “He didn’t mean any offense. These two always did poke at each other, but you’ve been heard.”

Clint shifted his eyes up to Curtis and the two exchanged a nod.

Curtis pulled Matt from the booth. “Leave these two alone,” he said as he pushed him back toward the counter. “Go refill coffee.”

“Sorry, Y/N.”

You shook your head. “He’s a grown ass man, Curtis. Not your job to apologize for him, but thanks. Have Maria divide that to go bag she’s making into three, would you?”

He nodded as he patted your shoulder and walked away.

You turned back to Clint and your food. The two of you ate in silence for a while until you broke it. “What was that, anyway?”

He glanced up in surprise. “What?”

You gestured toward Matt with your fork. “That subtle threat thing?”

Clint laughed and wiped his mouth with his napkin before leaning back to look you over. “There was nothing subtle about that conversation, sweetheart. He wants to question me, check me out, fine. But he doesn’t get to insult you again. And yes, implying you’re fucking me for money is an insult.”

You glanced around to make certain no one overheard and leaned forward. “That’s exactly what I’m doing though, isn’t it?”

In a breath his eyes turned cold and his jaw set. His tongue ran along his bottom lip. “It’s time to go.”

You started to protest and he held up a hand to cut you off. “I don’t think you want to have this conversation here. So, say goodbye and I’ll meet you at the car.” And with that, he was up and gone. Shit.

***

Clint stood beside the car with his arms crossed over his chest as he waited for you. This arrangement wasn’t exactly typical but he wouldn’t have you thinking of yourself as a whore. You’d try to pass it off as a joke, but he knew you better than that. As you came out of the diner, your steps faltered briefly when you found him waiting for you.

He sidestepped and opened the door for you. You climbed in without looking at him, though you were juggling three brown bags and were a bit distracted. As he climbed in behind you, he found you leaning forward to pass one of the bags to Scott.

“Maria’s enchiladas,” you told his driver with a grin.

“Yes! Thank you, Y/N.” Obviously Scott had been here before. With you. Irritation spiked through Clint but he shoved it down. Now wasn’t the time.

“Just drive until I tell you different,” Clint ordered before pushing the button to put the divider up between the front and the back.

You put the bags on the floor to the side before shifting in the seat so you were turned toward him. Your hands were folded together in your lap. He looked out the window as he tried to decide how to say what needed to be said without snapping at you.

“Are you angry with me?” Your voice was timid and Clint didn’t like it at all.

His head snapped back in your direction. “I think I need to clarify a few things.”

You nodded, keeping your gaze locked on your lap.

“I take care of you in exchange for your time and attention. Period. If you believe that makes you a whore, or gives other people permission to call you one, we can end this right here, because that’s not what this is.”

That got your attention. Your teeth dug into your bottom lip hard enough to bruise. He shoved aside the insane desire he had to kiss it better. That wouldn’t really help him get his point across. He shifted his weight in the seat and silently prayed his cock would behave better than it had been lately in your presence. This was important. He needed to know that you understood this.

“I know that, Clint. I really do. I just…” You sighed. “This is new for me, letting someone take care of me.” You turned and looked out the window. Clint ran his eyes over you, taking in the sudden tension in your posture. “My dad didn’t even know I existed until I was ten years old. He found out when a lawyer contacted him to tell him my mother was dead and he was my only family. He wouldn’t even admit it was a possibility until the DNA test came back, but he let me stay with him while we awaited the results.”

The more you talked the more you curled into yourself. All Clint wanted to do was reach over and pull you into his lap to comfort you. He crossed his arms over his chest again, to help him resist the urge.

You glanced back to him and gave a little smile. “He made certain I knew every time he spent money to get me something I needed. I was ten. I felt guilty as hell. Like a burden and made the decision to take care of myself as much as I could. I realize now that he was telling me so I would know he was taking care of me, but that wasn’t how I saw it at all.”

Clint clenched his teeth and a muscle in his jaw ticked. God, he hated Rumlow.

“It’s just really hard for me to wrap my mind around the fact you’re paying me to spend time with you. Something I would gladly do for free. I don’t feel like a whore, I promise. And I know you would never treat me like one or I never would have signed the contract.”

