#patience and persistence through chess

[succulentsiren]

CHARACTERISTICS OF A WINNERS MINDSET

The Siren archetype is the perfect example of utilizing a Winners Mindset and believing that "Everything I Touch Turns To Gold."

No matter what the Siren moves with the mindset of {I've already won}. The Siren doesn't rush nor compare themselves self to others. They are in a relaxed and steady lane of their own.

Read the Siren Poem.

Characteristics:

1. An Abundant Mindset

Having an abundance mindset is being able to see the world through eyes of abundance. Majority of people move through the chaos of the world with a defeated attitude but the Winner glides through life seeing opportunity in all things. Unfortunate events are bound to happen but the Winner stays positive regardless of these temporary circumstances. They are able to see themselves winning before it even happens.

These are the types of people that could be going through the worst experience of their life but remain relaxed and carefree. Others are often complexed at how unbothered they are. But as mentioned above, the Winner knows they've ALREADY WON. They continue to celebrate life and don't take a moment for granted.

2. Capability

Winners know that they are capable of manifesting their desired results. They visualize their goal and take consistent action to get there.

When manifesting they speak, think and move as if they already have their desired result. Instead of thinking how they're going to get there, they think from the end because they are certain of their success.

3. A Worthy Attitude.

Winners Know Their Worth.

Instead of running from the spotlight and shrinking, Winners allow themselves to be seen.

They feel fear, but act anyways.

Instead of letting guilt get in the way, Winners are opening to receiving gifts, rewards and praise.

They have mastered the Art of Receiving.

Instead of begging and pleading for results, Winners make commands.

Ex: DON'T SAY "Please let me get approved to have this car. I hope it works"

SAY "I'm so grateful that this is my car."

DON'T SAY "I can't." "It's Hard."

SAY "It's too easy!" "I have what it takes."

Don't engage in negative talk. If you think and speak negatively that's what will manifest in your life. When you speak in abundance and opportunity that's what will manifest into your life.

Winners have a heightened sense of confidence and have activated their IT Factor.

4. Speak Highly to Self and of Self.

The tongue holds power and your words are the spells you cast.

Many people are too reckless in their word choices and use their craft to hurt themselves. This careless behavior brings more unfortune into their lives. The Winner however, never uses their power of spell-casting to hurt themselves.

Winners use their power to uplift their spirits and create their dream reality. They give themselves compliments and are good at receiving them as well. They can motivate themselves to achieve goals or get themselves out of a rot. They don't make self deprecating remarks. They know that their faults are also their strengths.

5. Make Plans and Be Disciplined.

Chess not checkers.

Achieving things in life requires patience, persistence and effort. Winners create schedules and plans and stay true to the commitment. This allows them to build self respect and character.

Advice:

Instead of doing everything all at once, set aside time each day, even if it's 10 minutes, to put effort towards your goals. No more no less.

When you're filled with doubt do not let that get in the way of getting to your goal. Train yourself to put your emotions aside for awhile and focus. Remind yourself that you are indeed capable and the perfect person to make your dreams happen.

6. Calm and Assured.

Winners have low anxiety because they are able to control it with a assured and calm outlook. There's is no need for them to rush, panic, worry or compete with others. Instead of thinking of the worst scenario think of the best outcome that can occur.

[chesstrainer24]

Why Online Chess Training is Perfect for Kids & Young Learners

In today’s fast-paced digital age, parents are constantly looking for meaningful and enriching ways to engage their children. While video games and social media may dominate screen time, there’s a growing trend that’s not only fun but also incredibly educational-online chess training for kids.

Whether your child is a complete beginner or already showing sparks of strategy, chess coaching for young learners has emerged as a powerful tool for building critical life skills. From improving concentration to enhancing problem-solving abilities, the game of kings is now transforming the minds of young players across the globe-and it’s all happening from the comfort of their homes.

With expert guidance from professionals like FIDE Instructor Dhanesh Shrikhande, many children are experiencing how virtual chess classes for beginners can lay the foundation for lifelong success. So, let’s explore why online chess training for kids is more than just a trend-it’s a smart investment in your child’s future.

The Rise of Online Chess Training for Kids

Thanks to technology, the world of chess is no longer confined to traditional clubs or expensive coaching centers. Online chess training for kids is accessible, flexible, and incredibly effective. Today’s platforms offer fun and interactive chess lessons designed specifically to keep children engaged, entertained, and constantly learning. Moreover, with platforms now offering affordable online chess training for young learners, families across different regions can provide quality chess education to their kids without financial strain.

1. Why Chess Coaching for Young Learners Matters

There’s a common misconception that chess is too complex for children. But research says otherwise. In fact, chess coaching for young learners helps build a structured approach to thinking-something that benefits them far beyond the 64 squares.

Here’s how it helps:

Develops patience and persistence

Enhances cognitive flexibility

Improves academic performance

Strengthens memory and retention

With coaches like FIDE Instructor Dhanesh Shrikhande, kids don’t just learn the game-they absorb its underlying philosophies that shape sharp thinkers and strategic decision-makers.

2. Benefits of Chess for Children: More Than Just a Game

The benefits of chess for children go far beyond knowing how to checkmate an opponent. Studies have shown that children who play chess regularly demonstrate:

Stronger math and reading skills

Better problem-solving capabilities

Higher levels of concentration and discipline

3. Virtual Chess Classes for Beginners: Learning Made Easy

One of the biggest advantages of virtual chess classes for beginners is the ease of learning at one’s own pace. Children can:

Re-watch recorded lessons

Practice with AI-powered tools

Engage in real-time matches with peers

Receive instant feedback from coaches

This format ensures that no child is left behind and every student gets personalized attention-especially when guided by experts like FIDE Instructor Dhanesh Shrikhande.

4. Chess and Brain Development in Young Learners

Chess is like a gym for the brain. Regular participation in online chess training for kids can significantly improve brain function. Some neuroscience-backed benefits include:

Enhanced spatial reasoning

Improved memory retention

Better planning and foresight

Strengthened analytical thinking

Yes, chess and brain development go hand-in-hand and starting young amplifies these effects.

5. How Chess Improves Critical Thinking in Kids

Every move in chess requires evaluation, planning, and strategy. Through chess coaching for young learners, children develop the ability to:

Anticipate consequences

Think several steps ahead

Analyze multiple possibilities

Make logical decisions under pressure

This is why how chess improves critical thinking in kids is a key topic discussed in educational psychology today.

Continue Reading: https://chesstrainer.com/why-online-chess-training-is-perfect-for-kids-young-learners/

[pooma-today]

Chess also promotes critical thinking and problem-solving skills, requiring players to anticipate their opponent’s moves, think several steps ahead, and adjust strategies accordingly. Incorporating chess into the curriculum provides students with structured opportunities to develop these skills, preparing them for academic challenges and equipping them with valuable life skills. In an age of instant gratification, chess teaches patience and persistence. Games can last hours, requiring sustained focus and long-term planning. Learning to stay committed to a task despite challenges is an invaluable lesson that fosters determination and resilience in students’ academic pursuits.

Additionally, chess is a universal game that transcends language, culture, and socio-economic barriers, promoting inclusivity and cross-cultural understanding. World Chess Day highlights chess's ability to unite people from diverse backgrounds. In educational settings, chess fosters mutual respect and understanding through cultural exchange. Chess also builds social and emotional skills, teaching players to handle victory and defeat gracefully. Through chess, students develop empathy, self-control, and emotional management, crucial for personal development and success in collaborative environments.

Numerous studies link chess to academic achievement. For instance, a study in New York found that students participating in a chess program showed improved reading scores compared to non-chess-playing peers. The analytical skills developed through chess enhance comprehension and critical analysis, leading to better academic performance across subjects. Furthermore, chess makes learning fun. Its competitive nature and strategic thrill engage students who might otherwise be disinterested in traditional educational activities, fostering a love for learning through dynamic chess clubs, tournaments, and classroom activities.

World Chess Day celebrates more than just a game; it recognizes chess's profound educational benefits. By integrating chess into educational systems worldwide, we can enhance cognitive development, promote critical thinking, and provide students with valuable life skills. This ancient game has the power to shape young minds and build a brighter future through education.

[aniv-blogs]

The Fundamental Importance of Beginner Level Chess Training

Embarking on a journey into the world of chess as a beginner may seem daunting, but it is during this foundational stage that the seeds of future mastery are sown. Beginner level chess training holds immense importance in laying the groundwork for understanding the game's intricacies, fostering a love for strategic thinking, and nurturing essential skills that will benefit players at every level of expertise.

First and foremost, beginner level chess training introduces novices to the fundamental principles and rules of the game. Understanding concepts such as piece movement, capturing, check, checkmate, and stalemate lays the groundwork for more advanced strategies and tactics. Through guided instruction and practice, beginners develop a solid grasp of these basics, providing them with a strong foundation upon which to build their chess proficiency.

Moreover, beginner level training cultivates critical thinking skills essential for success both on and off the chessboard. Chess requires players to analyze positions, evaluate potential moves, and anticipate their opponent's responses—all of which stimulate cognitive processes such as problem-solving, pattern recognition, and decision-making. By engaging in beginner level training exercises and games, players develop these cognitive skills, enhancing their ability to think strategically and make sound decisions in various contexts beyond the chessboard.

Additionally, beginner level training instills a sense of discipline, patience, and perseverance in players. Chess is a game that rewards dedication and commitment, as progress often comes through consistent practice and continuous learning. Through structured training programs and guidance from experienced coaches, beginners learn the value of persistence and resilience in the face of challenges. Whether grappling with difficult concepts or facing setbacks in games, beginners develop the mental fortitude to overcome obstacles and continue improving their skills over time.

Furthermore, beginner level chess training fosters a spirit of curiosity, exploration, and creativity. As novices delve into the intricacies of the game, they encounter a vast array of strategic possibilities, tactics, and maneuvers waiting to be discovered. Through experimentation and analysis, beginners learn to explore different ideas, test hypotheses, and uncover hidden nuances within the game. This spirit of discovery not only makes the learning process engaging and enjoyable but also encourages players to develop their unique playing styles and approaches to the game.

Moreover, beginner level training provides a supportive and nurturing environment for players to learn and grow. Chess academies, clubs, and online communities offer opportunities for beginners to connect with fellow enthusiasts, share experiences, and seek guidance from more experienced players. This sense of camaraderie and mentorship fosters a positive learning environment where beginners feel encouraged to ask questions, seek feedback, and receive constructive criticism—all of which are essential for continuous improvement.

In conclusion, beginner level chess training plays a vital role in laying the groundwork for success in the game. From mastering the basics and developing critical thinking skills to fostering resilience and creativity, the lessons learned during this foundational stage set the stage for future growth and mastery. By embracing the challenges and opportunities presented by beginner level training, novices can embark on a fulfilling journey of exploration, discovery, and growth in the fascinating world of chess.

[balbharatimanesar]

CHESS CHAMPIONSHIP

A school can be best defined in the words of Lon Watters, “School is a building which has four walls with tomorrow inside.” Bal Bharati Public School is considered as one of the best schools in Manesar with a nominal fee and best sports facilities that ensures overall development of the child. While we understand the importance of education, we also believe in letting the children explore the sports that excite them. As sports play an important role in a child’s growth. Sports not only keep the students physically fit but also ensure their mental wellbeing. Participation in sports activities keeps the students active, develops various skills, provides experience and develops confidence in them. Bal Bharati Public School is one of the best schools in Manesar which provides excellent sports facilities . Along with other games, Bal Bharati Public School Manesar also provides great opportunities in Chess. Chess, an international sport, is enjoyed by students all over the world, in both competitive and non-competitive environments. From the early age all the way through senior years, chess offers more opportunities for those who are interested in learning and excelling. The game serves as a tool to unify our ever-increasing diverse population. Chess is a game of not only intellect but of bouncing back after losses, practice, discipline and persistence. This statement has proved true for our students Atharv Singh of class III and Vairaj of IV. Atharv secured the first position in Gurgaon District Chess Championship under-7 category and Vairaj secured the second position under-11 category held in Gurgaon on 15th and 16th April, 2023. Chess is a game that requires strategic thinking, problem-solving skills and mental ability. It not only enhances critical thinking but also improves concentration, decision-making abilities and patience. At Bal Bharati, we recognize the numerous benefits of chess and its impact on the overall development of our students. The chess coaches guide and mentor the participants, teaching them various strategies, tactics and principles of the game. They also provide personalized guidance, ensuring that each student understands and improves their skills which makes Bal Bharati as the best private school in Manesar. Participating g in the chess championships not only allow the students of Bal Bharati Public School, Manesar to test their skills but also helps in building their self-confidence. They learn to manage pressure, make decisions under time constraints and handle both victory and defeat gracefully which helps in their holistic development and makes Bal Bharati Public School,Manesar as the best CBSE school in Manesar Through the championship,our students develop a sense of resilience and perseverance, qualities that are invaluable in all aspects of life and which would help them in future. Students practice Chess regularly that aids in improving their self-confidence; chess has a brand that is equated with intelligence. Students learn the importance of planning and how to strategize things, which is also applicable to the real life. The students get the practice sessions under the guidance of the coaches in their zero periods regularly. With this our school has become the best school with sports facilities in Manesar. Once Benjamin Franklin stated that the chess player … “will learn not to be too much discouraged by the present success of his adversary, nor to despair of final good fortune upon every little check he receives in the pursuit of it.”

[shopbefikar01]

Mastering Mind Challenges: Exploring the World of Puzzles and Board Games

In today's fast-paced digital world, where screens and devices dominate our attention, there's a quiet renaissance happening. A rekindling of sorts that harks back to a time when evenings were spent gathered around a table, engrossed in the tactile pleasure of puzzles and board games. In this article, we delve into the captivating realm of puzzles and board games, uncovering the cognitive benefits they offer, the joy they bring, and how you can embark on this journey with Shop Befikar.

The Allure of Puzzles and Board Games

Puzzles and board games have an ageless charm that transcends generations. They offer an escape from the digital noise, inviting us to immerse ourselves in a different kind of challenge. Whether it's solving a complex jigsaw puzzle or strategizing moves in a board game, these activities engage our minds and provide a unique form of entertainment that fosters bonding and camaraderie.

Cognitive Benefits of Puzzles and Board Games

Engaging in puzzles and board games isn't just a pastime; it's a workout for the brain. Researchers have found numerous cognitive benefits associated with these activities. As you solve puzzles or navigate the twists and turns of a board game, you're enhancing various cognitive skills, such as:

Problem-Solving: Puzzles and board games present a series of challenges that require you to think critically and find innovative solutions. These activities encourage you to approach problems from different angles, honing your problem-solving skills.

Memory: Many board games involve remembering rules, strategies, and opponent moves. This constant exercise of memory can improve your ability to recall information in other aspects of life.

Logic and Reasoning: Logical thinking is at the heart of puzzles and board games. From deducing the next move in a chess game to fitting puzzle pieces together logically, these activities stimulate your reasoning abilities.

Spatial Awareness: Jigsaw puzzles, in particular, enhance your spatial awareness and visualization skills. As you piece together intricate parts to form a coherent whole, you're training your brain to perceive and manipulate spatial relationships.

Strategic Planning: Board games often demand strategic planning several moves ahead. This kind of thinking encourages you to anticipate outcomes and make decisions based on long-term goals—a skill applicable in various life situations.

Patience and Perseverance: Puzzles, especially the more intricate ones, require patience. They teach you to persist through challenges and setbacks, fostering a sense of perseverance.

Rediscovering Joy and Connection

In a world where virtual interactions often replace face-to-face connections, puzzles and board games provide a refreshing way to bond with friends and family. Gather around a table, set up a challenging puzzle or pick a board game, and witness the transformation as conversations flow, laughter rings out, and memories are created. These analog activities create a shared experience that brings people closer, strengthening relationships in a unique way.