Some of the tightness in Clint’s shoulders faded with your words. “Good.”

You moved closer to him and your smile shifted to something entirely too sultry. He shifted in his seat again and swallowed past the lump in his throat. “I do think we should discuss this tension between us though, don’t you?” Your fingers trailed up his arm and his eyes followed them. His heart started to pound and his breathing grew shallow. Your hand found the side of his face and turned his head so your gazes met. “Sir.”

Lust swamped him and his mouth gaped ever so slightly. “Fuck me,” he muttered before he pulled you to him and crashed his lips into yours. God, you knew every single of his buttons and exactly how to push them. When the hell had this happened and why was he so damn thrilled that it had? His hands pushed into your hair to hold your head at the angle he desired while he fed at your mouth like a hungry man. And he was.

It had been years since he was intimate with someone he shared such an absolute attraction with. His large hands wrapped around your waist and shifted your position so you now straddled his lap. He swallowed the groan that fell from your lips. Your hands buried themselves in his hair and you tugged as you nipped at his lip. Fuck.

He shifted again so you were settled against the bulge in his pants. His cock was rock hard and begging to fill you, but Clint was still in charge and that wasn’t happening. At least not tonight. You rolled your hips and he could feel the heat of your core even through all the clothes between the two of you. Dear god. Not tonight, Clint.

The two of you made out like teenagers after prom. As you continued to roll your hips against him, you started to whimper. The sound called to the most primal part of Clint and he began to move with you, making sure his length rubbed against your clit every time the two of you met. You arched your back and let your head fall backward. His arms moved to support you while you trembled in his arms.

“Please, Clint. Oh god. So close.”

Pre-cum leaked from him with your words and he was pretty certain he was going to cum in his pants. Then it really would be like Junior prom. He increased his speed and you matched him. In a matter of moments, you were shaking as you came apart in his arms. His name coming from your lips as you did so was enough to have him following you.

His eyes near rolled back in his head as he pushed himself against you, his arms pulling you closer at the same time. Fucking hell. You collapsed against him as you struggled to catch your breath. He held you close and pressed kisses to the top of your head. His mind was trying to catch up with his dick. What the hell had just happened? He never lost control. Not like that. And he’d be surprised if this was normal for you. This connection the two of you had was amazing. And terrifying.

Clint stood on an edge he wasn’t sure of and wondered what would happen when he fell. Whatever it was, he was taking you with him.

[yvaquietdays]

idealising the past and dreaming about the future

Last week, after I made the blog public, I received some pretty beautiful messages. Most of them were from folks who had been in the exact same position as me, whether living with depression or anxiety, or simply finding it tough battling through life’s disappointments. It was incredibly comforting knowing what I believed when I wrote that last post was so resonant; we’re all going through the same bullshit.

But a friend in particular, his name is Mat. He commented publicly on my post with some words that got me thinking. Imma share this here:

If I was arrested for any crime at all it would be for idealising my past self. That and eating too many biscuits. Who I was, who I thought I was. I laughed more, I cared less, I subscribed to nobody else’s version of me. But then I got depressed and worried all the time, and I lost that part of myself. The happy-go-lucky, ball of energy, motivated, determined young woman, gone. As slow and as unnervingly noticeable as a fart. Much in the way that Mat reminisces over his “extroverted, confident ‘me’“, I reminisce heavily upon the teenage me, the one who had stars in her eyes and never wavered in her confidence of her abilities.

Except, when I really think about it, when I’m honest with myself, and I face my self in the mirror, I know that isn’t true.

All that I’ve lost, really, are my rose tinted glasses.

I grew up.

I was never motivated, I was never determined. I was lucky. I can’t reminisce about the person I was because I know more about myself now than I did before, and I think the hardest part of climbing out of the pit of your mental un-health is accepting that life goes forwards, not backwards. I can’t unlearn all the things I’ve learnt since I noticed three years ago that I wasn’t happy. The truth is, I was unhappy before that. I’ve been fighting off that frequency sadness for as long as I can remember.

So I can’t go back and rewind the clock, because all I have is now and I don’t want to be that sad girl anymore. I’ve been thinking a lot about cycles, the 7-year-life cycle in particular. Wait, though- Before you flick back to whatever you were doing before you decided to read my blog, bear with me. Aside from whatever spiritual or philosophical connotations the idea might have, let’s look at it logically for a second. The first seven years of our life we spend smelling and touching and feeling out the world around us. Any mental learning is done almost subconsciously, depending on how our world treated us. We’re well on our way to becoming a real, pubescent adult when the second cycle rolls around, by which point we’re discovering our sexuality, relationships, viewpoints and intellect. This is such a huge exploratory phase for some. Then the third arrives, and we’re beginning to find out what the world is like without our parents driving the train. We’re figuring out where we place in the grand scheme of things, and wondering how you might change, politically, environmentally, socially. And then come our twenties.

Jesus Fuck.

WHAT HAPPENED?!

I think it is no coincidence that a lot of people suffer mental illness for the first time in this particular age bracket. I envy those who don’t. They tend to be some of the most driven, strongest people I know. But my friends used to call it “the mid-twenties fear.” Out of nowhere, we’re mentally and physically culpable for all our own decisions and mistakes, and all the ideas we had for life in those first three cycles have become somewhat buried under a pile of work deadlines, rent days and bills to pay. We don’t own your own home yet, we aren’t married, we have no kids. We aren’t in the perfect job yet, we haven’t even begun the successes that were supposed to come to us after we put in so much work at our GCSE’s, A-Levels, degrees!

We’re the guy cleaning our toilets now, we’re the ones buying the food. School didn’t prepare us (not in the UK at least) for how to deal with every day responsibilities; how to pay taxes, how to arrange loans, how to mentally cope with the resounding disappointment we feel at how our lives panned out in contrast to the grand ideals we had when we were in our third cycle.

Oof. I know. Heavy man.

(I have a big problem with how out-dated our education system is; instead of being career-driven, it is goal-driven. Degrees don’t work for everyone and they evidently do not provide for a stable economy. More apprenticeships, less pressure on exams (not everyone is good at those) and more practical applications, pls & thnx)

But here’s what I’ve realised. Life is a cycle. It’s not meant to go backwards, it’s supposed to continue on its round, picking up what we’ve learned and adapting itself as it goes. Why focus on what we haven’t got when we should focus on what we do have? And if something is ever spiralling, ever changing and evolving, how can we go back to the last cycle? Should we jam an iron rod in the spokes, forcing the wheel to brake suddenly and collapse under the pressure? Because that is what would happen. That is what happened to me.

I knew at the age of 18 my life wasn’t heading in the right direction, when I stared out of my university accommodation window at York Minster in the distance, listening to Stop This Train by John Meyer. The night was dark, and I sat curled on my redundant desk chair, wondering in a pale blue light of sadness, even then. Eventually I made the change, dropping out of further education and pursuing my joy, my music. But it did not alleviate the sadness. I continued on, all the while so scared of living life on my own, so scared of growing up. I lived in fear for years of never achieving my goals because I could not bear to be alone doing it. Isolation was my motivation and fear my hinderance.

I spent years dreaming and idealising this vision of the future where I was always winning, where I was singing and performing and recording and I was writing with everyone and everyone wanted to write with me, and everything was just going to work out (claps between words required). It was easier living in this fantasy life I wanted to build, but the escape was taking me further away from reality. Much like that incredible Pixar film, Inside Out, fear and sadness was in control of my actual life.

Things were going well for a while in that frame of mind, but then they didn’t.

When all those things I’d dreamt (I stress that I never visualised them, not in a positive way- I dreamed them- the difference is as vast as an ocean) didn’t happen, I kept harking on to that past self, wondering where it all went wrong, trying to get back that ambition, the endless streams of excitement, the riveting pangs of desire. It was all a lie I told myself. Because really, all I had in the pit of my stomach was dull and and grey; it was nothing, and I could feel myself hiding in that pit, far, far away from where I used to be. All of what I told myself was a lie, and I was starting to realise the truth of it.