Introducing Shop Befikar: Your Partner in Puzzle and Board Game Adventures

If you're ready to embark on the journey of mastering mind challenges through puzzles and board games, Shop Befikar is your ultimate partner. With a curated collection of puzzles and board games, they provide a gateway to a world of entertainment, learning, and connection.

Puzzles for All Ages and Tastes

Shop Befikar offers a diverse range of puzzles, catering to various skill levels and interests. Whether you're a novice puzzle enthusiast or an experienced solver, there's something for everyone. From breathtaking landscapes and intricate art to brain-teasing designs, their collection spans the spectrum, ensuring there's never a dull moment.

Board Games that Ignite Strategy and Fun

If strategy and competition are more your style, Shop Befikar's selection of board games will leave you spoiled for choice. From classic games that have stood the test of time to innovative modern creations, their offerings promise hours of entertainment. Gather your friends for an intense game night or enjoy a quiet evening of strategy—either way, the experience is bound to be memorable.

The Shop Befikar Advantage

What sets Shop Befikar apart is their commitment to quality and customer satisfaction. With a focus on providing products that engage and delight, they curate their collection with care. Each puzzle and board game is selected to ensure that it not only offers a challenge but also promises lasting enjoyment.

Conclusion

In a world that often demands constant screen time and instant gratification, puzzles and board games offer a refreshing change of pace. They challenge our minds, foster connections, and provide hours of entertainment that transcend age and generation gaps. As you embark on this journey of mastering mind challenges, remember that Shop Befikar is your trusted companion, offering a handpicked selection of puzzles and board games that promise to captivate, engage, and bring joy to your life. So, set aside the screens, gather your loved ones, and let the dice roll and the pieces fall where they may—adventure awaits in the world of puzzles and board games.

[mggpleasedontlookhere]

mother’s care

summary: spencer leaves his mother in y/n’s care, but with her violent outbursts she severely injures y/n

word count: 3,331                                                                                     reading time aprox: 13 mins

masterlist

It had been a few days since Spencer had left his mother in my care, and it had been more than a few days since my conscience was clear of worry. The pressing dichotomy between Spencer’s family and work life had been putting a strain on the quality of his life, in which I took it upon myself, with the highest sense of internal deliberation, to offer my services. The thought of lessening the weight on Spencer’s shoulders was the only thing keeping my motivation alive; other than the innate responsibility I had to care for my future mother-in-law. Witnessing the gravity of Spencer’s tired eyes shift into a brighter gleam as he was relieved of being tethered at home, made the strenuous work I endured worthwhile. But the thought could only do so much considering Diana’s behavior became exponentially volatile. 

Spencer had just left for work only hours ago when Diana’s delusions became rampant, her paranoia increasing along with it. “Y/N! Y/N! We have to go now, they’re coming for us!” She yelled frantically while flailing her arms sporadically. “W-we have to hide- we- I- we can’t trust anyone Y/N! Call Spencer!” She rushed towards the peephole of the front door, slamming her palms against the wooden frame. “Where’s my son?!” She screamed profusely. 

In urgency, I grabbed a hold of her wrists to restrict her from hurting herself as she did a few days ago. “Diana- hey, stop that- Diana it’s me Y/N” I struggled to fight against her resistance as she persisted to bludgeon the door with all her might. “Diana! Please! Loo- Look it’s me, I promise!” I urged, finally ceasing her attacks and calming her down to a manageable temper. 

Then just a moment later, all of her anger dissipated as if nothing had occurred previously. “Oh! Hello there Y/N, when did Spencer let you in?” She inquired, ridding herself of my grasp and laying herself down on the couch. I sighed, propping myself up on the back of the door as I composed myself. “Oh my gosh, my scrapbook” She stated in bewilderment, glancing at the book of memories on the coffee table that Spencer had placed to induce her recollection of events. 

“Yes it is” I smiled, pushing the previous outburst aside with an understanding temperance. “Would you like to look through it?” I suggested, making slow strides towards the book that was, now, well adjusted on her lap. 

“That would be nice” She replied sweetly with a giddy smile. She took my suggestion as a notion to begin exploring the scrapbook, flipping through the beginning pages of the memoir. “Would you look at this Y/N!” She excitingly pointed at a picture of a young boy while I settled next to her on the plain colored couch. With an extensive observation of the picture she was referencing, I had come to find out that the little boy was no other than Spencer himself. 

She shook her head in remembrance as I observed her deep in reminiscence, admiring how, for just a moment, clarity had filled her heart and mind. “This was Spencer’s first chess tournament when he was only five years old” She regaled, speaking of her pride and joy in his youth. “At five years old, the boy won against men that were ten times his age- can you believe that!” She expressed, an incredulous smile etching on her lips as she flipped to the next page. 

“Spencer had told me that he had won his first tournament at age four” I added jokingly as the atmosphere began to regain a more pleasant air. I reached for a throw pillow that resided on the end of the couch, tucking it between my knees and chest for comfort. 

“That silly boy” She teasingly scoffed in disbelief as she racked through her distinct memories; shaking her head at the utterance of my words. “He had lost his first chess match when he was four, but he was too proud to ever accept defeat” She explained, flipping through several pages as she spoke. I chucked in response, understanding the familiar- or might I say all too familiar- discourse of Spencer’s intelligent pride. 

“Oh Y/N, dear, look at this with me” She beckoned me to take notice of a picture of a man on a tightrope, only the man’s face was replaced by an old cut-out of Spencer’s young visage. “Did you know that he wanted to be a tightrope walker?” She revealed, laying a gentle hand on the paper memory. 

“I thought he wanted to be a magician?” I inquired.

“Oh, that was afterwards-” She proceeded to pat my thigh in a motherly manner as if I was her own child. “-after he fell off of our fence in the backyard” She chuckled, meeting my amused gaze with her own. I let her sink into her own world, satisfied with her sedated state of mind as I made my way towards my phone to check the time. 

3:28 p.m.

Unfortunately, that meant I had to pull Diana from her comfortable space to give her the medication prescribed from the clinic and the experimental drug that Spencer had placed her on. “Hey Diana” I softly whispered, gaining her attention. “It's time to take your medication” I informed her with an apologetic look. 

“Nah, I don’t like the medicine that Spencer’s been giving me” She waved off casually with a grimace on her face. “They taste awful” She didn’t look up from the book once, disregarding the task that needed to be done. 

“Please Diana” I pleaded, heading to the kitchen cupboards to acquire her prescriptions; going to Spencer’s dresser to fetch the experimental drugs that were included in her regime. “Spencer had strict orders for me and you know how he gets” I playfully insinuated in the hopes of lighting up the tense ambiance. I continued to sift through Spencer’s cabinets- which was an absolute abhorrence to look at, let alone scavenge through- in the means of finding Diana’s prescriptions. 

“Shit” I quietly cursed as some household items fell onto the floor, emitting a loud crash. 

“WHAT WAS THAT!” Diana shrieked in terror, disturbed by the sudden disruption that sounded throughout the entire apartment. The sound of a heavy thud from a book in the next room followed Diana’s deafening shrills of panic, indicating that the crash had triggered another break from reality. “Y/N! Y/N! WHAT’S GOING ON- WHERE AM I?!” She cried in her unnerved state, stampeding into the kitchen as if her life depended on it. 

“He-hey it’s okay Diana-” I dropped the prescriptions on the kitchen counter in a hurry, ignoring the mess, to prioritize Diana’s abrupt outburst. “You’re here in Spencer’s apartment- your son’s apartment- with m-me. Look Di- Diana! Look you’re here with me” I reassured her once again. Although that didn’t put a stop to her labored breathing, trembling hands, and distraught eyes. 

“WHO ARE YOU?! WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN MY SON’S APARTMENT!” She vehemently spat in the midst of her frenzy. 

I grabbed the medication off of the counter in a haste, preparing to have them in hand for a window of opportunity in administering them. “Diana- please- Diana, it’s me Y/N- you have to take your medication” I negotiated with her, keeping my tone as amiable as I can. 

“GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT!” She threatened, picking up one of Spencer’s textbooks and flinging it at the wall behind me. “GET AWAY FROM ME!” Items continued to soar through the air until Diana began to hysterically strike herself on the forehead. “GET OUT! GET OUT!” She squeezed her eyes shut, pulling at the sides of her hair. 

Without a second thought, I leaped to restrain her from further self-inflicting damage. “Hey Diana- Sto-stop that!” I pried her hands away from herself, balancing the prescription bottles in my hand whilst wrestling against her sporadic movements. “DIANA!” I yelled, feeling my chest heave in exasperation; her provocation of my patience wearing my understanding countenance thin. 

The booming sound of my voice infiltrated Diana’s sensitive ears, similar to one of a gunshot, making her cover her ears instinctively. “SHUT UP! GET AWAY FROM ME!” She wailed, her tone wavering as she enunciated her words. She forced her eyes shut once again, shaking her head while whispering a mantra to herself. 

“Diana...Please” I pleaded, softening my voice in guilt. I uncapped the prescriptions, taking out a few pills to showcase the medication essential to her condition. “If you just take your medicine, you’ll feel better- I promise- please!” I affirmed, taking close observation to her present behavior. She began unraveling from her mental cloud, taking frequent peeks at the pills that lay on my hand. With a tentative reach, she reached out for the drugs and retracted her arm as soon as she had taken possession of them.  

“Yes, Diana, they’ll make you feel better-” I sighed in relief, watching her examine the pills in her hand. “Do you want me to get you water? I- NO DIANA! STOP!” I halted mid sentence, the action of Diana pelting the wall with her pills impeding my ability to coerce her further. By instinct I picked up the pills in a frenzy of indignation, a slew of reprimands impulsively falling out of my lips, like a mother would to her petulant child.  

“What are you doi- DIANA! Why would you do that? I’m just trying to- STOP! I’M JUST TRYING TO HE-” 

A whiff of cold air glided through Diana’s fingers that followed her right hand. For a moment I felt time still, yet it took me an eternity to process the event that had unfolded in front of me- or which I would say to me. My cheek began to blare an ugly rouse, the painful sensation of throbbing encompassing the entirety of the left side of my face. I clutched my cheek in shock and confusion, unable to process her potent and unforeseen capabilities. “I- i, uh-” I stumbled over my tongue, my mind impuissant in regards to its verbal-cognitive skills. 

“JUST GET AWAY FROM ME!” 

In the last attempt of Diana’s impulse driven self-defense, she forcefully shoved me back into the dining table resulting in the wooden edge piercing my spine. I groaned in pain, clutching onto the end of the table as another slew of curses fell from my mouth. In the midst of the adrenaline coursing through my veins, I didn’t notice the stream of blood profusely flowing out of a large gash on my wrist where my veins were located. 

“Shit! Shit! Shit!” I panicked, inspecting a metal screw that protruded from beneath the table; the spiral tip now covered in blood and leftover skin. I rushed for my phone and a towel to ease the bleeding, although it was evident that I needed medical attention. Instinctively I dialed Spencer’s number on my phone with the hopes that he would pick up, although due to my misfortune, the call went into voicemail indicating his unavailability. 

By this time, Diana had left the room and locked herself in the bathroom; despite my constant worry of her being, all of my attention had been on contacting medical aid. With a brisk call, paramedics were being sent to the apartment and police officers to document the scene. I whined in pain while the hands on an analog clock, that hung in the kitchen, moved at a snail’s pace, my vision slowly dissipating as my blood enveloped the oak floor. 

I began whispering a comforting mantra to myself- or maybe it was all in my head- that Penelope had taught me. “Sa, Ta, N-na, Mm…” I shook my head to retain my consciousness, the black curtain between my blinks growing in duration. It felt as if my pupils had dilated and pulsed continuously, feeling every nerve in my body weaken along with my frail muscles. 

I hadn’t even noticed the paramedics bursting into the living room, let alone the doorbell ringing to indicate their presence. In a few slips of consciousness, two men in uniforms were placed in front of me to my aid. 

“Ma’am? Ma’am can you hear me?” One of them spoke, although with the combination of stampeding feet and muffled voices I wasn’t able to distinguish a coherent phrase. 

Suddenly with an unexpected shock of adrenaline, I was able to slightly ground myself in reality. “C-call Re-reid, Spencer Reid- FBI” I sputtered out, squinting my eyes at the medical kit that they placed on the floor. “Ple-please, Spen- AH” I whimpered, the paramedics applying alcohol to disinfect the wound. 

I directed my focus away, only for my eyes to land on Diana being taken away by a few police officers and a social worker. She was kicking in screaming, evidently in the middle of her psychotic break from before. She thrashed against the police officers restraints, scared out of her mind as she yelled her son’s name. 

“St-stop” I whispered, catching the gaze of one of the paramedics. “Sh-she’s- fuck- she needs help, she has Schizophrenia and Alzheimer” I informed them, watching their eyes go wide in surprise; one of them rushing off to spread the message to the officers. 

They carefully let her out of their hold, letting her scurry into a confined corner of the room before contacting her emergency contact: Spencer. The sole paramedic continued mandatory procedure with me, placing pressure on the gash while eavesdropping on the scene that unfolded behind him. 

“Spencer? That’s who you want to call right?” The man inquired. 

I nodded in response, grasping his arm. “Please hurry” I managed to say, letting my eyes lull into the back of my head in the attempt to relax. 

Finally in the midst of the chaos, a lanky figure flurried into the doorway in alacrity. His eyes first landed on his mother who was being approached by apprehensive officers, in which he informed them, again, of his mother’s condition; with this the police force let the man run over to his mother to sedate her. 

Then, his eyes fixated on my wavering gaze as he took a moment to take in the scene that laid in front of him. 

“Oh my god, oh my GOD Y/N” He lamented, rushing over to where me and the paramedic were situated. “Y/N- I- Oh my god, I’m so sorry- I shouldn’t hav-” Spencer rambled on, his somber eyes flickering from my face to my wrist. 

“Spencer, please don’t worry...I’ll be fine, go check on your mother. She needs you right now” I muttered. Although it seemed that he didn’t hear anything of what I had said as he continued to ramble through his anxious spiel. 

“I-i got your call, but I sent it to voicemail- I didn��t think- I- I didn’t know it was important- then I got the emergency call from my mot- I- I should’ve answer- Oh my god, I wasn’t there” He punished himself, squeezing his eyes in regret. 

“Spenc-” I attempted to interrupt, although was cut off when the paramedic had informed him that  needed to be transported to the hospital. 

-

After my check ups were done, the team swarmed into the hospital room in a flurry, but with no Spencer in sight. 

“Oh my god! Y/N I’m so glad you’re okay- I’m sure one of my hugs will make you feel extra better” Penelope rushed over to the side of my bed giving me an awkward, yet comforting, hug. 

JJ took this as an opportunity to inform me of my condition, explaining how the wound would take some time to heal, but everything else was fine. I nodded in gratitude, basking in the family that stood in front of me.

“You had us all worried Y/L/N” Hotch added, giving me a cordial nod. 

“Especially pretty boy” Morgan continued. “I’ve never seen him run out of the room so fast. But, I’m glad you’re okay” He comforted me, taking a stance next to Garcia. On cue, Spencer crept in the room with a melancholy, yet relieved expression on his face.

“Speaking of…” Emily trailed off, taking notice of Spencer’s immediate presence. “Let’s give them space” She filed the team out of the room to give me and Spencer privacy. 

The second they were out of sight he engulfed me in a crushing hug, whispering sweet apologies to me. He grasped my face in his hands, placing long kisses on my forehead as a form of consolation. “I’m so sorry Y/N” He sighed, keeping my face and his at an approximate distance. “I should’ve never left you” He antagonized himself, shutting his eyes in search of penance within himself. 

“Hey” I whispered, making him open up his eyes gracefully. “Spencer, you shouldn’t be sorry, it's your mom for god sake- she’s my family too- I would’ve done it again even if you didn’t ask me to” I reassured, drawing small patterns on the dip of his palm. 