I think that amidst all of it, life was telling me (whatever it was; nature, God, Buddha’s mates,) I ought not to hyper-admire my old self. Because in trying to become my past self, I was ignoring what I could become in the future. All of the little lies I told myself started to evolve on their own like that black icky shit from Prometheus (don’t watch it- it’s disappointing, just like your life), to the point that I forgot what I had done to protect myself; when all of those things I had lied with were stripped from me, I was naked and bare, and I had no idea of how I was going to move through the murk of it all. My self esteem was so low that the idea of performing made me anxious, writing made me cry, I sat in silence at the piano with a choke in my throat and my guitar lay in its case gathering dust.

But I was naked for a reason. I had to accept that I was relying heavily upon this idea of my self, not upon what I was. I was constantly seeking others’ approval, my only source of validation was what I thought others thought of me.

It has been empowering to know that the answer has been in me all along. I cannot blame others for how I view myself.

Life is a cycle. I am where I am supposed to be now. It’s not perfect, I’m still working on me and creating my life with my own hands, not someone else’s. I’m not quite there yet, but I’m trying.

But maybe this is my best self, because I’m so much more aware and emotionally awake. Maybe I’m the best I can be because I recognised my laziness and arrogance when I needed to, and in stripping these things away from my ego I am looking forward to being a better person, not the young complacent girl I was. And as a woman, cycles rule our lives. From the second cycle to the latter, our emotions and physiology is run by a monthly turn of events. Part of the reason I came off the pill was so that I could feel and trust this more purely. I was neglecting my basic instincts and self and I couldn’t have jacked up hormones hiding it away from me.

So everything comes and goes. The old girl goes and the new woman arrives. We have a chance to change every time. All aspects of life in this world run in a cycle. Water, fire, earth. It all moves and works in a cycle. Ice ages, the rising of dough into a beautiful donut, the melting of butter atop a mountain of cheese and jacket potato. Life and death. All the important stuff.

So I let the death of my old self instigate the birth of a better me. And one day I might shed this skin too and look forward to the next husk I inhabit.

What I’m learning is that nostalgia can be good, if you’re with your mates and remembering that time you threw up down the side of George Ezra’s tour van (true story).

But if we start becoming nostalgic about our selves, thinking of our current self in a negative way, dousing it in low light and bad reflective gear, and instead highlighting that past self with the glory light of hindsight, we can’t, and I believe, we won’t move forward.

We have to accept ourselves as we are now, and then build whatever we can upon the foundations that we create every second we’re alive. Because all we have are our own decisions, that ultimately we are in control of. How we respond, how we act, what we say; at the end of the day, that’s who we are. What you did today, that’s who you are, good or bad. No-one is perfect and life is a cycle. We always have tomorrow to try again.

We don’t have yesterday, so

[junker-town]

NFL Dad, Week 16: Pay it forward

On Christmas, SB Nation’s RedZone diarist looks back on a season of football and parenting

Christmas is difficult, even if you like it. As the days grow shorter, the responsibilities mount. You need to buy more gifts than is financially responsible. Buy and decorate a tree. Purchase and send Christmas cards. Arrange travel during the most difficult season to travel. And if you’re a parent, there’s a whole other slew of things to be bought and baked and dropped off at school.

Perhaps you are the kind of person who buys gifts throughout the year, then labels and stores them in a logical place. Maybe you can come home after a long day of work and crank out 30 Christmas cards while listening to Bing Crosby. I am not that person. I abuse my Amazon Prime membership to get gifts delivered in time, and I still end up shopping on Christmas Eve, which is also when I wrap gifts. The holiday cards we send — kids smiling, bullet points about the family — inevitably get mailed in the days after Christmas. (They say “Happy New Year” for a reason.)

On Friday, my grandmother had a massive aneurysm near her heart. She survived surgery but lost a kidney; the doctors said that similar conditions are fatal 90% of the time, and of the 10% who survive, 90% never leave the hospital again.

And of course I hadn’t sent her card yet. I dashed off an attempt to be positive, commending her toughness through the ordeal, which wasn’t over. I dropped it in the mail, and she died 12 hours later.

She never met my kids, but that didn’t stop her from lavishing them with gifts on their birthdays and Christmas. I called infrequently and visited less. And because of who I am, a bullshit deadline artist who can’t work ahead of schedule, a nice old lady didn’t get to see a couple more pictures of her great-grandchildren before she died.

I woke up to the news on Christmas Eve morning. My wife asked if I needed a few minutes. “I think so?” I said, and she went to get the kids up. But they were attuned to my absence. My son caught a glimpse of me in the doorway, and he ran to me yelling, “DADDY! DADDY!” with my daughter in hot pursuit. I gathered them in my arms and told them that I loved them, and if they didn’t see my tears, it’s only because they don’t yet understand that I’m fallible, flawed.

I wept because I can never repay the love I’ve gotten. I wept because I can only pay it forward.

In lieu of play-by-play of Week 16 RedZone action, this week’s NFL Dad is a retrospective on the season so far.

Week 1: Tony Romo’s announcing debut

Football: Tony Romo in the announcing booth is “like breathing pure oxygen after YEARS of Phil Simms leaking carbon monoxide into my home.” Elsewhere, Tom Savage gets mauled by the Jags for six sacks in the first half, and Bill O’Brien accidentally discovers that Deshaun Watson is his franchise quarterback.

Parenting:

Quick story from the kids’ birthday party. One of the dads there had a thick orange cast on his hand. He was a bookish guy: slim, glasses, graying hair and gray beard neatly trimmed — a Brooklyn Dad like many other Brooklyn Dads. One of the other dads gestured to his cast and said, “What happened?”

He sighed. “I smashed it pretty bad at Burning Man.” A long pause, and none of us interrupted it. He added: “... as one does.”

Week 2: Sick kids and dog vomit

Football:

In Pittsburgh, Sam Bradford is a late scratch due to his knee rejecting last week’s touchdown implant. Case Keenum will start, and if I had a bookie I would put my salary on the Steelers today.

Parenting:

My daughter broke her clavicle last week. It’s a common injury for young children, not just Tony Romo. She fell out of a chair a few minutes before we had to leave for her second day of preschool, and I didn’t think it was a serious injury at the time. “We have to go! Can’t miss the second day of school!” was my thinking. I should be an NFL team doctor.

So she’s in a sling for Week 2 of the NFL season (and for the next four weeks) while my son happily toddles around the house. Just kidding! My son is battling a 102-degree fever and an ear infection. Ha HA! Let’s watch some football!

Week 3: Protests, Naps, and Guacamole

Football: The 0-2 Saints start doing wild stuff like playing defense in their win over the Panthers; the insane ending to first half of Steelers-Bears deserves revisiting; Deshaun Watson’s brilliance isn’t enough to overcome the Pats in New England; the Eagles need a 61-yard field goal at the end of the game to beat the Giants.

Parenting:

My son’s other obsession tonight — besides smashing his face into the couch — is the hokey-pokey. He’s no good at putting his hand in and shaking it all about, but he DOMINATES at turning around. He spins around in circles until he careens left and crashes into the credenza. He thinks it’s hilarious. He is correct.

Week 4: Disney Princesses are a scourge

Football: Antonio Brown gets angry and flips a Gatorade cooler; the Dolphins get shut out in London while Jay Cutler’s no-effort Wildcat play goes viral; Dalvin Cook’s season ends with an ACL tear; the Jets beat the Jaguars in overtime; the Bucs defense is so bad that Eli Manning scores on a 14-yard scramble.

Parenting:

With the exception of Moana and maybe Frozen, the rest of the Disney princesses are a scourge on parenthood. The Disney Princess Industrial Complex essentially operates like the anti-vaccine movement. No matter how many parents want to raise their daughters to be action-oriented, independent problem solvers, there’s always a nanny or a grandmother who’s pushing Sleeping Beauty or Snow White (which are the SAME DAMN STORY), and that shit spreads like the plague.

And regardless of your feelings on feminism, the message isn’t a great one to send your kids. “Got a problem? Just go to sleep and someone will take care of it.” That only works if your dad owns an NFL team.

Week 5: Apple picking season

Football: Myles Garrett gets a sack on his first NFL snap; the Browns finally get their first lead of the season (it doesn’t last); Ben Roethlisberger throws five INTs, including consecutive pick-sixes, in a blowout to the visiting Jags; Odell Beckham suffers a season-ending injury; HOOOOO-WEEEEE look at this Cassel-Cutler shootout at the half.