“But she- I should’ve warned y-”

“Spencer, you have no control over what she does or how she is. Stop blaming yourself for not being there” I stated, pulling at his arm in a motherly manner. “Come here” I instructed him, tugging at the sleeves of his dress shirt. 

I pulled him into a gentle kiss in the hopes of making his self-reproaching thoughts dissipate. He was tentative in kissing me, letting himself hover over my lips as if I were to crack like porcelain if he were to give him. I gave him a gentle peck on the corner of his mouth as silent reassurance, pressing my forehead against his. 

He understood the message and pressed a long awaited kiss on my lips that made the entire room collapse into nothingness. The warmth that radiated off of Spencer making the interaction more visceral. He lingered in the moment for a few seconds before we parted, staring at me with a woeful look. Although through his somber visage, his love shone through the dark clouds that were present in his eyes. 

“I love you so much Y/N and I-” He paused, sighing in recollection of the events that had unfolded. “I just love you so much- you and my mother- and I’m so sorry I wasn’t there” He apologized, running his thumb over my knuckles as he stared at my bandaged arm. 

“But you’re here now Spencer” I interjected, reminding him to look forward and not back. “Where’s your mom?” I inquired, giving him a soft smile. 

“She’s with her nurse right now” He cringed, his mind not leaving the dark thoughts that enveloped his brain. A slight frown made its way onto my lips as I subconsciously reminded him of the state of his mother. 

“I’m sorry-”

“No, it’s okay Y/N” He reassured. 

Silence ensued before he cupped his hand over my hands, basking in the image of me laying in a hospital bed in front of him. 

“You and-” He paused, collecting his words. 

I encouraged him to continue, squeezing his hand. 

“Y/N. You and my mother are the most important things in the world- no- beyond lifetimes to me” He professed. 

“Spence-” 

“No Y/N- I want to tell you because I don’t know what happens tomorrow. But, all I know is that I love you wholeheartedly and no statistics can explain my exponentially growing love for you” He joked. 

I joined him in his amusement, listening to his words with intent as the atmosphere of the room returned to a more sincere air.

“I love you so much Y/N- and I know that I don’t get to tell you often because I’m always away- but Y/N Y/L/N, you have my whole heart in your hands-” He leaned in, tucking a stray hair away from my rosy cheeks. “-I know you tell me to not worry, but there’s nothing else I can do but worry when it comes to you” He continued. 

“Y/N...you’re my absolute everything and you’ll be damned if you think otherwise” 

-

A/N: 

i hope you enjoy it! i haven’t been writing frequently because i’m preparing for school, but i hope you enjoy it. 

[vampiresuns]

Consequences | Anatole x Ozmandias

1.3k words. A follow up to ‘Checkmate’, by @asras3rdeye​, in which Anatole and Oz’mandias finish a conversation about what they want from one another, and how they want one another. Alternatively: Oz’mandias seven new discoveries about Aelius Anatole.

Happy birthday, Coco! 🥳 I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I did writing it.

Minors DNI. It’s not a lemon, strictly speaking, but it follows suggestive themes and the lemon is implied 🍋

He never thought he’d find himself pressed between Oz’mandias and his bookshelves before the next three months, if he was being very lenient with what he had assumed was Ozy’s timings. He didn’t mind waiting. In all honesty, Anatole couldn’t call himself the beacon of patience as it didn’t tend to be something which came naturally for him. 

Patience was something he had had to train himself into coexisting with, rather than acquiring it. If he had to use a word to describe himself it would be persistent. When something interested him enough — his brain permitting — he was usually very, very good at keeping his persistence going forward. His ambition laid in the knowledge that he would be able to do things because once he set his mind to something, he was stubborn enough not to let it go until he won.

Giving up was not in his vocabulary, so of course, waiting to see where he would end up with Oz’mandias was not a problem. However, it was obvious to him that he would take some time to make up his mind to get anywhere, and given it was something with boundaries involved, Anatole truly did not mind sitting and waiting. What he hadn’t been expecting was Ozy making up his mind so soon after. It looked like his traditional approaches were truly just reserved for their chess games, because there was no way Anatole could’ve seen this coming. 

And, given Ozy’s words, to think he had his attention like this, that he felt comfortable and secure in his feelings with him and about him like this, to do this, made him feel a little woozy. 

Even then, he didn’t kiss him right again. He let his hands travel through the hem of his shirt, playing with it’s openness and letting his fingers brush against his chest. 

“You know, it was never about winning over all of you.” 

Ozy hummed, his face still against Anatole’s neck. Maybe it was how open Oz’mandias was being right now, maybe it was how much they had spent together that allowed Anatole to catch that taste of confusion so clearly in something as simple as a hum. 

“You can’t deserve other people’s love or affection, or attention. That is something they give you. You can act up to the circumstances of a gift freely given, if it’s freely given, but I want you to know I didn’t listen because I wanted anything from you… except, of course, you. On the sole condition you wanted to give yourself.”

Ozy pried himself away from Anatole’s neck; the thought of ‘giving himself’ made a shudder go down his spine. It felt good. “I do. I said you had all of me.” 

Anatole’s laugh met his ears and he thought it was one of the best sounds he’s ever thought. Specially now. His favourite laugh from Nana would always be the one where he truly lost himself to laughter, mouth open and head tilted back, but this soft laughter was enticing, charged, flirtatious.

“You’re staring at my lips. Quite suggestively.”

Ozy fidgeted in his place and Anatole laughed again, softly hooking his thumb against Oz’mandia’s lower lip. 

“You know I like you, do you? Very much so.” Ozy nodded. “Good. I want you to show me, and I want to show you too — but regardless how far we go, if I’m reading into things correctly, if not just a future reference, I will need a safeword, and for you to use semaphore with me. Oh, and if you need to grab to pin down or anything, don’t grab my wrists, grab my hands.” 

“Okay, okay, can do… but Nana,” his grin was mischievous and a little bit cocky, “I would’ve never  imagined it from you.”

“Then you must not be very observant.”

“Hey!”

However, Anatole had decided it was enough talking, he wanted to see everything he had sensed in Ozy’s words and gaze on his skin; he wanted to take and be taken, and now that he knew he was wanted as well he realised how badly, and for how long, he had wanted to put his hands on Oz’mandias. Well, not just his hands. He wanted to put a good couple of things on Oz’mandias, and in him too, if he was into it. 

He made sure his kiss told him everything he needed to know, that he wanted him to keep going, that his hands in his chest were an invitation for Ozy to put his hands on his bare skin too. 

Given how quickly they both shed their clothes (all things considered) and how Oz’mandias dropped to his knees, Nana thought he had gotten the message. 

✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎

At some point of the night they had moved to Anatole’s bed, where they fell asleep together after they had satiated themselves of one another for the time being. 

“That was good,” Ozy had said, voice lazy and satisfied, stretching with a pleased whine and closed eyes. Anatole placed a kiss on his chest, leaving the bed right afterwards.

“Hey, Nana? Nana where are you going.”

“Bathroom, dearest. Number one, always pee after sex. Number two, someone’s gotta help you with the clean up, and I need a cloth for that.” 

Ozy waited for him, sitting up on the bed, his arms over his raised knees. “You don’t have to do that,” he told Anatole when he came back.

“Suppose I do not. Yet, I wish to.”

So, as they drifted into sleep, arms wrapped around one another, Oz’mandias made a mental list of things he had discovered: number one, he discovered Anatole was just as disarming when he was tender. Number two, private and reserved as he was, he was sometimes painfully honest and painfully genuine. It made being himself less scary. Number three, he was very inventive, and in bed he was as unexpected and deliciously attentive than he was in his games. Anatole was nothing if not thorough, he was nothing if not passionate. Number four, he might be an even bigger cocky bastard than him. Number five, he was damn good at it. 

His sixth discovery he made awake: Anatole had a big case of morning grumps. Dawn broke through the windows of his bedroom and Oz’mandias woke up with it, his mouth finding Anatole’s bare skin to lay kisses on, and taking a single sleepy, groggy grunt from him as enough queue to talk about last night — his discoveries, what he had liked, what he had liked the most, things they could change, things they could try out. All that went through his mind until Nana opened an eye to give him a glare. 

“What time is it even?” He croaked, still not awake enough. 

“Uh, I’m not sure?”

Anatole groaned against his pillow. “My pocket watch is on the end table.”

“Uh, it’s six in the morning. About 10 minutes past.”

“Absolutely not, you will let me sleep the hour and 40 minutes more than I can today,” Anatole inhaled, taking all of his self control to be mildly coherent and not too mean. “I do want to listen to all you have to say, again, later, but you’re going to let me sleep.”

“I can do that, I’m sorry.”

“Ts no issue, I ‘uppose. If you can’t stay in bed, there’s books next door and the morning shift might be pulling in, you might as well ask them to bring breakfast here this morning… unless you want to have breakfast in the Veranda.” 

“What would you want best?”

“To go the fuck back to sleep… and maybe to use you as a pillow.”

“We can do that.” 

Oz’mandias didn’t really sleep again, nor did he read, nor he got out of bed. Maybe he’d do all of that another morning. This one, he was just content to let Anatole sleep on him and thread his fingers through his golden hair. Besides, had he gotten up, he might have not made his seventh discovery: Anatole kitten-snored. 

[renaroo]

Some Times (Time and Time Again) (4/8)

Disclaimer: Booster Gold, Blue Beetle, and associated characters are the creative property of DC Comics. Warnings: Canon shaken not stirred, Heavy canon references to Booster Gold (2009-2011) and Blue Beetle (2016-2018) Pairings: Boostle Rating: T Synopsis: Booster Gold and the rest of the Time Masters are still straightening up things in the wake of the most recent universal Rebirth. But Rip Hunter is still missing in the aftermath, leaving Booster in charge with Skeets, Michelle, and Rani. But there’s a distraction for Booster, one he can’t keep himself from ignoring.

Ted Kord, miraculously, is still alive. And that makes everything more complicated than Michael could have ever imagined.

A/N: Haha! How’s that for an improved rate for chapter turn arounds! I don’t know if I can manage it weekly, but boy wouldn’t that be nice. All things considering. 

And lovely and well deserved thanks to @mcbangle, @shibascarf, @secretlystephaniebrown, AlreadyThere, and Schwoo99 for your lovely feedback and support! It’s greatly appreciated.

Booster Gold

It was already a hell of a day by the time Booster finds himself racing throughout the busted up laboratory in search for Rani. He is in an all around bad mood, conflicted and somewhat wounded with old pains and traumas licking at his heels thanks to the conversation with Ted.

Then Rani — sweet, terrified, all his fault Rani — is gone. And there’s only an open wormhole leftover in the cabinet to clue him into what’s going on.

Using the Legionnaire flight ring, Booster kicks off the ground and zips back to where Michelle is standing by the lab command center. She’s looking a little shellshocked but Booster absolutely does not have time for that.

“She’s gone!” he yells at his sister instead. “She’s teleported out, but why!?” When that fails to draw Michelle’s attention, Booster comes to a hovering stop by her and stares in disbelief. “Michelle!” he snaps in imitation. “Are you listening!?”

Without turning toward him, Michelle says, “I know where she went.” Her hand draws up and points toward the chalkboard.

Not even fully listening to Michelle, Booster follows her gaze to the board and feels himself go slightly off balance. If he hadn’t been using the flight ring, he might’ve ended up on the floor sideways from the knock to his teeth.

On Rip’s meticulously kept chalkboard is a newly etched message that Booster knows for a fact was not there even earlier that day when he got back.

Ted Kord is KEY.

“What the hell?” Booster articulates first. Then, with a slight pang, he recognizes something even more pressing about the message. “Is that… is that Rip’s writing? No… Who…” he rambles out loud before glancing around the lab.

Half of him wants to accuse Rip Hunter of hiding in the shadows, of playing some kind of joke wrapped up in the 4D Chess he has been doing since he first met Booster. But there is nothing to see. There’s no one but them. Only Michael and Michelle.

Which begs another question.

“Skeets?” Booster calls out to no avail.

“Rani is looking for Rip. She sees a message from Rip. She takes the message and runs with it before thinking things through,” Michelle deduces. She then gives Booster and accusatory stare. “Wonder where she picks that up from?”

“I need to get to Ted’s, get Rani, put out any fires…” Booster lists off, already on his way to the transmat.

“Would you hold your horses?” Michelle demands. “I’ll put on my Goldstar suit and we’ll go together. I don’t like how this feels, Michael—“

“I’ve got this,” Booster doesn’t so much as argue as he is concluding the conversation.

“Jesus Christ what did I just say about running into things without thinking them through?” Michelle yells as she takes off running toward her room.

“No time for thinking!” Booster yells back, already beginning to transport. “The multiverse is colliding together because my daughter and my best friend are meeting each other!”

Michelle apparently has no comeback because rather than screaming it, Booster only hears a frustrated roar that he is far more familiar with than he should be.

In Booster’s mind, the worst case scenario is already upon him. Rani, freaking out and distressed, huddled in a corner while Ted, freaking out and distressed, is calling up whatever passes for social services among the Justice League. Someone will ask questions, take records, and Rani is suddenly on the map for some sort of time traveling ne’er-do-well to get at Booster if they want to. And he’ll lose Rani out of the great wide nothing just like he lost Rip—

Booster does his best to turn the alarms in his brain from an eleven to about a nine and thinks what complications this means for him and Ted.

Things are already complicated, Booster was hoping to go over some script or something with Michelle before hanging out with Ted again. How many things can he share? How much can Ted even be expected to believe? And how in the world is Ted going to forgive him for being a different person without any of the years and years of context that is suddenly missing between them?

How can Booster resist his instinct to constantly screw things up with the two people, at the moment, he cares about the most in terms of not getting screwed over?

It seems like a tall order, and before he touches foot in Ted’s lab again, he’s certain there’s a mix of these two things that will be his worst case scenario.

That is, until the reality smacks him in the face with a whole lot worse.

Black Beetle — his seemingly nameless and faceless enemy throughout the time stream — is standing in Ted’s laboratory. And worse yet, he is doing so with a gun much more serious than Ted’s old BB gun, right at Ted’s head. And Ted, for his part, seems genuinely stunned.

“Ted Kord,” Black Beetle snarls, “you must die!”

“NO!” Booster screams, the sound ripping through his throat from the core of his being.

He’s in the air and barreling toward Black Beetle before it even registers that Ted has leaped into action, grabbing Rani and rolling behind the desk. It’s a close call and Booster can only begin to thank his stars that Ted really is the Ted of his memories, but there’s not time to dwell.

“Get the hell away from them!” Booster roars as he connects his forcefield protected knuckles with the side of Black Beetle’s armored head.

Even with his field up, Booster feels the hit in the bones of his fist. There’s something harder to Black Beetle than the last time they fought. Which, Booster has to admit to himself, is not a good sign for him.

“Booster Gold,” Black Beetle snaps angrily, catching the second fist Booster throws at him. “I am surprised by your resilience.”

“By now you really shouldn’t be,” Booster growls back. He aims for the unarmored mouth on Black Beetle only to be caught a second time.

“After our last Beetle adventures, I had thought you had your fill of failing to save your friend from death,” Black Beetle hisses. Then, without warning, his head comes jutting forward, breaking through the field around Booster’s body with speed and precision to land a perfect headbutt for Booster’s nose. “But apparently your masochism is greater than that of the average fool.”

Dazed, Booster backs away with his hands released and instinctively reaches for his nose. Definitely broken, definitely gushing blood — but he doesn’t have the time for it because Black Beetle is already coming back at him.

Gritting his teeth, Booster directs the field shields to his left side and successfully deflects the incoming right hook. It gives him enough time to spit out a mouthful of blood and course correct. He needs some distance, maybe use a concussive blast to further to swing it.

He doesn’t get the time or the distance, however, as the Black Beetle armor produces a clawing arm-like extension which grabs Booster at the waist and clamps down, hard.

“Booster!” Ted yells.

“Mikey!” Rani screeches.

A quick panic tears its way through Booster and he glances wildly in the direction of the two voices. His fingers are still grappling with the claws of Black Beetle but his attention is fully on Ted and Rani — they are too close to all of this! Booster has to get Black Beetle away from them and do it fast.

“Stay down! Both of you!” Booster yells at them just before Black Beetle slams him headlong into the Bug.

“I have lost my patience for your persistent meddling!” Black Beetle snarls. “I will set all things right today! I will see to it that any anomalies for the time stream are destroyed! And I will enjoy listening to your pathetic screams as you know that you still are powerless to do a thing!”

Booster has literal stars in his vision once the dark clad time traveler drops him on the ground. His neck aches and he can feel the wheeze of air pushing back into his lungs. He knows he has to get back up, though, or else someone is going to do something stupid.

“I’ve had about enough of this!” Ted growls.

“Oh, no,” Booster says, smacking himself in the head to try to clear his vision quicker.

“Sir!” Skeets buzzes in front of him.

“Skeets! Save Ted! Rani! Anyone! Fuck!” Booster orders, pushing to his feet and seeing where Ted was.

Ted has already slid over the top of his desk, goggles on and pulled out some sort of large canon looking device with a fanned out disk at its front. When Black Beetle immediately shoots for the in-the-open Ted, the reply is given in kind by the strange device which showered the entire room with an immense white light.

“Solar gun kinetic converter!” Ted preens, even as the blowback sends him to the ground. He coughs. “Has a kick, but anything you throw at me, this baby will convert into a concussive blast and hit brighter!”

Booster smirks and pushes off from the ground in order to boost his launch speed as he hurled himself at Black Beetle.

The light flash from Ted’s machine has put the Black Beetle off balance enough for Booster to throw himself into and shove the man out toward the door and into the hall, out the tenth floor window.

As soon as Black Beetle crashes through the glass, Booster firmly digs his heels into the ground and skids to a halt just short of heading out himself. He releases a long sigh of relief as he actually does seem to have gotten ahead.

Unfortunately, Black Beetle’s armor seems to remember it has flight capabilities much faster than Booster did.

“Damn it,” Booster hisses, looking over his shoulder and realizing that Ted is rushing his way and Rani has crawled out from under Ted’s desk to get a better look. “Skeets! Get her down!”

The tiny robot is quick to listen, and Booster barking orders at all seems to make Ted take pause, but not before the shadow of Black Beetle hovering outside eclipses them both.

Booster locks eyes with Ted and feels that ever present twinge of guilt and horror that has lived with him for nearly five years at this point.

“Ted! Down!” Booster yells.

But it isn’t like before. There is action that Booster can take.

Thinking on his feet, Booster projects his forcefield onto Ted. It encloses the semi-retired Blue Beetle in an oval dome before moving along with Booster as they flew toward the laboratory.

“Are you going to explain anything that’s happening to me?” Ted demands as they land in relative safety from their attacker.

“Later over beer if we make it,” Booster promises wearily.

For a brief moment, Ted looks in Booster’s direction. He’s only nodding along to Booster’s words and yet, as he does so, Booster sees a trust and security from Ted that warms something deep inside of him. It’s been so long since they were doing this, side by side, both in the exact same moment.

Both trusting each other because… as long as they’re Blue and Gold they’re bound to win. Somehow. Some ridiculous fashion.

It’s all Booster can do to take a breath and feel confident that it’s going to be okay.

Just before he loses Ted’s gaze. Ted’s looking back in the direction of Black Beetle and his body immediately seizes in tension.

“Round Three!” Ted yells in warning.

Booster raises his guard and steels himself, but he already knows his main objective.

Skeets has Rani. Booster has Ted guarded with every ounce of reserve power his suit has.

Whatever comes next is going to hurt.

Black Beetle flies at Booster like a bat out of hell, crashing into him and the Bug once more. The metal surface crushes in around Booster as a result of the impact. Booster feels the air pushed out of his lungs but he refuses to think about it, instead punching as much as he can right for Black Beetle’s big dumb jaw.

Some hits land, but the momentum is working against Booster as he feels a pop in his shoulder against the grinding metal of the bug.

“You have no concept of the danger you’re in!” Black Beetle snarls, grabbing Booster’s shoulders and flying with him to the floor.

They crash into the cement, Booster first yet again, but this time Booster can get a footing. He kicks off the pavement and plants his feet right for Black Beetle’s crotch.

Even armored, the villain juts away on instinct, which gives Booster time use a concussive blast. He can only lift his left arm, but it’s enough to give space between them.

It’s not enough. Black Beetle is ready to go before Booster’s even caught his breath.

Fortunately, there is a boom followed by the cracking and folding of metal all around them.

Booster lifts up his head to get a good view as Michelle uses her magnetic fields to crush what’s left of the Bug and the surrounding loose metal and bring it down on the Beetle’s head.

“Get away from my brother!” she yells.

Taken by surprise, Beetle is brought down, the crushing weight growing the longer Michelle levies her magnetism on him. “Damn you, Carters, no!” he roars, reaching with his loosest hand toward the chest piece of his suit. “This is not over!”

With a similar BOOM and spectacle, the Beetle is gone, and all the metal and electronics in the area around him fall in a heap to the ground.

“Heard… that before,” Booster musters, pushing to his feet. His ankle twists in a wrong way and he collides with the floor. His unresponsive arm does nothing to brace for the fall.

“Michael!” Michelle yells.

“Booster!” Ted yells right along with her.

And just before he passes out, Booster thinks how unexpected and wonderful it feels to hear both of their voices at once.  

[foxymuses]

@withechoedvoices​ sent: five times kissed for gavin & 900, under cut for length

the world has an interesting sense of humor. that has to be the explanation for why, in the wake of a failed android uprising, a new android shows up at the dpd. wouldn’t they have learned from the first? the way the rk800 manipulated everyone for his own – and cyberlife’s – benefit? but who are they to deny a military grade model, the only being given to local law across the nation. and of course, pair dangerously unstable android with a dangerously unstable human, that sounds like a good idea. perhaps the precinct will still be in one piece long enough for everyone to regret making that decision.

but here’s the funny thing about fate; sometimes, it takes the worst to bring out the best.

it starts small, hidden behind the aggravation the human displays towards anything he can set eyes or hands on. things break under his touch, people stand clear of the hurricane that never seems to end, stepping a few more steps back when the detective learns of his new partner. the others in the building expect unprecedented storms, look at the android in fear and wonder which of the two will break first, human or machine, and whether it will have been the other to do it. and oh, does the wind and rain come, barreling through the office screaming profanities and snarling at anyone who might breathe in his direction, cradling a hand to his chest after it had met the unmoving force that is the rk900.

a storm that only continued to escalate in a power dynamic seeking balance and finding only resistance, and all they can do is watch and hope that their lives might yet be spared from both android and detective, fearful that the way the android seems immune to the detective’s personality even as he threatens to lodge a bullet between the machine’s grey eyes, and the detective’s stupidly impressive bravado in staring down (well, up) into the eyes of a monster without hesitation will catch them all in the tsunami that must be following. dare anyone who is brave enough to approach the two, make a remark, see which will snap faster, a nose under the human’s fist or a wrist under the machine’s hand, and suddenly it makes sense, even if it doesn’t.

the human is a category five and yet in the eye of the storm now stands an android, the only one who could hope to withstand the damage it would take to get there.

and there’s a bet, of course there is, when, from within the comfort of the middle of the chaos, the android begins to pick at the human. the howling winds keep, have kept, everyone at bay but the detective can’t fight off the machine that has effortlessly dodged debris to stand beside him, can’t turn the storm in on itself, a fact the machine seems to know, to understand, to exploit.

and everyone is stuck watching with careful gazes and whispers over cups of coffee or unimportant case files, wondering if when one of them, human or machine, has enough, will it leave blood on the floor? blue or red, it doesn’t matter – and no longer does it matter if the blood will come from death. will it make them worse or make them bearable? money changes hand, names are drawn up, dates set and game on. a chess board of human versus machine, waiting to see which could reach a checkmate first, and how much carnage it would take.

if only they knew they were gambling chips, and the android they were betting on was counting cards.

900 knows it’s going to happen before the human does. not when, exactly, because as simple as the human is, he’s also remarkably hard to predict, since it’s impossible to know if someone is going to do something if they themselves haven’t figured it out before it happens. still, 900 had been poking and prodding at the detective’s limits, pushing past barriers and stretching the man thin on teasing. he’s impressed, if he can be, that it takes so long for the detective to give in (months, actually), but 900 is persistent and patient when he wants to be, designed to be careful and strategic, even when his mouth brushes dangerously close to the humans, even when wandering fingers play a bit too close to pass off as anything innocent, despite the angelic smiles and mock naivete the audience is witness to. everyone knows better, but everyone still watches with bated breath as days pass by, as the betting pool grows thinner and more chips are dumped before the android. maybe, they think. maybe they’ve imagined it

(1) but they haven’t and all the perfection of dedicated coding pays off when one comment too much, breathed against the man’s ear, has the human’s resolve shattering (and a lip splitting) as he claims a furiously hungry (and frankly, long overdue) kiss from the android, debris swept up into the winds that dance around them. the android who tastes the desire and the need on the man’s tongue, who can almost swallow the fucking finally that the man doesn’t realize he’s thinking, who promptly takes control, pushing the situation past pent up frustration into more than the detective was likely bargaining for, but in the cacophony of his storm cannot resist. no concern for the fact they’re pushing aside case files, random notes, letting things clatter to the floor in the middle of the precinct, where at any moment someone could walk in, could witness the end of the bet in a fully performative violent display

--- and then the human’s phone rings, and continues to echo shrilly through the room as the man seems not to hear it or chooses not to hear it before it silences and starts again. the human lets out a few curses, and for a moment the storm comes grinding to a halt as the taste of something new rests on his tongue mixing in with the tang of his own bloodied lip and the full realization of what he’d done, what he’d wanted to do for weeks now, settles on his shoulders and the phone goes quiet again, the world suddenly too silent as inhuman grey meets human and ---

the phone is cutting through the tension, the storm picking up speed in full force, and 900 is pulling back with a softly smug “you should answer that, detective”, wondering if the human would have let him go as far as he would have without the interruption. wondering if this is just a necessary delay; a taste of possibility.

the moment is over, but the human’s lips are red to match his cheeks, eyes still a bit dazed, clothes in a bigger state disarray than normal, stumbling out of the room like he’s been drinking on the job, and people are watching, breath held and eyes wide, unsure if the breaking of something was standard detective fury or a knife in the tension, and someone with a death wish, poor soul, thinks to stand, to ask, before the captain is yelling across the room about you’re on the job, reed, answer your goddamn phone and sense settles across the human’s features and his usual annoyed façade is back in place with returned insults, excuses that don’t make sense but nobody wants to question, and everybody is too afraid to question the android following behind the man with not a single sign anything had happened save the smallest of grins on his lips.

the next time doesn’t happen for months

in the midst of understanding this new rise in a feeling towards the machine, the detective pretends it hasn’t happened. and 900 waits, returning to his patience, a spark of humanity in letting the human process and attempt to understand (or ignore, as it were) – not necessarily out of care but because 900 knows the human mind is fragile, and to push too hard would break it. there’s more fun in seeing how hard he can push before letting it go – lets the detective seek out human companionship in an effort to drown their encounter, but peppers in teases and taunts about an android’s capabilities, the man’s sudden desire for physical relations after their kiss almost became something. works on breaking down the man’s walls when ---

death doesn’t happen to androids, but it may as well have. intensive damage, requiring intricate repair. 900 is not a connor, not an rk800, barely a proper rk900 – he cannot simply be uploaded into a new body. his parts are precise, injuries requiring specifics, and it takes longer to fix him than it should. he isn’t active for most of it, just a blink of software failure and then he’s on his way back to the dpd, back to a man that sees him sitting in his usual spot and freezes, genuine surprise on his face – and relief. an embrace that welcomes a breath of change into the partnership, stifled only by the detective’s continued relationship with another human. 900 is awake again, but sinking now beneath a strange emptiness at the exclusion.

his decision to request a transfer on the basis of a compromised working relationship settles in like an ending, only realized when the detective’s date comments on how he’s acting like 900’s decision was a break up. and there’s the detective’s irrationality, driving with the lieutenant that kept him alive when 900 wasn’t across the city in the middle of the night, breaking laws with no hesitation as he steals an android away from the processing center that has claimed him, realizing only when the two of them walk through the door that it’s not only 900 that has placed a claim on the human, but that perhaps the detective has placed his own on the android.

(2) the android who, until stepping through his human’s door, had been silent, now turns to the man with a smile holding promise, holding what could be warmth, holding the human’s cheek in a cool hand and murmurs, “i’m going to kiss you now,” with enough of a breath for the detective to reject it --- but he doesn’t. there’s hunger still, as there may always be, but a silent recognition, an acceptance that follows fingers across skin, clothes down a hall, crossing the line they’d almost crossed before in the safety of uninterruption. a gentle desperation, moments and words having built up a friction that creates static, that leaves marks as proof, and settles into a natural flow when light breaks through stained windows and fills the human’s home with the smell of coffee and domesticity, a soreness in his muscles that had ached for understanding for so long and now relaxes under the periwinkle gaze of his partner.

it becomes commonality, hidden in not so disguised places, in carefully obvious words. stolen kisses in stolen time in places far too open, android pressing the human against walls across the precinct, the detective daring to take initiative when the android will not. rumors fly and nobody knows for sure but it has to be a thing, the way they stand too close, the way the detective turns red at words whispered in his ear but doesn’t have the same weight to his anger and annoyance, his tone carrying frustration with a hint of adoration, matched to the android’s amused gaze and calm tone. they make sense, even in their chaos, the mess that tends to follow behind them wherever they go.

and there’s a mess – mess after mess after … but cyberlife wasn’t fucking around when they built 900, and persistence has been a key factor in his design from the start. trouble finds the two, the human and his android, the android and his human, threatens to pull them apart because it shouldn’t work. same-natured magnets are meant to repel, disaster can only breed disaster, but yet they triumph every time, meeting life with terrible insults and spit curses, wresting control away from those that want it with steely gazes and ruthless determination.

(3) it isn’t spoken until it is, an unconsidered thought give a voice after a dinner with his human’s family. protective nature out in full force, a couple comments too many and the android is causing a ‘domestic situation’, a silent, deadly reaction that nearly leaves the detective’s brother one arm less, and the significance is not lost to 900 but he has no family and therefore no basis for comparison when his detective is pulling him in for a kiss before they can even reach the car, or rather dragging him into the unadulterated glee at seeing his android, no, his partner in such defense of him that in an excited breath the words slip out and everything comes to a screeching halt.

except it doesn’t, because maybe the android doesn’t say it back, not in the way a human would, but it’s there in the way his lips form a fond smile, the way hands that had been minutes before threatening to tear off a limb now brush tender knuckles against flushed cheeks, and androids don’t have feelings, 900 will tell you that with full conviction, words spoken like they’re law, but when lips press in again to silence doubts, there’s an understanding that laws are made to be broken.

being physical is who they are, in rushed moments cast in shadows, in work meetings with brushed knees, in using proximity to explain attachment, to explain emotion. it’s in the way 900 keeps his body one step in front of the detective at any point, in how the android’s violence is never more impossibly present than when the human is in danger. a machine given a purpose, an android given a partner – an equation that will always equal protection no matter the variables, even as the hands of a coded killer turn from death to life, bones cracking becomes determined movements to save the detective’s life. power becomes precision become persistence becomes blatantly ignoring the warning lights flashing in his vision as his human bleeds out before him because 900 was not made to fail, and he won’t.

being physical is who they are, thrown against walls and doors and desks, leaving bite marks and bruises that tell the tale of who they are and what they do even amidst consistent denial, continued deflection. thrown objects or thrown words, threats and promises – a human has limits, 900 knows this, and he knows it better now, sitting in the darkness listening to unnecessary machines tell him the status of his human, knowing before their archaic designs do when the detective is waking up and 900 has never felt this before, relief at knowing something has happened despite his calculations telling him they knew already, because they didn’t at first. persistence. in the darkness until the human’s eyes open to light and 900 is there with words of ease, words of explanation, words that chase away the shadows that linger. words that promise it will never happen again.