Matt Ufford

Parenting:

My son is up from his nap. He sleepily staggers over and throws his arms around me in a big hug. I know that doesn’t really pop off the screen as anything special, but trust me when I say my brain is FLOODED with dopamine from his carefree smile and chubby arms.

This is the bone that human biology throws to parents. “Oh, is every day with a young child the hardest thing you’ve ever experienced? FINE, bathe in the warmth of infinite love.” And all of us stupid parents are like, “Oh, yeah, that’s good. This is worth surrendering my house to childproofing measures and chiming plastic bullshit.”

Week 6: Daughter’s birthday party; Aaron Rodgers injured

Football:

The Falcons were 11.5-point favorites at home, and they lost to Jay Cutler. Gonna have to fumigate the whole stadium after that one.

Parenting:

My daughter runs into the room wearing a pink cape. She eats a tortilla chip that my son discarded on the couch. “I’m a superhero!” she says.

“What’s your superhero name?” I ask.

“HMMMMM.” She has obviously not done the groundwork on her origin story.

“Are you the Pink Crusader?”

“Yeah!” She runs out of the room, then runs back in. “I’m a superhero!”

“What’s your superhero name?” I ask again.

She yells, “The Pink Crusader!” Again, she runs out of the room.

She runs back in and stops in front of me. She casually leans an arm on the couch and says, “I’m the Pink Crusader.”

Week 7: Pumpkin flavored everything

Football:

The Bears earned zero first downs in the second half and became the first NFL team to win with fewer than five completed passes since ... the last time John Fox coached in the NFL. I’d rather have a block of cement coach my team.

Also, Joe Thomas tears his triceps :(

Parenting:

My sister had kids years before I did, and I was the typical ignorant drunk uncle when it came to her devotion to the kids’ naps and schedule. “What’s with the schedule? Why can’t the kids just power through this one time?” Because the schedule is GOD, man! The schedule is all powerful. It is the weather; it is the earth beneath your feet. Reject it and your life will be untethered from reality, a nonstop maelstrom of tears and tantrums.

Week 8: Halloween is my daughter’s Super Bowl

Football:

The Texans-Seahawks barnburner owns the late afternoon games. And while Deshaun Watson and Russell Wilson will rightly be remembered as the stars of the game, I’d like to point out that at one point Pete Carroll challenged a Wilson incomplete pass, claiming it was a fumble. The challenge was successful, and the fumble forward was good for a first down. That game was WILD.

Parenting:

MIRACLE: Both of my kids are eating their dinner without complaint or hesitation. They ignore the TV to pay attention to the Halloween book my wife is reading. Years from now, when their grade school teacher praises their attention spans, I’m gonna get up in the middle of the parent-teacher conference and do Mick Jagger’s rooster strut.

Week 9: Daylight Savings and Football Fights

Football: Julio Jones drops a wide-open touchdown in the end zone on 4th down; Tyreke Hill scores on an end-of-half Hail Mary that was 40-plus yards short of the end zone (the Alex Smith special); A.J. Green and Jaelen Ramsey are both ejected after Ramsey provokes the normally calm Green into an MMA takedown.

Parenting:

I want to make it clear that when your 18-month-old child usually naps for 2-3 hours in the afternoon, then circumvents that with a 25-minute doze before noon, you don’t just have an awake kid instead of a sleeping kid. You have a walking tire fire instead of two hours of silence. I will run for office and/or lead a revolution to eliminate seasonal clock changes.

Also, this memory would be lost forever if not for this dumb column:

[My daughter] brings over a small bowl of cashews, climbs onto the couch, and sits next to me. I say, “Oh, you brought me cashews!” as I take one, because Stock Dad is the role I was born to play. But then she feeds me a cashew, so I feed her one. And we go on that way until the bowl is empty. There’s football on TV, I guess.

Week 10: Poop. Poop everywhere.

Football: In the fantasy crime of the year, the Saints score six touchdowns on the ground while Drew Brees throws for none; rampant stupidity at the end of Chargers-Jaguars leads to overtime; John Fox challenges his team having 1st and goal at the 2, resulting in a Bears turnover. Coaching Move of the Year.