(4) being physical is who they are, but their physicality isn’t built on violence and destruction. it’s built on the small kiss that 900 presses to his human’s forehead, the apology, the fear, the relief setting a home on top the foundation they have been slowly building around them. a home neither knew they needed until the detective wakes up in a new bed tucked against the android’s chest and doesn’t immediately pull back with a halfhearted excuse and instead closes his eyes and goes back to sleep.

the two may have caught up to themselves but the world has not – their existence is defiance in the face of what they both once stood against. enemies line the streets from either side, angry and bitter, demanding misplaced justice from those that seem happy in times of trial. god forbid they find themselves facing the threat of complacency, but their job comes with trials, and their species each comes with their own rebels. fury that the very one created to keep androids programmed like perfect little machines at the whim of humanity is now recklessly attached to one that had claimed to hate the very being that he now needs. rage that this connection gives the android designed to keep the revolution a faint wish on an ra9 star leverage in a world where he should be torn apart for his actions. hatred that he can walk free among the humans when he does not even consider himself alive, when he is fighting neither the revolution or the people that stop it. they want revenge, they want answers --- they want to know what peculiarities are in his coding, tear him apart so they can understand why he gets to be who he is without consequence, no they want to tear him apart to make a point but cyberlife has learned and cyberlife is prepared and military androids don’t traipse through enemy lines without contingencies, a ticking time bomb in his storage, in his files, a knowledge that his human will come for him but the barest trace of concern it won’t happen in time...

mess after mess after mess, and they persist, but this one threatens it all. the human gets to play hero this time, is allowed to be the one rushing to save his partner’s life for once except --- he fails, of course he fails, how could a human match against a group of furious deviants? against the law that binds him in occupation and in existence? if he couldn’t prevent 900 from being stolen away in the first place, what good is he against the ones that did it? a dangerous desire encased in a reckless fury of a detective mounts a carelessly designed rescue that becomes tinged with concern at the state of the android after those that took him are cut down but hope because 900 is blinking, he’s alive, he might need repairs and the detective came prepared with blue blood, had braced for the worst but 900 is there and he’s in one piece and maybe, maybe the detective hasn’t gotten this wrong and then “don’t fucking scare me like that, nines” is met with an empty gaze and suddenly it doesn’t matter if the human found the android alive or not, because the words he’s hit with feel an awful lot like grief.

who are you?

and the weeks when 900 was ‘dead’ were torture in the face of a relationship that hadn’t even started, but now 900′s right there, he’s alive, they’re both alive, they’re both something now, or they should be, they’re supposed to be, and being physical is who they are except now 900 isn’t, and where the detective once wished for distance he now craves the personal invasion and a day full of frustrated looks becomes weeks of hope slowly dying becomes months of seemingly random encounters while the detective grapples with the loss of someone who isn’t gone and the android tries to understand the desire for something that isn’t there.

and it would be fitting to describe the moment of recollection, the straw on the camel’s back that has the detective turning in his badge because he can’t look into the eyes of the person he loves and see nothing staring back any more, the moment that has the truth hammering through the memory wipe in 900’s mind and shattering his coding on the ground the way the human’s resolve did months (no, years) ago and it’s ridiculous how human he sounds, the panic, the desperation, the recognition in his voice when he calls to the detective, and the human turns with a snarl on to be halted by those goddamn eyes seeing him again for the first time in months –

(5) but that’s not the kiss that needs attention, because it’s the one that takes place several hours later in the courthouse on a spontaneous decision that defies logic, that breaks the law through coercing and manipulation of a federal employee before it breaks the law in granting a license to a couple – yes, a couple – that shouldn’t even exist, brief because of the eyes watching (confused, scared, awed at their sudden demand of urgency to attend a matter as a witness, at the danger in the android’s tone when the judge tries to refuse, at the softness in realization of how something can defy all expectations), but official.

the kiss that says ‘we are partners’ without a trace of sarcasm, that is hungry not in heat but in love, in wanting to be known and finally feeling found, in continuing to prove that nobody understands why things happen but that there must be a plan because how else would someone explain the impossibility of continuing to come back together each time they are pushed apart if not for divine intervention? (spite, they’d tell anyone. spite and an unhealthy amount of sex).

it’s the kiss the finalizes all the pain as having been worth it, and it’s the kisses that follow at the jeweler’s an hour later, at the lieutenant’s house surrounded by family that evening, in the car before they make it home, before they can get through the door, stumbling with 900’s guidance into walls down the hall of their house to begin their lives the way they deserve.

the world may have a sense of humor, but the human and his android, the android and his human -- they get the last laugh.

[smuggsy]

Could you perhaps write some ineffable husbands and times they met up in the 6000 years that aren’t shown?

Okay! So, a couple of things: First, this ended up turning into angst, or rather, that’s all my brain could come up with (meaning, I knew that’s where I was going since the beginning) sorry, I took the easy road. Hopefully you’ll still enjoy it. Second, I wrote only one date... I think I might make this a series on AO3 though, so you might get more one-shots in the near future! Watch out for that (if you enjoy this, that is). So here goes, when they meet during WW1. Thank you for the prompt! ♥

///

1916.

  Aziraphale often thinks there should be more of them. Angels. More of them on earth, that is. There comes a point in which he realizes he can't manage it on his own, evil spreads everywhere, people make the wrong decisions, death and sickness are never-ending. He can't cope. He knows it's inevitable, it is the way it must be and there's only so much he can do about it. Therefore what he can do, he will do. And that's how he finds himself in a hospital in middle London, just standing there in a simple black priest attire, surrounded by wounded and suffering souls, and he looks around and doesn't know where to begin.

  A young trainee taps him on the shoulder gently, Kitty, he thinks her name is. She's from Coventry, he recalls.

  "Father?" she gives him a polite smile, and Aziraphale knows she's been there for a few moments already, trying to get his attention.

  It is difficult to concentrate in such an environment.

  "Oh, yes dear?"

  "This way please"

  Her smile persists, but Aziraphale can sense it isn't quite genuine. He can't blame her; after all, who'd feel any kind of genuine positivity in this horrid place?

  Now, now, that's what we're here for, aren't we?

  He follows her into an adjacent room, a quieter and smaller room where a copper-haired young man -can't be older than twenty, Aziraphale considers- is lying almost unmoving on a cot, hands resting over his stomach and eyes covered with a cloth that turns redder by the second.

  The angel takes a slow and shivering breath in.

  This is the difficult part, the part that makes him want to turn on his tail and leave, run away from the tall and imposing building, leave the screams of pain and anguish behind and pretend none of it is happening. Miracle himself away somewhere far from all the death, from all the suffering.

  Much as it pains him, however, he can't bring himself to be that selfish.

  Kitty leans in closer, "Private Jonathan Miller" she says, same gentle voice, smile now completely faded from her juvenile face.

  "Thank you, dear" he finally returns the kind smile to her, and takes a sit next to the lying form of a wounded soldier. A now-blind ginger young man who has the finest, most delicate fingers -could've well have been a pianist, Aziraphale thinks with sorrow, if war hadn't been unavoidable- and the coldest hands.

  Aziraphale lowers his own hands onto the boy's -just a boy, really, he's just a boy- and warms him up in an instant. The soldier barely moves, a hint of a startle only, and the angel leans in closer to him, hands resting still atop the young man's.

  "You aren't in any pain, my boy, and you are warm" he tells him, voice barely audible. It has only been a couple of weeks since his good deeds in the hospital, but he has found that talking to them makes it easier. He knows not whether it is his voice or the fact that he's touching them, but they become more responsive to it.

  Easy. Not exactly the word that he would use in such a situation. It is anything but easy for Aziraphale, making them happy and comfortable in the last minutes of their lives, young men who have gone through the worst, who have lost friends and who are alone and far away from their families and would otherwise die wrapped in cold bedding with no friendly faces or words to reassure them on their impending destiny.

  He will have none of that.

  "Oh, better days are coming, brighter days" he whispers, and makes sure to pass the sentiment onto him.

  He gets the tiniest of whines in response.

  Aziraphale knows this, because he can feel it. More often than not, he can feel their goodness, their regret, their youth and their very souls. Most of these children are bound for heaven, because they are not at fault. Merely pawns on a game of chess, they are, and too young to know any better.

  Too young to be leaving this world.

  Leaving without living.

  Leaving.

  Leaving.

  Leaving.

  "You're calm, nothing hurts" Aziraphale tightens the grip on the young boy's hands and leans closer still. He closes his eyes and takes another deep breath in. "You're in peace, Jonathan."

  It would be imperceptible to anybody else. Not a move, not a word, not a single sign of a life coming to its end. However long Private Jonathan Miller would've been lying on that bed, dead, ignored by busy nurses running about, no-one would've known unless they'd approach to check in on his pulse. He was still and cold as a statue before, and so he was now.

  Or, his body was, now.

  Aziraphale lets out the long breath he'd taken in, and sits back down on his chair, letting go of the bony and slender fingers.

  His features are slowly clouded by apprehension.

  He looks up to a clock hanging from the opposite wall.

  It's barely two o'clock.

  The day has only started, but he pulls himself up on his feet before sentiment can get the best of him. This is what he's allowed to do. He can't meddle with things on a bigger scale, he can only do his duty from a point that doesn't really put a stop to it. It's infuriating, and if he thinks too much about it, he is overwhelmed by a feeling of helplessness that renders him useless. So he does pull himself up. Because the last time he let it affect him he barricaded himself up on his library and didn't leave for a whole week.

  And for that whole week, a count of thirty-three soldiers passed, he learnt after.

  It'll be over soon, he repeats in his mind, a phrase that has accompanied him now for days on end, a phrase that has become a mantra to help him push through the darkest days. A phrase that he is mostly unsure of. It will be over soon.

  Today, it isn't over until about six. He walks his way back to the bookshop under the pouring of rain after promising the Head Nurse he'll come round in the morning.

  "We have two trucks coming in at eight", she'd informed him. At that point, Aziraphale couldn't quite muster any kind of smile, not even a hint of it. He'd nodded and turned around.

  Two blocks away from the hospital he miracles his usual attire back on, and he drags his feet to his shop, little to no energy left within him.

  No sooner has he closed the door behind him than Crowley has suddenly materialized on his couch.

  "Nighty-night, angel!" his loud and chipper voice pierces through the silent and dim-lighted room, and Aziraphale fights back a grimace.

  He is completely exhausted and this is quite possibly the worst time to be dealing with the demon's occurrences.

  "Crowley." He acknowledges, taking his drenched coat off and hanging it on the door rack, removing his button vest as well. The vest which is feeling rather constricting against his form - it isn't so much the cloth as his own feeling of being trapped, of needing to breathe, of needing space, what prompts him to get rid of it.

  When he turns around he isn't surprised to find Crowley standing there and looking at him like he's a small wounded animal who needs drying off and feeding.

  "Angel..." Crowley coos, seizing him up and down with a frown, with worry, with understanding, as a pool of water forms underneath his feet.

  Well, he could do with the drying off part, really.

  "Horrid weather outside" he says, a pathetic comment just to make conversation, an intent at hiding his own self from Crowley even though he knows very well that the demon can read him like an open book. "Have you been waiting long?"

  He walks past Crowley, who takes a step aside to let him through, mouth half-open but no words coming out.

  And Aziraphale feels dry from a moment to another.

  "Oh- thank you, kindly" he says, not turning around, making for the kitchen.

  "Aziraphale..."

  "Cup of tea?"

  He's dry now, but he feels cold nonetheless. A chill has settled in inside, a kind of cold that doesn't go away no matter how many hot cups of tea he drinks. It only grows stronger by the day.

  Crowley is kind enough to wait until they are both seated before he speaks his mind. It is uncomfortable for the angel, he can't hide away now, can't show the demon his back while he busies himself with tins of imported beverages and boiling water and tray-assembling. Now he's here for Crowley to contemplate, and contemplating him he is, if his facial expression is anything to go by.

  "Just what exactly have you been doing?" He asks, barely a moment after the angel has settled in on the couch, cup of tea in hand. Crowley, for his part, doesn't even spare a glance to the smoking flavoured-water next to him on the table.

  His voice is gentle, yet there is an underlying feeling of hostility to it.

  "Whatever do you mean?"

  "Don't play the fool now, you feel like- like-" Crowley gestures wildly in the air, struggling to put it into words. Desolate. Gloomy. Mournful. Drained. "You don't feel like you" he says, in the end. Because he's never felt this before, not this much, not with Aziraphale.

  The demon glances at the now-dry coat and vest hanging from the door, no need to out his words on that, looks back at Aziraphale and sees him do the most imperceptible of nods.

  "What? What is it? The war?"

  "Well of course it's the war" Aziraphale retorts, striving for patience but failing at it.

  "You've been trying to stop it or what?" Crowley shakes his head, makes a face, almost mutters out a laugh. The thought of a single angel trying to put an end to such conflict is simply another definition to the word 'naivety'. "You know it can't be helped, angel"

  "Yes, I know"

  "Then go somewhere else! Your books won't go anywhere, you can take my word on that! When have I lied to you? Listen, I've been to Thailand recently, they have these temples, oh, you'd love 'em, you need some peace and quiet, recharge your mojo, I can sho-"

  "I'm not going anywhere, Crowley. For heaven's sake, how can you turn a blind eye?!"

  Aziraphale puts the empty cup of tea down with an aggressive sound, the remaining liquid spluttering out of it, words bursting out of him like venom.

  "How can you not care?"

  "I-"

  "You're a demon, yes, I know" Aziraphale cuts in, because they've had this conversation before, time and time again. Good and evil. Light and darkness. They must both fulfil their duties, and asking Crowley why he doesn't care about people dying is as much stupid a question as asking an angel why he does.

  It is part of their nature and the ineffable plan of which they are barely pawns as well, just like the hundred and thousands of soldiers out there are pawns of another, more earthly and macabre plan.

  Whilst Crowley doesn't probably bat an eye to a young blind ginger soldier suffering through a head injury, Aziraphale is mortified by it. By the blood, by the inevitable pain and the unstoppable ending of lives. By the calling of mothers and the pleads, by the horror and the fear.

  "Why are you doing this, angel?"

  Aziraphale looks up from his lap and to the demon, and he doesn't try to hide himself this time. He is tired, he is heartbroken, and he is sleepy.

  "Because I can" he says, with a small voice. "Would it be awfully ungentlemanly of me to doze off for a bit?"

  Crowley blinks at his words, doesn't say a thing as he shuffles closer to the arm-rest and makes himself as comfortable as he can on the couch. When he lets out a yawn, the demon seems to find his voice again.

  "My, you really did mean that- no, of course, please do, I- bloody hell, you need to slow down on this whole thing, angel..."

  "So sorry, truly I am the worst of hosts..." Aziraphale mumbles, eyes closing.

  "You are" Crowley nods mockingly.

  "...just an hour, I'll be done in a jiffy."

  Those are his last words -albeit a little slurred at the end- before he slips into unconsciousness, much to Crowley's chagrin.

  Using his angelic powers so recklessly till the point of actually needing to rest in order to recharge, that is completely nuts. It shouldn’t be necessary. Leave it to bloody Aziraphale to be too nice for his own good.

  The demon starts up the fire with a simple flick of his hand, a quite aggressive one - projecting his anger is something that he hasn't quite mastered.

  He sits back down on his chair and waits. Stares at Aziraphale’s troubled features and listens to his uneven breathing for too long.

  "Bollocks" Crowley mouths, and he bites his lower lip in annoyance.

  This is really taking a toll on his angel.

  "Fuck"

  If he could make it better, he would.

  Thing is, this one is really out of his hands. Just like it is out of Aziraphale's.

  There are some things they simply cannot play a part in -not a significant one, anyway- and this is one of them.

  He stares at Aziraphale, at his hands tightly gripping each other in an anxious manner even in his sleep, at his furrowed brow and tense posture.

  And the demon takes a deep breath in himself.

  He reaches out for Aziraphale's golden curls -the chair he's in swiftly moving forwards soundlessly- and runs a gentle hand through them, slowly and delicately enough not to wake him up. The angel's features are soothed instantly, and Crowley looks down at him tenderly as the tension leaves his body.

  Now, perhaps this is something he can fix.

[pjo-hoo-nextgen]

Balance Part III

Storm clouds rolled overhead in a dark turmoil as lightning flashed sporadically to illuminate the dark marbled floor.

“I’m bored,” Enyo glowered gazing down at a large empty chess board, “the plan is taking too long. It’s been months.”

“Have patience sister.” Eris smiled faintly.

“I can feel the power stirring, it’s growing stronger, and if it finds a host we’re doomed!” Enyo’s fists clenched in anger.

“I’m aware of her waking.” Eris’ amusement turned into a glare. “I was the one who felt it first, did I not?”

“Yes.”

“Then trust me,” Eris shifted slightly in her throne to rest her chin in her hand. “She won’t be getting far. Leah is almost ready.”

“She has no stomach for this Eris, you’ve seen the way she hesitates,” Enyo shook her head and continued to pace about.

“She’ll learn.”

“And if not?”

“Then we find another solution!” Eris snapped. Her sister’s persistent questioning was wearing on her nerves. “Do you doubt me?”

“Of course not.”

“Then be quiet.” Eris’ glare would have killed any mortal but all it did was silence Enyo. The goddess of Chaos turned her attention to a thin figure sitting cross legged upon the cold floor. “Darling, how is it?”

“Difficult,” Leah breathed. A light sheen of sweat covered her skin and her brow furrowed in deep concentration. “I get close but something’s pushing me back.”

“Push harder,” Eris encouraged.

“I have!” Leah insisted.

“Imagine a thin blade.” A light silver weapon formed in the palm of Eris’ hand where it glinted menacingly in the light. “It does not kill by brute force, no, it takes a slow patient process. A surgical precision. A slight cut here and there, but when you find the weak point, the chink in the armor, that’s when you strike.”

Both goddesses watched Leah curiously until the young girl’s shoulders relaxed and her breathing grew even. “Okay, I-I did it.”

“Good,” Eris smiled, “now that you’re there what do you see?”

“A temple. It’s old and caved in. The marble is faded in color so it looks grey. Vines and weeds fill the cracks but there’s-“ Leah struggled once more against the force trying to push her prodding away, “a pool of water in a gold basin. I’ve never seen anything so clear before.”

“She’s found it.” Enyo’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “After all this time a child finds the temple of O-“

Eris held up a firm hand silencing her sister. “Don’t look into it.”

“I won’t.” Leah promised.

“Is it guarded?” Eris questioned.

“No, it’s open. Nothing stands in the way except nature.” Leah’s hands began to shake from exertion.

“Good girl.” Eris laughed deeply. “Tell me, where is it?”

Leah shook her head in confusion, “I don’t know. I can show you but-“

“Then show me.” Eris closed her eyes and sure enough Leah’s aura reached out to hers before an image flashed across the goddess’ eyes. “Mmm, perfect.”

“Is it truly there?” Enyo frowned.

“Indeed it is sister,” Eris opened her eyes slowly, reveling in the victory. “Well done Leah, truly I’m proud. You may rest darling. You’ve done an incredible service.”

Leah let out a deep sigh of relief and turned to look at her mother. A happy glint reflected in the girl’s eyes, she’d made her mother proud. “What will you do now?”

“Well, I’m going to do something I’ve waited for... for a long time.” Eris stood from her throne with a regal air and she locked eyes with her sister. “Shall we?”

— — —

“It worked for Maria so I’ll ask my Dad if he can bring some of it over for you,” Grey smiled from the other end of the Iris message. Apparently he’d figured out some sort of sleeping tonic.

“Thanks Grey, you’re the best.” Thia smiled warmly. “Tell Jaxon I sad hi for me would you?”

“Of course.” Grey nodded, his blonde hair was fluffy from drying after his previous shower. “See you around kiddo.”

“You too.” Grey swiped his hand through the mist cutting the connection and leaving Thia to sit alone on her bed.

A light knock on her door sounded before Thalia poked her head into the room, “Goodnight kid. If you need anything come slap me with a pillow so I wake up, and then I’ll help.”

“Mama you’re such a dork!” Thia snorted before tossing a small pillow at her.

“I know.” Thalia winked before flicking off the lights and shutting the door gently.

All things considered, the day hadn’t been so bad. Sleep should have been nice and wonderful but it wasn’t. Instead of the soupy, chaotic red an old decrepit temple emerged. The structure was failing horribly and nature was using it as a play ground.

Overall, it held a powerful and ancient whimsical atmosphere to it. Thia wouldn’t mind spending all day there writing in her journal. She was certain it was peaceful and calm.

A violent flash of red exploded across the scenery before settling to reveal two very ominous and familiar people. Eris took a deep breath as a smirk crossed her lips. “Finally, after all this time.”

Enyo glanced about wearily as if she expected something to leap from the shrubs and attack them. Eris’ armored feet clapped lightly upon the old marbel as she circled the old building slowly. “What to start with?”

“The engravings?” Enyo offered. The goddess’ eyes lit up to mirror the look of a kid in a candy store.

“Why not?” Eris shrugged looking coy. An old medieval mace appeared in Enyo’s hand and with a violent swing it slammed nastily into a marbled face. Thia’s stomach coiled in knots.

Enyo milled about striking at every peaceful looking engraving she could find. Each hit brought a knew wave of sickness and pain over Thia and she didn’t know why, but she wanted it to stop.

“This is why you must change your dreams.” The same smooth and ancient voice beckoned at the back of Thia’s mind.

“I don’t understand! Make it stop.” Thia pleaded.

“The pillars.” Eris directed. Enyo slammed the mace into a thick column with vigor. She laughed each time chunks of beautiful stone fell away.

“You do.” The voice countered.

“No I don’t!” Thia argued.

“Alas, my friend. It’s time to get rid of your sacred pool.” Eris peered evilly into the water. It was clearer than any liquid Thia had ever seen before. Not an ounce of imperfection seemed to rest in it. “No anointed hero of yours will stop me this time.”

“Think my dear,” The voice encouraged, “Are you not gentle, kind, level headed, none judgmental, a defender, a-“

“I have no powers!” Thia protested. “If you want a hero I can’t be it!”

“You’re wrong child.”

“How?” Thia begged.

“Don’t you see? Power makes people crave more of it. It offers temptation for foul and chaotic deeds. You’ve grown up knowing what others have not. You know the pain of judgment, and strife, and cruelty. It’s why you’re so tender hearted. Your blood is pure, crafted by the hand of a god himself, you were made for this.” Despite the soothing sound of the invisible woman’s voice Thia found herself hyperventilating.

“No. No, I was made because my grandfather wanted to play nice with my mom!” Thia’s eyes welled with tears as her anxiety increased and the panic set in further.

“Thia, why else would a god make a child? This has happened only once before with the Christian religion. Everything has a purpose, even your birth. You’ve always been destined to be my champion.”

“Champion for what?”

“To restore what the world needs most. Eris has grown too strong and I’ve grown weak.” Thia’s gaze settled once more on the temple that was crumbling further.

“Today is the day Order dies.” Eris’ eyes held a crazy sort of light to them as her hand glowed a vibrant red.

“Order-“ Thia gasped.

“Yes, I am Order.” There was a smile in the voice’s words. “She cannot destroy my sacred pool should I anoint a champion. The ancient powers won’t allow it. Should you accept your destined role my spirit would be tied to you. Then, and only then, is there the potential to undo all that Eris has done. You could save your friend.”

Thia was at a loss. She didn’t know what to do. A major decision like this shouldn’t require mere seconds of contemplation but Eris was ready to kill. Order seemed to sense the girl’s decision behind all of the panic and the sacred pool flowed a faint blue.

Eris’ eyes widened in disbelief. “No. NO!”

“You’re my champion.” Order informed.

“I’m a pawn.”

“As everyone is my dear.”

— — —

Thia woke up with the sheets of her bed sticking to her from sweet. Her chest heaved and her face was damp with tears. She felt like throwing up. “She’s lying. She’s lying, she has to be.”

“Hey, I said wake me up with a pillow. I didn’t say yell.” Thia jumped nearly a foot in the air and turned to see Thalia leaning tiredly in the doorway. She was joking of course, but Thia couldn’t bring herself to laugh.

“I need to go to Olympus.”

Thia’s statement was met with a long pause before Thalia flicked the lights of her room on. “Now? It’s two in the morning.”

“Please.” The plea in Thia’s voice brought a look of worry to Thalia’s face.

“Yeah, okay. Why?”

“There’s something I don’t think grandpa told any of us about.” Thia tucked a damp strand of hair behind her ear.

“Not surprised,” Thalia scoffed. “Get dressed and be downstairs in five. I’ll get your mom up if she doesn’t kill me.“

“Bear mode.” Thia smiled faintly. If there was a single rule in the house that was always followed it was that Reyna was not to be woken up if someone wanted to keep their life.

“Yeah, bear mode.”

[daddyconfessions]

sugar tales: Ms. Butterworth

Ms. Butterworth has been texting me for the last two weeks. Well, I should say a few of those days I was talking to her ex. Apparently, Mr. PhoneSnatch had taken her phone and was pretending to be her. Glad I hadn’t talked about all the nasty things we’d done in the past. He could have really had fun with me.

About a week ago, she text me from a new number, saying the conversation I’d been having with “her” was actually her ex. I was kind of put off by Ms. Butterworth for being so careless. I shield my sugar from my personal life. I expect the same in return. I admit it wasn’t the first time I’d ran into some SBs vanilla boyfriend or husband and got into a text conversation with them.

But I was hard on Ms. Butterworth because our relationship was never consistent. It’s been off and on for the past year and half so this was definitely not worth the trouble. So when the fuckboy texted me, pretending to be her, I was nonchalant since I had no big hopes for hooking up with her. Thank whatever deities look down on us Daddy’s. He could have set something up and had me meet him somewhere for an ambush.

As I talk to the real Ms. Butterworth, she’s being her usually coy and noncommittal self. She sends a few more text, but I just ignore them. Tired of the games.

Then she starts texting me again on Thanksgiving. I tell her lets meet because she’s been pretty consistent in texting me the last few days. But Ms. Butterworth declines. Says she’s not doing well. Her vanilla boyfriend, Mr. PhoneSnatch, jumped her. He hit her, knocking her to the ground. He followed up with a kick in the back and a few other places she can’t remember. PhoneSnatch got on top of her and then choked her. She fought back after she managed to get up. Ms. Butterworth didn’t say what she did but I gather from her tone, she dished out her own beat down because when I asked about pressing charges, she says she can’t because of what she did. Says the whole fight took about 2 hours.

I grew up hard. I watched my mother get hit by the men she was with. My uncles and male cousins beat their women. Even as a grew into an adult some of my homeboys hit their girls in order to control them and get their submission.  It’s a grimey way to do things. Looking back on it I regret not being more outspoken about how I felt but frankly under the circumstances it was just the way things were done. It was accepted. Thankfully, I learned at an early age there as a better way to do things. : ) Instead of fighting with a woman, I’d much rather spend some money on her. Nothing makes a girl want to do what you want like the two c’s: charm and cash. Much much easier path.

So where do I come in with this Ms. Butterworth chick you might ask? Why is she contacting me? Hell I don’t know. I’m wondering the same shit. Frankly I thought it was over. But one thing about the bowl I’ve learned….a few will always come back.

I’ll go ahead and give you her story but this obviously is nowhere near over.

First, Ms. Butterworth’s not the first to tell me about domestic violence. As a sugar daddy, I’ve seen all kinds of things and situations. I don’t think I have enough time to write and blog about all the experiences and stories but I’ll try since some of you want to read about it. Sooooo much goes on in the world, not the sugar bowl.

Someone once asks me an anon about exclusivity with my SBs and I said then and I’ll say now. There’s no need to be exclusive. These lame sugardaddies and fuckboys will do all the work for me.

I met Ms. Butterworth about the tail end of my relationship with Bottlecap. By the time things had washed up with Bottlecap, I was well on my way to getting to know Ms. Butterworth…..so I thought.

We went back and forth a few emails before she sent a pic. Black chick from New Orleans. Big and thick. Kind of country too. Naturally curly, wavy hair like she’s got Indian in her family. Creamy caramel skin tone. She was a sharp contrast to the 5’2, thin half Filipino, half Mexican Bottlecap and the 3 or 4 chicks before her. As I recall, I hadn’t seen many thick chicks in prior several months. So I was looking forward to meeting Ms. Butterworth.

As it were it took over 6 weeks to actually meet. Not sure what the problem was. We’d talk incessantly for a day or two then she’d stop responding. Then we’d do it all again and then nothing. A painful cycle of wait and see. One thing about the sugar bowl is patience. Lots of patience. Any sugarbaby or sugardaddy who’s being doing it long enough will tell you. You got to be patient. You’d think with a generous offer on the table, a young girl would be clamoring to have it. But more often than not, it’s a waiting game, painfully moving pieces on the chess board, and lots of persistence if she’s resistant.

Finally I get dinner setup. I put on some nice clothes and cologne. Got my hair cut. I wanted to leave nothing to chance. I’ve learned long ago just because I have some money that doesn’t mean I’m going to pull some young 20 something. I’ve learned long ago not to take her for granted. And certainly don’t take the money for granted. So I took a moment to adequately prepare.

I took my older car, my baby, probably older than a lot of you reading this. I wouldn’t have done it ordinarily but I was in such a rush and fuss over myself, I didn’t realize I was in it until I was almost to the restaurant. Shit. I park far away from the restaurant so she can’t see it. It’s not a bad or ugly car, just doesn’t convey I’m a guy who can pay all your bills and give you a generous allowance. Sugar chicks are forever checking the finer details of a SD like where do you work, what kind of work, what’s your position, what’s your zip code, and more importantly, what do you drive. And I knew I needed to take my main chariot but forgot and it was too late to turn around.

Ms. Butterworth shows up at the restaurant looking unimpressive. Hair was frizzy and all over her head. Later she told me she was doing the natural thing. That was bullshit. I can tell the difference between doing the natural thing and being to lazy to comb your hair or straighten it. She had on regular shirt and jeans. About the only thing done was her nails. Guess she wasn’t taking this too serious. Bad sign. That should have told me everything. As we start to eat, I’m a little peeved that I put so much preparation into myself.

We have a decent dinner. Nothing eventful. Basic get to know you conversation. Towards the end, I ask if she’s ok with the allowance and the sexual part of our relationship. She’s cool with everything. She even seems excited about it. I was excited too. Despite her basic appearance, I could tell some beautiful curves and voluptuousness was under them clothes. I knew she was young and tender and I could just imagine kissing all over that big body. Damn. I’m getting turned on just writing this.  

We wrap up dinner and head out. Damn. She parked right by me. We give pecks goodbye and I grudgingly walk to my car, hopefully she takes off before I do. Nope. By the time I’m in my car she’s still there. Finally as I back out she back s out.

As predicted, emails go unanswered. I think she responded once after that. That’s about it. We go almost 2 months without talking. I threw in the towel after about 3 unanswered emails. I have her cel to text but she never answered that way. She only used email. Not sure what that was about. Then one day, a few months after I gave up, I was going through my old email and saw her name. I click on her email and briefly relived our brief time getting to know each other. I click on a few of her pics and decide I can’t let this thick muffin go without another chance. Even if its just one time….I just wanna fuck.