Parenting:

It’s weird the different stages kids can be at despite being similar sizes. My daughter, at age 3, is capable of having a conversation and expressing her feelings with words. My son, 18 months, understands everything we say, but is less a human than an organic chaos engine. The kid does forward-facing trust falls off stairs.

Week 11: National Interception Day

Football: Jay Cutler throws three interceptions in the first half, Alex Smith throws two against the Giants (including one on a shovel pass), Shane Vereen and Travis Kelce both throw picks on trick plays, and Nathan Peterman tosses FIVE on 14 passing attempts in a single half against the Chargers. Also, this Brock Osweiler interception is my favorite play of the year:

PICK-6-OHHH NO! Dre Kirkpatrick nearly has a 101-yard PICK-6... But fumbles inside the 5. Wow. #CINvsDEN http://pic.twitter.com/zUyPI5Q0xZ

— NFL (@NFL) November 19, 2017

Parenting:

My daughter is 3 years old and has still never seen Moana (or any movie), but frequent exposure to the soundtrack and a couple of plot points — “Moana has to save her people” — gives my daughter enough information to guide her body language, and we can see it in the way she play-acts.

When she’s Cinderella, I have to pretend to put a gown on her, and we dance together at the ball. When she’s Rapunzel, she flips her hair around; Ariel, and she holds up a scarf as a bikini. But when she’s Moana, she throws her shoulders back, struts with purpose, and thrusts her fist into the air — something she’d only previously done when saying, “I’m Batman!”

Week 12: Things fall apart

Football: Alex Smith implodes (again); Julio Jones destroys the Bucs; Broncos-Raiders is barely underway before the main event, Crabtree-Talib II: The Re-Snatchening.

Parenting:

I’m familiar with the schools of thought that say you shouldn’t incentivize potty training, and that’s how we started off, too. Then my daughter started holding in poops for several days before struggling to crank out the hardened rock in her butt, and we implemented a multi-tiered system of bribes that would put FIFA to shame.

Week 13: Christmas season!

Football: Tom Brady yells at Josh McDaniels; Eli Manning’s ironman streak is snapped by McAdoo-induced self-benching; the Jets-Chiefs shootout ends in Marcus Peters throwing a referee’s flag into the stands.

Parenting:

The kids play Ring Around the Rosie, and at the end of the song, only my daughter falls down. She looks at me from her back. “I just scored a touchdown.”

“Oh yeah?” I ask.

“I’m the Seahawks!”

My wife cuts in. “If you were the Seahawks, you wouldn’t get in the end zone so easily.” HARSH, WOMAN.

Week 14: SNOWBALL!

Football: LeSean McCoy carries the Bills to an overtime win over the Colts in a blizzard; Cam Newton single-handedly defeats the Vikings; the Browns choke away a two-touchdown lead against Brett Hundley’s Packers to keep their winless record intact; the Eagles-Rams heavyweight bout lives up to its billing, but Carson Wentz is lost to a torn ACL.

Parenting:

Before I had kids, diapers were the thing I feared most about parenthood. Which is stupid, because the thing you end up fearing most in the entire world is your own mortality. Diapers are fine.

That said, I just changed a diaper filled with the scent of death and campaign promises.

Week 15: Get used to disappointment

Football: Aaron Rodgers returns to save the Packers’ season, but the Panthers win to kill their dreams; Nick Foles coolly throws four touchdowns in his first start in relief of Wentz; catch rule shenanigans continue, with the ending of Patriots-Steelers the most pear-shaped; Teddy Bridgewater retakes the field to throw an interception.

Parenting:

Two- and 3-year-old kids have moods like the weather: Sometimes a thunderstorm hits, and there’s not much you can do but hole up and wait for it to pass. Eventually, the sun breaks through like nothing happened. As a parent, you feel your child owes you an explanation or apology for the 30 minutes you just lost, but you’ll get none. The weather has changed. You may as well shout at the sky, demand an explanation from the passing clouds.

Merry Christmas, everyone. Thank you for dealing with me and my kids this season. NFL Dad will be back with an especially loaded Week 17 edition next week.