I send her an email and get a response after about two days.  And then we spend another 3 weeks emailing and texting (which was a first) before we finally decide to meet.  During those 3 weeks we’re pretty playful. She sends a few more pics which serve to solidify my quest to get the kitty.

We agree to meet at 11:30 that night. Its too late for me to meet but I’ve now been waiting on this kitty for 3 months. Exceptions had to be made. I’m expecting nothing less than that pink muff to float in the air like some magical entity at this point. I know. Corny. But this is my life dammit! And that’s what I was thinking at the time.

The wife goes to sleep around 10ish, as usual. I leave the tv on downstairs and sneak out into the night. As long as the tv is on, she thinks I’m down on the couch watching tv so she won’t bother to get up and check on me.  I take her car which is pretty quiet compared to mine. I creep out of our cul-de-sac and over to the motel.

I remember the night because it was right after I first joined SA. I hadn’t had much luck with the site to say the least. I had met this chick I’ll call Babydoll. She was a thin model and commanded a hefty allowance. Smitten with her looks and flattered by her willingness to kick it with me, I was all in. Long story short. We went to the room twice and I couldn’t get an erection. Not sure what that was about. This chick was flawless from head to toe….but for some reason I just couldn’t get it up when it came to her.

So as I go into my hookup with Ms. Butterworth, I’m nervous old Bart won’t act right. Plus I was out of Lamar Odom’s so it wasn’t looking good.  It was a late October night and pouring rain. So much that I was worried she might not come and probably cancel. Ms. Butterworth arrived about 30 minutes late. She comes in wearing a long black dress with a big heavy coat. Nothing sexy.

Inside the room, we kiss for the first time and then again. And again. Before long were exchanging saliva and thrashing tongues like teenagers. She starts taking off my clothes as she kisses me. My coat and shirt are gone. She struggles with my belt and when she can’t get it off she tells me, “Take it off. Now.”

Bossy. I like this shit. I unbuckle my belt and start unbuttoning my pants. “I got it,” She tells me. She unbuttons my pants and squats as she pulls them down. I step out of my pants, shoes still on. “Get them off,” she tells me. Off with the shoes.

I start working on her clothes. I remove the dress and find she’s wearing no panties and some Victoria secret stockings. To make things weird, one  leg is a red stockings, the other is black. But they are identical. I’m like did she buy this shit like this? I’m to horny to care really.

She goes over to the bed and sits down. “Get over here.” I walk over like a little man bitch, doing what he’s told. As I stare at her body I realize the culmination of months of waiting and persistence is all about to pay off. “Get hard,” she tells me. I’m pick Bart up wiggle him and drop him. “Um can I get a little help?”

“No.” she replies. “Get that dick hard. You been talking shit so let’s see what you got.”

She’s right. I had been talking mad shit about how she would get sprung. How I was going to whip the dick on her and make her fall in love. How much money I was going to spend on her….Even told her she was scared which is why she hadn’t been seeing me. Looks like she was calling me out on my bullshit.

I get on my knees and try to go down on her. “No,” she tells me, pulling me backup.  “No”.

“But I want to do it,” I say like a baby asking for candy.

“No. I might let you next time. Not tonight. Now get up.”

As I stand up I realize my dick is a bit hard. She reaches out suddenly and grabs him. She pulls me to her by using Bart then puts him in her mouth. With 3 to 4 good deep throat thrusts my dick is hard as a rock.

She stops and lays down on the bed. On with the raincoat, and then I climb onto the bed.

She raises her legs up high, and cups her hands underneath to keep them big thick creamy thighs up. I enter the pink slice of heaven, and right away I started pounding the kitty like I hadn’t had any in years. 3 months of waiting for the kitty will do that to you. She’s unbothered by me, though. She wraps them legs around me and squeezes tight as I go nice and deep inside her. I’m closing to cumming when she tells me “Get up.”

WTF? I do as I’m told. Ms. Butterworth gets up and gets on her knees. She wants me to hit it from the back. I oblige, and I marvel at the way her ass wiggles as I slam into it over and over again. “You like that shit don’t you?”

“Yes,” I whimper. “Yes.” I’m just so happy to be getting the kitty I don’t know what to do. I move my hips so that I’m going in at different angles, just playing in the pussy like a kid with a new toy.

We switch again, this time she wants to be on top. The motel has a mirror to our left and I watch her big thick body as it bounces up and down on me. I watch as the big ass slams up and down on me. God I’m getting turned on just thinking about it. Before I started writing this I wasn’t interested but now I’m having second thoughts. I cum unexpectedly, the culmination of months of pent up anticipation burst into the condom.

I fall off her and lay to her side, enjoying the orgasm. Ms. Butterworth starts talking shit. “You done? “ she asks. Chuckling. “Knew you wasn’t ready.  You going to have to get that dick back hard again.”

Are you kidding me? I came enough to cum 3 times in a row. No way Bart was getting back up. The conversation shifts away from her needs and we manage to have a fairly decent after sex conversation. Ms. Butterworth tells me she got turned on and felt challenged by all the shit talking I was doing. As it were, she likes to conquer men. Especially older men. Go figure. 15 minutes later I get up and wash up. Then it’s her turn to clean up while I get dressed. When we’re at the door we kiss again. She tells me, “Next time don’t talk so much shit.”

We kiss again and head out. By the time I get home is almost 1:30. Wife and kids are still sleep. I manage to slide into bed without waking her up.

I don’t get another shot at Ms. Butterworth for almost a month. When I did, it went about the same as the first time. Mostly her telling me what to do. By this point we were just doing some pay per meet thing. Another couple of weeks go by and we hook up for a third time.

We start our normal way. First she gets undressed. God I love her big thick body. Curvy and fat in all the right places. I’m seated on a couch as she straddles me. We do a lot of kissing. I love the way she kisses by the way, like she’s trying to suck my tongue out of my mouth or something. She starts taking off my shirt and then kisses my chest and neck. I remember this because I had to push her away from my neck. She almost gave me a hickie. Trying to set a brother up.

We move to the bed and I try to go down on her. She pushes my head away but I tell her she’s not in charge any more. I am. I go back in and she doesn’t fight this time. I lick the clit in several different patterns but she’s not quite responding like I like. So I start a combo a approach, I like the clit while simultaneously sucking it. Now she’s shaking and grabbing my head.

Bingo.

I was determined to shift the tables and establish my sexual dominance over hers. I use plenty of saliva while I lick it, getting the kitty nice and wett. But despite my best effort, she doesn’t cum from it. So I stop, strap up, and go in. Once again she wraps the big pretty legs around me sans stockings this time. I don’t hold back either….I go hard on her, digging deep for the gspot. I figure she’ll tell me to take it easy but nothing of the sort happened.

She moans and growls in my ear, “Run this pussy nigga.” That’s all I needed to hear. I give her all I got, trying to knock the bottom out of it, maybe feel her ovaries or something.  And I go on “running” it for another minute or so until the inevitable happens. I cum and I cum hard. I let out a weird yell/moan that makes me sound like a bitch.

When I’m done, I look down at Ms. Butterworth and she’s smirking, laughing at me. “You my bitch,” she tells me. Yea, I did some bitch shit. Don’t judge.

That was about December last year. She hit me up a few days late for some cash. Her car note needed to be paid and her gym fees. She swung by my job to pick it up. It was good seeing her in a cute lil workout outfit but no makeup.  But,  I wouldn’t see Ms. Butterworth again until about March. In between December and March there was a bunch of emails and text back and forth. Going nowhere. She’d emailed me several times to hook up in Jan and December, but come the day of she’d go MIA and not answer my emails. This went on until March when we finally hooked up again. After March saw her one more time in May and then I haven’t seen  her since. She sends a random text here or there. Mostly to setup a date she has no intention of keeping.

As it were, with Firecracker being in the pic now, I just pretty much have quit even answering her text since about August.

So it was a bit of a surprise that she texted me after 2.5 months. After hearing about the big fight, she seems to be a little more adamant about having something with me. When I asked why the inconsistent lack of communication, she said “I guess I keep telling myself I’m messing up a marriage”

Now she has my attention. This is the first time she’s been that open. Generally when we talk it’s a bunch of head games. Buuuuuuuut, she has no idea my marriage has been fucked a long time ago.

Anyway, we’ll see. Stay tuned. I’ve been fancying a trip to Ohio as of late otherwise Firecracker is keeping me busy at the moment.

[bakechochin]

The Book Ramblings of February and March 2019

In place of book reviews, I will be writing these ‘book ramblings’. A lot of the texts I’ve been reading (or plan to read) in recent times are well-known classics, meaning I can’t really write book reviews as I’m used to. I’m reading books that either have already been read by everyone else (and so any attempt to give novel or insightful criticisms would be a tad pointless), or are so convoluted and odd that they defy being analysed as I would do a simpler text. These ramblings are pretty unorganised and hardly anything revolutionary, but I felt the need to write something review-related. I’ll upload a rambling compiling all my read books on a monthly basis.

Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass, and What Alice Found There - Lewis Carroll I am a jammy fucker, and so when faced with all of the editions of Alice in Wonderland that I could have bought, I had to go with the deluxe edition of The Annotated Alice, because it’s big and fancy and I could get my fill of cheeky secondary reading from it. However, upon purchasing it I realised that there is definitely a line that needs to be established when it comes to analysing books like this, and you’ll have to forgive me for repeating some of my thoughts on Peter Pan in this ramble, because my thoughts are much the same for both texts. Unlike Chesterton, who fought against the scholarly intellectualisation of Carroll’s works, as well as giving us the great quote on the subject, ‘Alice is now not only a schoolgirl but a schoolmistress’, I think that there can be benefits for reading Alice with a scholarly eye, especially when focusing on Carroll’s own life and outside influences of his that may have explicitly affected the writing of the stories. (Brief side note, I’ll stick to referring to the author as Carroll as opposed to Dodgson in this ramble, for simplicity’s sake). Whilst I do think that there are a lot of annotations in this book, which I will consider representative of fields of study done on the subject of Alice, only vaguely relevant and interesting in a detached way from the overall narrative, just additional embellishments to the reading rather than explicitly making the stories better to read, I’ve still got time for them because such extra tidbits of information are interesting in their own right. Of course, sometimes the information tidbits aren’t as interesting as what Carroll did with them - why would I care to read the sensible proper versions of verse extracts that Carroll changed into nonsense verse when it’s the nonsense that’s far more entertaining? - but, again, it has its use. What I do have qualms with are the annotations attempting to over-intellectualise the nonsense aspects of the story with real-life physics or mathematics application, retroactively attributing theories and shit to Carroll’s formulation of his nonsense and judging the nonsense by the sum of its (supposed) parts, and of course it’s awful when the annotations spend paragraphs upon paragraphs comparing the twenty billion different drawings of Alice within the framework of Carroll’s hatred of crinoline fashion. That shit can bugger right off. But let’s actually talk about the stories. These stories are, if not the first, than certainly the definitive examples of literary nonsense, and what proved most interesting to me was how said nonsense specifically manifested itself for comedic effect. Alice’s straightforward thinking and no-nonsense attitude (no pun intended) to all the kooky shit around her is always fun, and this book deserves kudos for its bold strides in the direction of really dark comedy in a children’s book. Similarly to a lot of people, I was familiar with the Alice nonsense before reading it, thanks to the 1951 Disney film and the sheer ubiquitousness of the stories’ content in pop culture, but it didn’t make it any less fun to read. I know that this is far from a novel takeaway, but there’s some things in a written text that a film just can’t capture; the writing has a fantastic way of being able to gloss over Alice’s low moments to firmly cement her as a fearless protagonist who accepts all the challenges thrown her way head-on, whereas the film needs to cover every low point in the story with heartstring-pulling poignancy. This is helped greatly by the fact that we know that everything will turn out alright in the end, either because the tone conveys it or because Alice explicitly tells us; there’s strife and peril along the way, but there’s no real risk of the whimsy giving way to any real danger, and so the story can just revel in its nonsense. Reading how Carroll describes all his fun Wonderland nonsense is, of course, incredibly enriching and fun; going into the story, I was expecting a lot from such well-known characters as the Caterpillar or the Cheshire Cat, and was subsequently surprised to see how little they actually figured into the overall story, but this gave way to the inclusion of scenes and nonsense I hadn’t seen before, like the tart debacle in the Queen’s Court. I was advised by a friend to leave it a while between reading Wonderland and the sequel, Through the Looking Glass, because the novelty of the nonsense would lessen were I to read them one after the other, and whilst I agree with his advice I feel that there is so much overlap of content between the two stories (especially considering how the film adaptations pick and choose story elements from both stories) that the new story wasn’t the completely novel experience I was hoping for. Whilst Wonderland didn’t have much of a story structure, with events unfolding and characters appearing as the story went along, there is more of a structure to Through the Looking Glass, however loose it may seem. This structure is that of a chess game, a fact I am left in little doubt about on account of the annotations giving me a constant fucking running commentary of the game’s progress, a progression which only ties into the story in terms of the characters’ idiosyncrasies in a humorous way once or twice in the whole fucking story. I know very little about chess, so any complex nonsense surrounding that fell way the fuck by the wayside when I was reading this, and therefore I was grateful that the usual Wonderland nonsense persists; my favourite encounters are the ones that reflect Carroll’s academic interests and experimentations, including a really interesting discourse on semantics and nominalism held by by none other than Humpty fucking Dumpty. WOULD I RECOMMEND?: YES

The Third Policeman - Flann O’Brien Nonsense writing is a fun concept to me, but my introduction to the genre, and indeed my full understanding before reading this book, was limited to texts by Carroll, which, don’t get me wrong, are of course great nonsense texts, but are familiar to us on account of how ingrained they are in pop culture, and thus you go into them knowing what to expect. I had no fucking idea what to expect from this book, and what I got was great. The story follows a chap with no name getting embroiled with a station of bizarre policemen, a vague setup into which is slotted in subplots about a league of one-legged men, inter-dimensional maps hidden on the ceilings of innocuous bedrooms, colours that make one go mad, and a conspiracy involving men taking on the attributes of bicycles and vice versa. This is supplemented with our narrator linking the banal sights and sounds around him to the speculations on said subjects by the insane savant writer de Selby, leading to pages upon pages of footnotes talking about de Selby’s ideas on bottled darkness or the world being shaped like a sausage, and all the contrasting and fucking ridiculous critical responses and hypotheses about said de Selby nonsense. I don’t need to tell you that this is all fucking amazing stuff. Not only is it always fun, it is described frankly and without laughing at itself, and while there is a lot to keep one occupied, it never gets overwhelming (or at least, the density of nonsense content in the prose never weighs on one’s brain in an information overload). The story is short, but dense with nonsense as mentioned above, and the fact that the few events that do progress the plot occur without warning nor aplomb is perhaps forgivable, because honestly the plot isn’t really the point as much as it is a vague backdrop for the nonsense at hand. All the way through it we have our nameless narrator, who challenges the farce around him but not incessantly or obnoxiously, and has a great patience for the shit he has to endure, greeting every new slab of ridiculousness with a polite nod and a smile; it’s very easy to align with the narrator without feeling like your interests clash with his. What I will say about this book is that, whilst it is purportedly many different things, from a murder mystery to a love story to an allegorical tale of guilt and despair, the sheer quantity of its bullshit means that it cannot be any of said things effectively. As a murder mystery, the plot hook that sets the pieces in motion for the circumstances of the murder is swiftly forgotten as the story barrels onwards. The love story element, whilst being ridiculous because it’s between our narrator and a stolen bicycle, is just one minor element of our narrator’s journey and is only dwelled upon for as long as it takes for the story to travel onwards to the next wacky plot thread. And as an allegorical tale of guilt, any attempt at inspiring guilt or sadness or whatnot is immediately offset by the knowledge that you’re reading a book with sentient bicycles and robes made of woven wind and policemen who refer to a difficult-to-solve problem as ‘an insoluble pancake’. This point does, however, bring us to the ending, which I will not explicitly spoil, but I will say that a) it does come as a surprise, but b) it pretty much juxtaposes the spirit of the entire work, and as such I thought it was a bit of a cop-out (no policeman-related pun intended). A thought-provoking cop-out that came as a bit of a shock, but a cop-out nonetheless. WOULD I RECOMMEND: HELL YES

Complete Stories - Clarice Lispector I like to review books based on whether I have personally got something out of them, and I am subsequently at something at a loss with this collection; as much as there is to recommend in the short stories of Lispector, they’re really not what I, or indeed those who know me, would consider to be ‘my thing’, and so my recommendations for the book may come across as a wee bit disingenuous. But let’s talk about these stories anyway. Lispector’s thing is incredible prose, almost prose poetry in some stories; it is florid and it is evocative and it is captivating, describing the emotions and thought processes of the narrator characters with such zeal and passion and complexity and verbosity. On this basis alone, I can recommend her stories, and presumably also her novels, to which I understand follow the stories in similar ways. However, I myself am loathe to pick up a novel from Lispector, because I find her short stories draining enough; I don’t mean this in a negative way, please simmer down and let me finish. These are incredibly dense short stories, with pages upon pages breaking down and analysing thoughts and feelings, snapshots of life extrapolated on and made to seem like powerful life-changing moments, the grand momentous prose depicting something as banal as a misinterpreted situation or a moment of embarrassment as cataclysmic disasters or mind-boggling enigmas to be contemplated by the finest philosophers. Only once could I sit back and laugh at this (the story ‘The Chicken and the Egg’, if you’re interested); for the rest of the time, I was fully and unequivocally invested in the strife and troubles described in these stories. But that’s not to say that they don’t take a toll. It took me quite some time to read this anthology because, were I to sit down and read these stories one after the other, I feared that the emphasis, the fucking punch that these stories had would become saturated, and it would just be a weary slog through turgid prose. I asked my friend (i.e. the bloke who gave me this anthology) why he considered the novels of Lispector to be some of the best he’s read, and he said that he loved how Lispector could pack seemingly everything into the world, every issue and matter and question and philosophy, into such small events; I won’t argue that Lispector excels at this, but I will protest having to read an entire novel’s worth of it, because I don’t have the patience nor the willpower. Anything else that I can think to say about the stories pales in comparison to Lispector's major strengths, but I’ll say what I’ve got anyway lest anyone were to accuse me of half-arsing these rambles. Some of the stories are unflinching examinations of the darker side of human nature, whilst others sacrifice this rumination for succinct twist endings and a black comedy tone; whilst I am fond of these stories, it can be a tad misleading or even anticlimactic when some stories set themselves up as examinations of curious human nature only to change course at the last second for the sake of the comedy twist (see ‘A Chicken’ for a good example of this). Though I scoffed at the suggestion of such in the introduction, believing it to be too much like base-level GCSE-tier literary analysis, the focus (and to an extent style) of Lispector’s works do noticeably change as she gets older; her earlier works are often first-person stories about love and confusion and vanity, but by her collection Covert Joy her stories are often framed around nostalgic or formative experiences. I prefer Lispector’s earlier stories; they’re more representative of the amazing storytelling I’ve been gushing about for this entire ramble, whereas her later stories are told like wistful recollections, good in their own right but not what I think of when I think of Lispector. I’ll recommend my favourite stories (in the order that they were printed in my collection), with the caveat that not all of these stories are good because of the reasons outlined above: 'Obsession', ‘Daydream and Drunkenness of a Young Lady’, ‘A Chicken’, ‘Happy Birthday’, ‘The Smallest Woman in the World’, ‘The Dinner’, ‘The Solution’, ‘The Fifth Story’, ‘Covert Joy’, ‘Remnants of Carnival’, and ‘Where Were You At Night’. WOULD I RECOMMEND?: YES

The Warden - Anthony Trollope I was a tad ill at ease as I started this book and started discovering some startling truths, most notably that I had been deceived once more into reading something out of my comfort zone. All I knew about Trollope going into this was his misplaced pride in his disgusting beard, but the introduction to the story cheerfully informed me that Henry James had referred to his ‘complete appreciation of the usual’, whereas Carlyle had more scathingly called him ‘irredeemably embedded in commonplace, and grown fat on it’. I was here for larger-than-life characters embroiled in a grand scandal in a sleepy cathedral town, perhaps some boisterous near-deaf old men or some juicy satire about lascivious priests, but I’d only gone and signed up for a quiet and relatively uneventful novel of everyday folk embroiled in quiet affairs! What a fool I am! However, whilst I worry that by saying this I am resigning myself to walk down the long path of boring realism-centric literary classics that I have long reviled, I’ve got to admit that this book is really rather good. Trying to describe the plot may very well deter any prospective readers in much the same way as it initially repelled me, but the general gist of it is a scandal coming to light (or, more accurately, being somewhat fabricated and blown out of proportion) involving the distribution of charitable funds in an almshouse in the quaint cathedral town of Barchester, and the story follows the main people who become embroiled in the affairs, either because they started it or because they’re under threat by it. You’d be forgiven to gloss over this as a load of old banal quotidian twaddle, but where this book shines is in its storytelling. The narrative voice is warm and affectionate, the characterisation is fucking stellar, and the story getting into the minds of its characters with every encounter and fantastically describing how events unfold for different people is all bloody incredible. It is perhaps the warm and inviting quality of the storytelling which results in this not being the most effective of satirical texts, because satire requires you to step back and think about what you’re reading and why it’s funny, whereas beyond recognising a few real-world allusions (my favourite of which is Mr Popular Sentiment, Trollope’s less-than-complimentary imagining of Charles Dickens), you as the reader think and react along with the characters rather than from a lofty distanced position, and the material that you find funny is funny in-world rather than necessarily because is aptly reflects real-life folly or works in some other meta-textual way. The warmness of the story which, at its heart, is a story of an old man trying to do right by his morals and his friends, doesn’t really allow for the most dramatic of plot resolutions, and indeed this book displays some rather odd choices in its pacing of such plot resolutions. Things are established as relatively chaotic in the storyline, with different characters with different motivations striving away and characters with the same motivations approaching their problems in different ways to overcomplicate the affairs at hand, but ultimately there is little payoff for all these hectic antics. The law suit that sets the plot in motion is established to have been poorly founded and generally worthless from the get go, which isn’t a problem in of itself because the titular warden’s guilt about the matters of the law suit are well-founded even if the law suit is not, but the law suit is dropped without fuss and without any serious consequences around halfway through the book, despite all the elements at play and the goings-on behind the scenes that led to the law suit being dropped. The warden’s story ends without fuss or without anything particularly dramatic happening, save a few heated debates and incredulous blustering figures imploring him to reconsider his choices, and overall just seemed a bit empty because of the lack of any real stakes. The actual ending was at times very poignant (and without any real clue as to how things may be resolved), and at times a tad rushed to tie up its loose ends and get in a bit more quaint narration endearing the characters of the story and speaking regrettably of leaving this story to face times to come; I suppose this somewhat reflects the book’s content, if perhaps losing sight of the life-affirming nature of it, and it is if nothing else bittersweet. By fuck it’s going to make me read the next book in the series to see what happens to these lads next, because hell yeah there’s a series of these. WOULD I RECOMMEND?: HELL YES

Dead Babies - Martin Amis I was cognisant of the preponderance of texts that I’ve been reading recently being all warm and powerful and life-affirming, and therefore I decided to read this and Wilt for a mindless black comedy experience. This was perhaps not the most mind-numbing of reads, being a rather fucked up book, but it’s a bloody good read regardless. Amis’ writing is absolutely incredible; his strengths lie in giving life to abstract scenarios and feelings with evocative metaphors, and characterisation that is complex and beautifully written. With this writing Amis paints a picture of a fucked up urban setting, a setting that I would attempt to succinctly summarise but know in my heart that to try would only be to amateurishly ape Amis’ own fantastic scene-setting descriptions, and so I will instead merely say that it is fucking good. It works because it’s a very grim setting, but it is also curiously sensationalised, while still being grounded in its grim content; there are gangs of cold calculating men who perform elaborate synchronised morbid atrocities, there is a pseudoscientific drug-mixing station with different uppers and downers to chemically alter or emphasise any aspect of a person’s character, and one of the main characters is a grotesque dwarf with nails digging into his feet from shoddily-constructed platform boots and a collection of grotty vintage porn magazines. Everything is primal or gross or part of some sort of beautiful chaos, and it’s an incredible hyperbolic depiction of society’s seedy underbelly, reminding me at times of A Clockwork Orange. The powerful narrative voice lends the grotty and grotesque setting a touch of high-mindedness or high society flare. The characters make up a fun array of misfits, from the pathetic to the neurotic to the braggart to the horrifyingly fucking villainous, and with a small cast of characters we get to learn everyone’s opinions of one another and how they bond, which was surprisingly well done considering how diverse and angsty all of them are, and pleasantly surprising that they don’t all just genuinely hate each other because of how different they are from one another. The narrative voice also helps out here; its direct commentary on the main narrative reminded me of Trollope, but this is not narration to warmly speak of the characters or implore the reader to think upon them positively, but rather to remark with grim resignation the actions of the characters or the shitty direction their lives are taking them. And now we come to the tricky subject of comedy, a tricky subject because some people will no doubt argue that this book is too fucking awful to be considered as such. The setup of the story seems like Trainspotting, a grim world periodically ameliorated with little scenes of light-heartedness and comedy, and at the start of the book it’s easy to laugh at the vileness of of the characters’ actions. As the book goes along, however, the narrative moves from the overall setup of a debauched weekend of dissolute youths to being determined by the dramatic actions of the characters, spurned by simmering emotions (and sometimes catalysed by large quantities of experimental drugs) and often ending very very poorly. It is here that some of the more disgusting plot points of the story occur, and yet interjected into it are elements of farce so ludicrous that you have no recourse but to laugh at them in the face of all the horrors surrounding it. Or maybe that’s just me. WOULD I RECOMMEND?: HELL YES, IF YOU’RE IN THE MOOD FOR SOME FUCKED UP SHIT

Wilt - Tom Sharpe This may well be my shortest book ramble to date, and indeed I deliberated whether or not it was worth writing, simply because it is another example of books that I’ve liked in the past and continue to enjoy. There’ll probably be a bit of a crossover between this ramble and my ramble on Roald Dahl’s short stories, as their black comedy content has much in common. This is a relatively short book that takes you on a pretty wild fucking journey of farce; ridiculous situations and misconstrued motivations abound, and even from the confines of a prison confinement our eponymous protagonist is able to escalate the plot like you wouldn’t fucking believe. The general premise, such as it is, revolves around an uneasy marriage of a domineering wife and a put-about unmotivated husband who humours himself with elaborate dark fantasies of murdering her, and the plans of actualising these fantasies (catalysed in part by some villainous Americans) spirals into all sorts of wacky shenanigans that I shan’t spoil. I went into this book at a friend’s recommendation, and at around one hundred pages in I commented that there are parts of the story that veered too far into plain old cringe, and that overall the story seemed to be shaping up to a rather vengeful story written as the author's attempt to vent frustrations. My friend said that Sharpe was ‘playing [me] like a pipe’, and so I persevered, and can subsequently say that all such thoughts are swiftly quashed by the rest of the book, which is an absolute tour de fucking force of fantastic time-wasting and nonsense that leaves all that real-world cringe or vengeful thoughts of worldly injustice behind. And of course we get a satisfying life-affirming ending, because this is that sort of book; everything’ll be resolved in the end with smiles and ironic twists. This isn’t exactly a book with incredibly florid prose or life-changing writing, but what it is is a book written by an incredibly smart person, which is instrumental in shaping this book’s fucking fantastic (and often dark as fuck) comedy, contributing some phenomenal turns of phrase, and as a source, much like Dahl, of a hundred throwaway references to miscellaneous academic tidbits that Wilt employs in his endlessly hilarious time wasting. WOULD I RECOMMEND?: YES

Other shit that I read that I couldn’t be arsed to ramble about: Shakespeare’s Local by Pete Brown (conspicuously NOT about Shakespeare’s local pub but nonetheless about the long history of my all-time favourite pub (The George in Southwark), funny and informative (if noticeably written by a man who is not a specialist in some of the subjects he talks about, for people who are also not specialists in said subjects), would recommend if you can go down to the George and have a pint there while contemplating the history) and Green Men and White Swans by Jacqueline Simpson (a great and informative book with a subject matter seemingly tailor fucking made for me, greatly enjoyed Simpson’s none-too-subtle asides about peoples’ over-intellectualising of pub names, was mildly disappointed that my own home town has got fuck all in the way of cool folklore-inspired pub names, would absolutely recommend alongside a cheeky bev).

[theboogeyman-blog1]

begrimedchains:

  If the Shape thinks he can honestly stall the Crooked’s inevitable ebony mori match from starting by toting around his darling but very dead sister while she’s unconscious and incapable of kicking free to speed up her blood-loss in some bathroom stall of the institute, then he has another thing coming. A thing perfectly capable of tailing-gating the duo of silent siblings despite every stumble he takes while dragging his pigeon toes along the narrow hallway’s broken tiles. Now that the Hillbilly had them in his poor sights, Mike wasn’t about to lose him and peel off with his final-girl prize and find ways to make the batteries of his new womb-powered shoulder-warmer last longer than another loop around the institute’s perimeter. Billy would get her to bleed out sooner if it meant knocking her off the Shape’s shoulder himself.  “C’mawn, she ain’t even wigglin’ an ya pass’t four hooks already.” Patience growing thinner with each passing second of Mike’s blissfully oblivious stroll, Billy sidles up beside him. Steadily, he matches his pace for a hallway’s length before ramming shoulders with the Shape just hard enough to knock Laurie’s limp body free and onto a nearby hospital bed.

  “Ain’t nobody wants t’watch ya play with yer food.“

  It was a cruel game that he’d intended to play with lovely little sister, letting her soak in a puddle of her own blood on the Institute’s cracked tile long after all of her accomplices had been shredded and hoisted through the ceiling by arachnidian appendages, only to seize her by the back of her sweater just seconds before death can claim her. Hoisting her limp, cold form onto his left shoulder, he totes her through the abandoned, cluttered hallways long enough to make a single loop around the perimeter before he’s joined by the Crooked, who no doubt is coming to claim his kill. Who let him into the pen, when the only doors through which escape is feasible are sealed shut because of the lack of power to the generators littering the Institute’s corridors? Perhaps this is an unspoken message from on High, a living, snarling reminder that the half-dead girl, lax and draped over his back is not his alone to toy with. But the Shape has never been particularly exceptional at sharing. Thus he is not moved by the presence of the deity’s other chess piece enough to lay down his charge and let her bleed out entirely. In fact, now that he can sniff out that pungent note of impatience lingering about his companion as he hobbles alongside him, he’s more determined than he was before to delay the end of a brutal slaughter. Verbal complaints fall on deaf ears as he successively passes several hooks on which to deposit a very unconscious Laurie, who has long since ceased the whimpering and coughing that served as indicators for her livelihood. But seeing as the Shape carrying her on his shoulder his now wearing much of her blood down his shoulder and arm, he is aware that time is running out. But still he persists despite the growing agitation of the Crooked beside him until, with the force of a moving vehicle, he’s rammed from the side with a well-placed shoulder that destabilizes his footing and forces him to drop his sister, who drops onto an adjacent hospital bed. Hastily recovering from a momentary stun, the Shape rights himself and steps forward to shove his assailant from his path in an attempt to scoop his deathly pale charge off the bed before she expires.